by Shobhaa De
The car cruised up to the foyer of the hotel, and a flunky leaned down and opened the door. She tried to focus on him, unsuccessfully, and walked unsteadily into the hotel. She made it across the lobby somehow and stumbled into the lift, which zoomed her up to the rooftop restaurant. Blearily, she looked around, cursing herself for touching that bloody bottle. There were over a hundred invitees—not just film industry guests, but society people—industrialists and businessmen. She shouldn’t have come. And it was close to eleven o’clock. Another mistake. All the men would be pissed. Akshay couldn’t hold two glasses, and he must have had at least six by now. Chalo, that made two of them.
Aasha Rani searched the crowd. There he was. He was coming toward her. Carefully. The way men do when they’re drunk and insist they’re not.
Akshay stared at her and shouted, “Why have you come here?” Aasha Rani stammered, “My shooting got over early. Third shift canceled…I thought…” At that point she spotted Malini, who was staring stone-facedly at her. Akshay lurched toward her. “Bitch! Don’t you know your place? Following me around. I don’t like my women spying; you are a spy! Wanted to catch me with someone, didn’t you? Get out, get out!” Aasha Rani continued to stand there.
Everybody was watching the two of them. Akshay, his suit jacket askew, came up close to her and caught the ends of the pink chiffon dupatta around her neck. “You heard me—Out!” he yelled. “I am sorry, I am really sorry,” Aasha Rani started to say. Before she could finish her sentence, he struck her hard across her face. She looked up, stunned—he struck her again. By then, Malini had joined him. She screeched, “Beat the bitch! Kick her out! How dare she come here!” One more blow across her mouth and Aasha Rani fell to the floor. Akshay kicked her prostrate form and ground the heel of his shoe into the side of her face. Aasha Rani could taste blood as it flowed from her nostrils. She lay there sobbing.
Not a single person in that plush reception hall came toward her. Akshay stood watching, egged on by Malini and another film wife—“Teach her a lesson! Finish her off! Whore! Stealing husbands, destroying lives!” Aasha Rani struggled to her feet unsteadily and limped out through the hideously carved doorway.
WHEN SHE WOKE UP the next morning, Sheth Amirchand was sitting by her bed. This was the first time he’d come to her home. He looked concerned. “So you’ve heard,” Aasha Rani said.
“Heard? Arrey, all of Bombay has heard. The entire industry thinks you’re paagal. Chhee, throwing yourself at the worthless hijda—he’s not man enough for you. He can’t even take on his wife. Where is Amma? Where is Kishenbhai?”
“I don’t need anyone. I don’t want to see anyone. Thank you for coming.”
“Aasha Rani”—the Shethji’s tone was clipped—“I don’t normally bother myself with deluded bachchis like yourself. You fuck one woman, you fuck them all. But I thought you were different. Intelligent, and bindaas. When I first met you at Kishenbhai’s party I thought, This chidiya will go far. And I was right. Now that your career has taken off, it’s stupid to throw it away. Akshay is a matlabi, haraami bastard, with no mind of his own. To forsake your career on account of him—and to be bashed up in public—is idiotic. Snap out of it! Apni lifeline par lao.” And saying that, he picked up the ends of his dhoti and left her room.
Sheth Amirchand was a shadowy figure. A member of Parliament. He said he hated politics, but was forced into it by the love of his people. He was there to serve them, nothing more. It was difficult to get a fix on the Sheth. There were rumors galore about his nefarious activities, but nobody knew for sure. There was talk of his controlling a drug cartel, of his taking cuts on every big land deal that was clinched in Maharashtra, of octroi rackets and licensing scams. They said he was a front man for several underworld dons who financed his elections. But the Sheth managed to disassociate himself from every scandal. It was whispered that the sort of clout he had ensured that nothing too adverse appeared about him in the press. He surrounded himself with heavies who were dubbed the Topiwalla Brigade, since they all wore white caps with his symbol on them—a sudarshan chakra. It was said he deployed his goons to settle any differences that might crop up with his adversaries.
The sudarshan chakra was more than a mere symbol. It was an ingeniously designed weapon that beheaded enemies who messed around with the Sheth. The list of people who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances was awesome.
The Sheth relished his hold over the city. He encouraged and furthered the “Godfather” image, but insisted he was nothing more than a protector of the weak. His private life was shrouded in secrecy. His wife and children were installed somewhere near Bhuj in Kutch, and their whereabouts were staunchly guarded by his squads of henchmen. He lived in an ugly penthouse in Worli with a Muslim mistress, a nautch girl from Lucknow who’d been “rescued” from a Bombay brothel by the Sheth’s trusted lieutenant, also a Muslim, called Abbas Miya. Lubna, the dancing girl, had been with Amirchand for nearly five years but was now fat and undesirable. The word was out that Sheth Amirchand was on the lookout for someone new, someone young, slim and preferably famous. As they said in his circles, “Lubna begum ab buddhi ho gayi hai. Too old and stale. The Shethji needs a change.” Lubna wasn’t quite thirty.
Kishenbhai was small-fry, but Amirchand owed him. When both of them were starting off, Kishenbhai had helped him clinch a few easy deals and get into the film industry, which in those days was a closed place that did not encourage outsiders. Once Amirchand had succeeded in getting a toehold in the inner group, he hadn’t required Kishenbhai. But over the years, the two had kept in touch. A premiere here, a mahurat there, a charity night somewhere else, and Amirchand would show up as the chief guest just to let his old friend know that he, Amirchand, didn’t forget past favors.
Occasionally, Kishenbhai would pass on some starlet or the other, generally with a request to help her out of a crisis—perhaps an abortion, or maybe a request to free her from the clutches of a blackmailer or an extortionist. All it required was for the Shethji to pick up a phone and voice concern to the local dada who did that particular beat. The Topiwalla Brigade was notorious for its ruthless methods. And they always branded their victims. Any unclaimed body with a sudarshan chakra stamped on its forehead and there were no marks for guessing who’d done it.
But the Shethji disdained gang wars. Those were for amateurs, for his flunky to handle. He concentrated on the big stuff—gold and drugs. He’d given up the prostitution and protection rackets long ago, since the returns weren’t as attractive. But he still maintained his links with the film industry. That represented glamour and fame. Also, his Dubai counterparts appreciated gestures like sending a film troupe across for a weekend’s entertainment program. Lubna Begum rounded up pretty dancers and “disco queens,” some of whom had hit the big time, and were now lording it over lesser women in the harems of Kuwait and Muscat.
ON THE EVENING of the party Kishenbhai had organized for Aasha Rani after Nagin Ki Kasam, Amirchand had had eyes only for one woman: the tall, dusky girl in a white-and-gold sari. Inquiries had revealed she was Kishenbhai’s new find—an actress poised for a megabreak and a megacareer. Amirchand had sized her up. Definitely big-time maal. Why was she wasting her talents on a chhota-mota like Kishenbhai? At best he could make her a B-grade heroine. But this girl had A-grade potential. She needed a backer. Someone with muscle. And money. He decided to find out more about her. All he needed was one private meeting.
Aasha Rani was most flattered when the summons from Amirchand’s office arrived. Totally lacking finesse, his minion had delivered the message bluntly, crudely and explicitly: “Shethji ne bulaya hai, Shethji bola aaneko. Paisa-vaisa bad mey vasool.” Amma had been even more thrilled. She had run to break the news to Kishenbhai. When he heard what the Shethji wanted, Kishenbhai’s face paled. He didn’t say anything. He was shocked that the Shethji had made such a request in the first place. How could he? It was against ethics to make a play for someone else’s moll. The Shethji was poachin
g. And he was blatantly taking advantage of his superior position. Kishenbhai was in a fix. He knew that Amirchand was aware of him and Aasha Rani. But how could he refuse to comply? The heavies would be at his doorstep the next morning. They were capable of anything. Kidnapping his child; throwing acid in Aasha Rani’s face. He was also furious with Amma. She knew how fond he was of her baby. She was aware of the fact that he didn’t promote any and every hopeful he came across. Not with such zeal. Did she really think he’d exult at the news?
Amma had feigned injured innocence. “But surely, Kishenbhai, you didn’t think I knew about your feelings for Baby? Does she feel the same way? I don’t mean to hurt you, but even supposing I believe you are sincere toward my daughter, does she have a future with you? Can you…will you…make her your wife? Give her respect? Treat her well? No. The answer is no. You have your own family—your own problems. We have ours. I’m interested in what is best for my daughter…for her career…her future. I want to see that she has enough money. That she settles down properly. That’s all. Let her go to the Shethji and find out what he can do for her. We’ll wait and see. Theek hai?”
It wasn’t theek hai at all. But what could Kishenbhai do? Aasha Rani—what was she to him? Not a wife over whom he had a right. There was no question of either his “allowing” her to go or her seeking his “permission.” Supposing he were to put his foot down and express his displeasure? What would happen? She would laugh in his face and go right ahead with whatever it was she wanted to do. Ridiculous. Never before had Kishenbhai found himself in such an absurd position. He felt impotent and small. He was also certain that Aasha Rani would capitalize on the opportunity, which, of course, she did.
SHETH AMIRCHAND’S MANSION crawled with bodyguards and armed toughies who lurked around trying to look dangerous. Aasha Rani had smiled at them, but they’d remained sullenly expressionless. She had dressed with care—wearing one of her two imported bra-and-panty sets. The pink, lacy one. She’d considered wearing a black outfit, but Amma had dissuaded her, saying, “No, no, no, Baby—you will look very dark. Wear some light color…wear yellow…golden yellow.” This time Aasha Rani had decided against a sari. She wanted to look youthful and different. The salwar-kameez she chose was a flattering one, with a snug bodice that showed her curves to advantage. She wore heels. Some men liked them; some didn’t. She calculated that the Shethji would be impressed, since he wasn’t very tall himself. She brushed her teeth with Neem, rubbed Black Monkey brand tooth powder over her gums, tucked a cardamom pod into the corner of her mouth and looked at herself in the mirror. Nice, she thought, before adding a glittering golden bindi to her forehead. On an impulse, she grabbed a stick of disco dust and rubbed some spangles between her breasts. Over her shoulders. Around her navel. And between her thighs. The spangles had shone on her skin like a thousand stars in a moonless sky. Perfect. She could take on the Shethji…and half a dozen others.
Aasha Rani was asked to wait in a small, air-conditioned room with padded walls, thick carpeting, two telephones, an intercom and a low, velvet-covered settee. As she sat down, she noticed the mirrored ceiling and a cleverly concealed door which blended with the wall. After fifteen minutes, a woman walked in. At least, she thought it was a woman till a gruff voice informed her, “Shethji raah dekh rahe hain… he has sent me to prepare you for him.” Aasha Rani’s puzzled expression led the person on. “Arrey bhai, don’t stare like this. Haven’t you seen a hijda before? Don’t waste time. Let me get you ready. Remove your clothes quickly. I have to check whether you are free of skin infection. Shethji is very particular about cleanliness. Then I have to rub you down with diluted Dettol, check your vagina and insert a diaphragm. No jhanjhats here. All you women are the same—screw a thousand men, get your womb filled by one of them and then come and phasao the richest one. No time to waste now.”
Aasha Rani felt his coarse hands on her. There was no point resisting. She sat down passively and began removing her clothes. She felt sorriest about the shiny disco dust that would come off with the antiseptic scrub.
The hijda disappeared briefly and returned with a jar of petroleum jelly and a new-looking housecoat. Expertly, he inserted the diaphragm after asking her to lie back, holding her knees in her hands. Then he told her to turn over. “Why?” she blurted, her curiosity getting the better of her. “I have to make sure your body is ready to receive Shethji wherever the mood takes him,” said the hijda, and inserted a fingerful of jelly into her anus. “Put on the housecoat and come with me. Your belongings will be waiting for you in this room later. So will a car, just outside. Don’t ask me when. All that depends on Shethji. The longer you take to satisfy him, the better. Oh yes, one more thing—he will offer you whiskey. But don’t drink it. He has a solid nafrat against girls who drink. That is his way of testing you.” Aasha Rani looked at his ugly, lipsticked face and followed him meekly.
The Shethji’s room was white all over. Like a hospital room, only plusher and crammed with electronic toys. Aasha Rani held up her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of an enormous chandelier that hung in the center of the room. The Shethji, clad in a spotless white dhoti-kurta, was busy issuing instructions over a white cordless phone. Without sparing her a glance he waved her to a chair beside him. Aasha Rani bent down and touched his feet. For a moment he was thrown off balance and stopped mid-sentence to stare at her. She smiled sweetly and ran her long, lacquered nails along the length of his arm. The Shethji ended his phone conversation abruptly and lunged at her, his dhoti flying.
He had surprisingly soft hands, like buttered pao, Aasha Rani thought. His nails were neat and obviously pampered. He began sniffing her all over like a frisky dog. After a minute, he explained, “Allergies. I can’t stand perfume, sandalwood, soap, attar, talcum powders. I was checking whether Mastaan has done his job.” Her housecoat was wide open and she was lying back languorously against velvet bolsters, her mind wandering as it always did when she handed over her body to a man. It didn’t matter who he was and what he was doing to her—it all felt the same. But her mind remained her own and she guarded that jealously, hoping she wouldn’t have to make conversation. The Shethji, however, clamored for more. Savagely, he jerked her out of her reverie and commanded, “Gandi baatey karo mere saath.” One of those ones, Aasha Rani thought tiredly. He wanted her to talk dirty. As if it wasn’t enough that she was acting dirty. And she with her language problem. She hadn’t mastered the art of erotic talk in Hindi. She began haltingly, and it seemed to excite the Shethji. “Aur bolo, aur bolo,” he urged. She thought of her blue film days and smiled ironically at the memory. Kid stuff…
It must have been around five in the morning when she woke up wondering where she was, what she was doing and with whom. There was nobody in the room, just an eerie blue night-lamp glowing. Was she in a nursing home? She smelled of Dettol. Her body ached and felt sore. What had happened? Generally she remembered all her sexual encounters vividly. This one was a blank. Her head felt heavy and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. Funny, she couldn’t recall a thing. She groped around in the dark and found her dressing gown. How was she supposed to find her way out of this hell? She staggered toward the blue glow and found some switches. Blindly, she punched a few buttons and the chandelier exploded in a burst of blinding light.
Good God! So that was where she was! She remembered a few details—the Shethji sniffing her armpits, the Shethji asking her to repeat a few words whose meaning she did not know, and asking her to perform acts she had not performed before. She remembered him sticking his big toe into her mouth and it hurting, crushed ice on her breasts, but that was before the drinks—a small sherbet for her and a tumbler full of whiskey for him. That was it, the sherbet—God knows what it had been laced with. But it had transported Aasha Rani into a hallucinatory world. She was weightless and floating. Her head was full of colors and sounds. Her senses had been heightened to an extent that she experienced no pain even when the Shethji entered her savagely from beh
ind and whipped her with a small leather thong. She was far away in some distant world, listening to birdcalls and looking at a dozen rainbows…
She noticed an envelope lying on the settee. On it, neatly typed, was the amount inside—thirty thousand rupees. For services rendered. Not a bad market price, she thought. She had had to work much harder for just a thousand in the past. And thirty thousand was what she had earned for ten blue films, shot over a month, in filthy hotel rooms. She knew she didn’t have to count the money. She knew she wasn’t going to take it either. Amma would be furious, but Aasha Rani had it all worked out. She wasn’t prepared to settle for just thirty thousand with this man and call it quits. She wanted more. Much more. And she’d get it. But first, she’d have to forfeit the notes lying invitingly in front of her. Money she badly needed. But she’d recover it from the Shethji twenty times over. Later. Aasha Rani was confident of that much. Confident that he’d need her again. And again.
Her gamble paid off almost immediately. The Shethji’s man arrived at her house the next day to demand an explanation. She didn’t want Amma to handle this one. She decided to deal with it personally. “Please tell Shethji I consider it my duty to please him. It gives me pleasure to see him happy. There is no price for such joy. I will be there for him whenever he wants me. In fact, I’ll be waiting for his hukum…”
The Shethji sent for her that night. This time, he took a few minutes to actually chat with her. He told her she had played her cards well. “Shabaash ladki.” He laughed. “You are a cunning little fox—I like that. The other girls have no brains. They grab whatever I throw in their direction and run. But you, you knew that this was nothing. Not even a baksheesh. You realized it was a test. Smart woman. You will go far. Fame will come to you if you have any talent, which I believe you do. I will watch you, watch your every move. I have not decided yet whether to make you my permanent keep. Women create too many complications. It is easier to use them and discard them. Replacements are always more stimulating. I think you know that too. For a woman to hold a man’s interest, she has to offer more than just her body. Your mind interests me—you could be of use to me. But first I will see how you perform—not just in bed, but on the screen too. Don’t worry; I’m not a possessive man. You are free to sleep with anybody you choose. I know about your lafda with Kishenbhai. His wife had come to me to stop you from seeing her husband. I know about all the others—your past, blue films, arrey sab kuch janta hoon. Chalega. The industry is such. You have to survive.”