by Shobhaa De
Dhiru’s photographs had had the desired effect. Particularly after they were published by Showbiz. An eager reporter had even traced Aasha Rani to the depressing hovel in which they lived. “We would like to interview you,” she’d said. Amma had been jubilant. “Let’s go to the Showbiz office immediately. Arrey, this is good news. Once they write something about you, bas, then we won’t need Kishenbhai, Niteshbhai or any other bhai. Baby, looks like our dreams are going to come true.” Your dreams, Aasha Rani had wanted to correct her mother, but said nothing.
Aasha Rani had seen Showbiz. Everybody read it—cover to cover. Even in Madras. She had known that if she got a writeup in it she’d immediately get the attention she’d been craving. But after that? She had wanted to wait. She’d wanted to sign a film before being picked up by the press. Her instincts had told her that that was the way to do it. That was the route she would have preferred. She had tried reasoning with Amma. “Look, they will treat me differently once I have a big banner behind me. Now, I’ll be just another starlet, a nobody with big boobs. That’s all.”
Amma had been outraged. “You kal ki chokri, you chit of a girl, how dare you talk like that to your amma. No arguments. Now, get dressed, put on that bell-bottom pant and come on. We should go there immediately!”
Aasha Rani had held out. “I’m not being stubborn, Amma,” she had said, “but I want to do it my way. I want to become a star on my terms. Not in this manner. They have contacted me. I have not gone begging to them. I will see them when I’m ready. Not now.” Amma had glared at her. “Conceited girl. You will have to be taught a lesson. Wait till I tell Kishenbhai.” “Who is Kishenbhai, anyway? Just a pimp. That’s all. What can he do to me?” Aasha Rani had challenged. The next thing she knew Amma had struck her. One stinging slap right on the face. “Don’t you dare speak to your amma this way,” she had raged. “I have not sacrificed my life, my youth, my everything for this. You will obey me at all times. If I say ‘do this,’ you will do it. Understand?”
Aasha Rani had rushed out blindly. Her cheek had felt raw, but it was the expression in Amma’s eyes that had scared her. Amma was beginning to look manic. Crazed with ambition. Was their position that desperate? Money. It had to be money. She had gone to a public phone booth and called Niteshbhai. This was the first time she’d phoned anybody on her own. At first she couldn’t get the words out. Finally, she spoke, and her own voice had surprised her. There was no hesitation at all as she had purred to him, “I think about you all the time. Especially at night when I’m in bed…”
WHEN SHE HEARD Amar’s car pull up the driveway Aasha Rani tugged the neck of her T-shirt off one shoulder and positioned herself at the top of the stairs. Amar took them two at a time, bounding up like a little boy. Flushed. Excited. And somewhat drunk.
“Chhee, you’re smelling,” Aasha Rani said as he swooped to kiss her. “Does your mummy know what her raja beta is up to—drinking and doing ashiqui?”
“My mother doesn’t talk to me since I left home to become a star. She still thinks I’ll come around and take the IAS.” He laughed. “But my dad’s a great fellow; you’ll like him, yaar. He’s always encouraged me; he’d probably be proud of me having made it to Aasha Rani’s bed! Hey! What’s with all the toys, yaar?”
Later in bed, with Amar asleep beside her, Aasha Rani thought bitterly how different her parents were from Amar’s. A mother who looked the other way when Kishenbhai led her to her first “client,” a father who probably didn’t recognize her. She was nothing but an unwanted bastard child. For everyone to exploit.
Akshay Arora
BY THE TIME AKSHAY REMEMBERED AASHA RANI’S BIRTHDAY, IT was much too late. He was at dinner with the family—a treat for them—when he noticed the kitchen clock. “Oh shit!” he said, and Malini looked up sharply. “Forgotten something?” she asked. He said quickly, “No, nothing important.”
It was ten at night. Aasha Rani would never forgive him he thought. He’d even told his secretary to buy a Kanjeevaram sari and a pair of gold earrings. What had the bloody fellow done with those? Oh God! Supposing he’d given the jewelry to Malini? Was that why she had snapped at the dinner table? Malini couldn’t be fooled. She must have known who the gifts were for. Or at least gathered that they weren’t meant for her. When was the last time he’d gone and bought her a present? For their first wedding anniversary. After that she’d gone and ordered whatever she wanted at the family jeweler’s and presented him with the bill. This suited him fine. Saved him the hassle of scratching his head for ideas. It made her happy too, so long as he picked up the tab without questioning her. She, of course, planned his gifts months in advance and made a production out of the presentation ceremony. Making sure everybody got to hear about what an imaginative, thoughtful wife she was. Invariably her unique gifts got into the gossip columns and received wide publicity. But Akshay didn’t begrudge her her small victories. It must have been pretty hard for her when she gave up her career for him and found herself out of the limelight. So what if she got mileage out of small things, like the pujas she organized on his birthday or the exclusive parties she planned? Maybe he could tell her he was going across to Ajay’s house to discuss business, or he could say he’d suddenly remembered an urgent meeting with that up-country producer who was chasing him for dates. She would simply ask him to send the secretary instead. This was terrible. Akshay knew he had messed things up for himself: Aasha Rani was fiercely possessive. Plus, he knew Aasha Rani would find out sooner or later that he’d spent most of the day in his trysting suite with that new starlet, Shabnam. And then there would be hell to pay.
It was all such a laugh, really. Here he was haplessly trying to conceal his infidelities from his wife and his mistress! For Aasha Rani was as cloyingly devoted as his patni. Maybe he should get rid of her—after all, his father’s doom had been spelled in much the same way when, blinded by lust, he had sunk all his money into the vacant, cold, reptilian eyes of his greedy rakhail. Akshay thought of the life they had been forced to lead when his dad went bankrupt, and shuddered. He had vowed to get himself out of it. And it had taken years. Would Aasha Rani now be the force that sent him reeling back to that squalid chawl?
IN THOSE DAYS Akshay Arora’s ultimate measure of having “made it” had been the owning of a spectacular bathroom. It was a childhood fetish. A throwback to the time he’d had to queue up to share a stinking lavatory in a dilapidated chawl. His was not the usual poor-boy-makes-good film story. As a kid he’d seen better days, but briefly. He could not remember very much about those years, though his older brother, Ajay, used to tell him of the time the family lived in a neat bungalow in Chembur. That was when his father was a successful producer. They’d even had a car and servants. Akshay only faintly recalled an old house with a small garden outside. He must have been around three or four at the time.
His most vivid memories were of the Dadar chawl, where the family moved after his father went bankrupt backing an ambitious film, Mehboob ki Nigahen, which collapsed at the box office. Along with the failure of the film, Akshay’s father’s health, too, fell into decline. He lost his fire, his wife and his mistress in one fell swoop.
Akshay grew up a lonely child with just his older brother for company. A brother who tried to be everything to him—mother, father and friend. But it was hard for two young boys and an alcoholic father to keep going. The chawl life helped in that there were always neighbors who cared. They were often strapped for money. Akshay’s father had taken to hanging around various film units as an assistant. There was no steady income, and the little that trickled in was often drunk away. But the boys coped. They’d had to. Akshay’s aunt took care of the school fees, and their grandfather pitched in with the grocery money as and when the situation became desperate.
Akshay didn’t hate his father; he felt sorry for him. It was Ajay who detested him. “Papaji let us down. He destroyed our future. Mummyji ran away because of him,” he’d tell Akshay bitterly. Mummyji was, in fact, living
not too far from them. She’d made a new life with their father’s old friend, a cameraman from the days of power and glory; the same friend who used to hang around sycophantically when Akshay’s father was still big-league. Akshay could never understand why his mother had abandoned them and gone off with “Suresh Uncle.” Ajay tried to explain: “Mummyji was disgusted,” he’d point out. “Papaji made her give up all her jewelry, her savings, everything, for this film of his. And why? Because he wanted to make his girlfriend a star. That same green-eyed bitch who is doing mother roles today. He thought Mehboob would click and she’d make it big. Idiot! As if it were easy. The film went grossly overbudget, and nobody could stand her. She couldn’t act to save her life. Wooden face, high-pitched voice. But Papaji was totally fida. He even brought her home once or twice. Before Mummyji got wise to their chakkar.” Akshay just couldn’t relate to all these old tales. He only knew he had to break away and make money. Big money. Quick money.
His heart wasn’t ever in studying, and this upset Ajay enormously: “Arrey yaar, I want you to become an engineer, go abroad, get a good job. Why are you wasting your time like this? I mean, yaar, I don’t have brains. But you have everything—looks, brains, everything.” Except money, Akshay would think as he stared at himself in the mirror. It was true; he was striking, with his mother’s fine features and his father’s height. But the last thing he wanted was to become an engineer. “What do you want to become in that case, yaar?” Ajay would ask in exasperation. “I don’t know,” Akshay would say, and stare some more into the mirror.
He’d made it through school, and nearly made it through college. Meanwhile, Ajay had found a job as a junior salesman, selling toiletries and medicines. In school Akshay had acted in plays and enjoyed the experience. College was different. The plays they picked required “emoting,” as the pretentious directors of the play would never tire of telling him. For him acting was a lark. A fun thing. He loved horsing around and improvising. Ajay disapproved of his acting, even for kicks. “Concentrate on studies,” he’d reprimand each time Akshay broached the topic. So he’d tried to concentrate, but it was hopeless.
Once, just for the heck of it, he’d decided to audition for a TV play without informing Ajay. He’d bagged the role—and more. He was asked to try out for a newsreader’s job—strictly on a freelance basis—but with promises of regular assignments if he clicked. Akshay had done surprisingly well in the audition and was told to present himself the next night for a trial run. It helped that Akshay spoke Marathi without a trace of a Punjabi accent. Ajay was furious. Akshay surprised himself by holding out. “This is something I’d like to do for myself. Besides, we need the money.” Ajay agreed on one condition—TV newsreading was to be regarded as nothing more than a hobby.
From TV news, he moved on to a TV serial playing a dashing detective. This was when he made a fair amount of money and, more important, got attention. Strictly small-time. But several people sat up and noticed. The fact that his Punjabiness didn’t make itself evident each time he opened his mouth won him a lot of praise—and a cover feature in a Marathi movie mag. Suddenly everyone was talking about Akshay Arora. From then on, Akshay didn’t ever have to worry about money. Or bathrooms.
Ajay capitulated shortly after Akshay’s first big success—a Marathi film by the name of Prem Tujhe Majhe, in which he played a love-struck police officer. “You need someone to organize things for you,” Ajay announced, and dumped his junior salesmanship to become Akshay’s agent. The film industry was beginning to evince interest. One of the producers was a distant uncle, who had pretended not to know them when Papaji’s luck ran out. Ajay was triumphant. “Ab aagayaa line pey salaa. Now we can show him. He is offering you a role, haramzada. Chalo, we’ll also teach him a lesson. Let him come to us. Let him crawl. We’ll see his piddly film. Don’t speak to him if he phones. I’ll handle everything.”
Akshay was relieved to have Ajay manage his affairs. He had no head for business himself. And in Ajay he discovered a hard, shrewd side that assessed a deal in seconds and decided what it was worth. “Money speaks to me, yaar,” Ajay laughed the first time he negotiated an attractive contract for Akshay.
With Akshay’s successful debut into Hindi cinema, Ajay decided it was time to move out and buy a fancy car. “Never mind the cost, yaar,” he said. “In this dhanda, appearances count. Look swanky and they’ll treat you swanky. Look sadela and that’s the treatment you’ll get.” Akshay knew they couldn’t really afford the bungalow at the Juhu Vile-Parle scheme, nor the sleek Honda Accord that rolled up to their chawl, but he went along with Ajay’s plan. He was only too anxious to get out of the dreary two-room tenement once and for all. The neighbors gathered to wish them good-bye. They were all set to climb into their gleaming car and zoom off, when suddenly their old man dug in his heels and refused to budge. Startled by his response, they stared at him. Ajay took his arm and tried to drag him out of the dingy hovel. No way. “This is now my house. This is where I belong. This is where I want to be,” babbled the old man. Ajay pushed Akshay toward the car and said, “Chalo bhai, chalo, we’ll deal with him later. The old buddha’s quite senile.”
Akshay’s new house was close to the Sun ’n’ Sand hotel. Yet, it took him more than a year in that posh locale before he could pluck up enough courage to saunter across.
It had been one of the most thrilling moments of his life. Sun ’n’ Sand symbolized showbiz. It was glamour and sin, success and sophistication. The place to be seen. The favorite haunt of the rich and ritzy. This was where they partied and frolicked. He’d seen photographs in dozens of film magazines. He’d watched the poolside dances in hundreds of films. He’d known all the stories that surrounded the hotel. The deals that were sealed in the coffee shop, the starlets who were bedded in the suites upstairs, the stormy story sessions that went on behind closed doors—even the fights and knifings that erupted when the action picked up! And there he had been, standing uncertainly at the entrance, feeling gauche and stupid, wondering where to go.
The lobby wasn’t all that impressive now that he actually stood in it. Besides, Sun ’n’ Sand had competition from a clutch of gleaming new hotels angling for the film crowd, which they tried to woo with state-of-the-art health clubs, ethnic food, coffee shops, trendy bars and pretty front office girls. The swanky Centaur, the upstartish Sea Princess, the impersonal Ramada Inn and the industry’s current favorite, the Holiday Inn. Yet, the Sun ’n’ Sand had managed to retain a charm of its own. The service was friendly, the bar full and the old glamour a little faded, but still tangible.
Someone had walked up to him, startling him for a minute. “Excuse me, are you Akshayji?” a female voice had asked. Akshay had panicked: Oh God! He’d been recognized. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be there. Maybe they were going to throw him out. He’d nearly run toward the exit. The young girl had persisted. He’d looked down nervously at her—she held an autograph book in her hand. This was some kind of mistake. The girl had been persistent. “Please sign,” she had said, and he’d suddenly felt intensely foolish. “No pen,” he’d stammered. “I’m not carrying a pen.” He’d looked around wildly and just at that point the manager had walked up to him, a Parker in one hand, and flowers in the other.
AJAY DIDN’T REALLY HAVE TO worry about Akshay’s career. He had scored thirty hits in ten years! Beating the reigning superstar by a wide margin. There was no doubt about it: Akshay was definitely number one. And it was Ajay’s shrewd handling that had gotten him where he was. Had he left the business aspect to Akshay he would have messed it up entirely. Chosen the wrong films, made all the wrong moves. As it was, each time Akshay ditched a producer and ran off to Khandala or Alibag, it was left to Ajay to sort out the mess and manao the unit.
Ajay stared at the pile of files on his table. Income tax returns, contracts, schedules, scripts—baap re baap. He had no time for his family, no time for himself. From the minute he opened his eyes in the morning, it was Akshay, Akshay, Akshay. Sometimes he wonder
ed what all those delirious fans saw in his brother. Agreed, he was a good-looking fellow. But there were so many who were better-looking than him. Chalo, he could act. But only certain roles. Rakesh Kapoor was more versatile, and that new chap—Shaban—a better dancer.
Ajay glanced up at a poster of Akshay’s first film—Kismet Ka Karz. What had he done in it? Danced, fought and died. Like every other hero in every other Hindi film. Yet the crowds had gone wild.
As he continued to stare at the picture his eyes traveled down to Akshay’s crotch. The artist had painted a prominent bulge between his legs. He peered more closely. Oh my God! So that was it! Akshay’s crotch! Feverishly, Ajay began leafing through other publicity stills. God, there it was again. Akshay had almost thrust it into the faces of his fans. He looked at Akshay’s glossy pinup pictures in various magazines. No, it wasn’t a coincidence. Akshay always made sure his trousers were well filled out. Here was another still—this time he’d stuck a gun into his pocket. Crotch shot after crotch shot. Akshay was unfailingly photographed from a low angle!
Ajay sat back. The mystery of Akshay’s magic finally unraveled in his mind. Akshay had symbolically fucked his way to the top. Every woman in the audience believed he was doing it to her and her alone. While every man thought he was Akshay—screwing the women of the world.
THE ENTIRE FILM INDUSTRY knew Akshay to be a mean, spiteful bastard. Unfortunately, he was also a successful bastard. And that made all the difference. “I’m the only hero who can command a price,” he would boast. It was true. Akshay had screen presence. Charisma. Star quality. This baffled producers, who unanimously hated his guts and couldn’t really see anything much in him beyond his mean eyes and flared nostrils. Directors, too, testified that Akshay was no Dilip Kumar. And he was a positive pain in the arse to work with. A collective nightmare for everybody involved in the making of a film.