by Shobhaa De
Aasha Rani chose not to speak and instead silently began pressing his feet, massaging his arches, cracking his toe joints. “Aah,” he moaned, “that feels good.” She continued, working her way up to his ankles and calves. Then she stopped abruptly, and pressed herself against him. “I want to dance for you. Show you what I’m capable of, prove to you how good I am. Do you have music here?” The Shethji opened his eyes, reached out and pressed a button. Music filled the room. But it was Hindustani classical. “Not this.” Aasha Rani breathed heavily. “I want something sexy, something slow.” He pressed a few more buttons and, amazingly, got a Western number, an old Marilyn Monroe song, “I Want to Be Loved by You.”
Aasha Rani stood up and started swaying. Her fingers moved to the top button of her housecoat. Gradually, taking her time over every motion, she began a tantalizing striptease. The Shethji sat up. His hands reached into the soft folds of his dhoti. His excitement was tangible. “Don’t stop,” he begged, “don’t stop.”
Amirchand was so pleased with Aasha Rani’s performance that he decided to do something about her nonexistent career. A few strings strategically pulled, a few words of gentle persuasion from the Shethji himself, and Niteshji was falling over himself to get Aasha Rani to play the lead in his latest spectacular extravaganza. The title song of the film—“Love, Love, Kiss, Kiss,” turned out to be the biggest hit song of the decade, and with it, Aasha Rani’s career swung into the fastest track in filmdom. The popularity of the song, and Aasha Rani, took everybody by surprise. There was nothing much to the story line either. It was standard boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-gets-girl stuff. A normal masaledar formula film. But that one song catapulted Taraazu into becoming the biggest money grosser of all time, shattering several box office records in the process.
Aasha Rani was as astonished by its runaway success as the rest. As she was by the avalanche of publicity that came in its wake. Fan mail arrived by the sack. And each time she stepped out of her house, she heard the opening bars serenade her from everywhere: “Love, love…sigh…sigh…kiss…kiss…click…click.” What was it about the song that drove a nation wild? The lyrics were simplistic at best and far from suggestive. Was it the beat that did it? Or the sharp “click-click” of fingers snapping in between the words? Perhaps it was the throaty sex appeal of the singer’s voice—an unknown college girl called Neeta (whose destiny was soon to change with the release of the song). Whatever it was, “Love, Love…” had become such a countrywide craze that it was impossible to get away from its beat. Street-corner Romeos teased young girls as they passed by, urchins cleaned windscreens at traffic lights with the song on their lips, lovers crooned it across compounds, street bands played off-key versions at wedding baraats. Swinging teenagers discoed to it in fashionable nightclubs. And it was Aasha Rani who walked away with the credit.
Overnight her price skyrocketed to eight lakhs per film, and offers for Taraazu clones poured in. Aasha Rani shrewdly refused to duplicate either the film or her hit song. The movies she signed on, in the wake of her stupendous success, were those that showcased her versatility. Three swift hits followed. One of them, Mein Khoon Karoongi, was a crime thriller that had Aasha Rani dressed like a cross between a female Lone Ranger and Rambo. Armed with a submachine gun, she shot her way to the top of the charts, while Khoon raked it in at the box office. Two other songs written especially for her busted the pop charts.
The producers decided to capitalize on the Aasha Rani craze by organizing “Love, Love, Kiss, Kiss” entertainment nights all over India, starting with Bombay. They decided to invite Sheth Amirchand as the chief guest. Aasha Rani was expected to be present, but not onstage. The number was to be danced by young unknowns. Naturally, there was a cause involved; she forgot what it was—the blind, mentally handicapped, spastic—whatever.
Amirchand was known to patronize several charities. His favorite one was a school for orphans. He often said that orphans were the most deprived, the poorest of the poor on earth, and no amount of money was generous enough to compensate them for the loss of their parents. It was said that Amirchand was an orphan himself. But nobody knew for sure, especially as he spoke very little, preferring to let the other person do all the talking. His largesse was reserved for people who touched some unknown chord in him. It was impossible to find out just who would win the jackpot, when and for what reason.
What appeared like arbitrary, erratic behavior to outsiders, was in fact, a methodical plan known only to Amirchand and his two trusted lieutenants. Even though Aasha Rani was still in favor, and he sent for her frequently, he rarely allowed her to ask him any questions, particularly about his past. This suited her fine, since she didn’t encourage questions about her past either. He’d been generous with Aasha Rani after that first meeting. And pretty kind too. Diamond sets to wear to her first big premiere night, a couple of lakhs in a fixed deposit account, and the best gift of all—a deluxe, air-conditioned makeup van to take her to and from the studios! Her gleaming, refurbished, remodeled Isuzu had become the envy of the other stars. It was as sleek as it was functional. And she loved it. As she sped down the highway, beyond the airport, on the way to Film City, she’d relax on the foam bed at the back, switch on her favorite ghazals and dream of a marble palace by the sea. Except that in her dream the sea was not the Arabian Sea that surrounds Bombay, but the Bay of Bengal that laps the shores of Madras.
THE MORNING AFTER she’d been beaten up by Akshay, Aasha Rani decided she was too depressed to get out and about. So she ordered the new maid to get her breakfast in bed. When the maid came up with the tray, there was an unaddressed envelope lying on it. Aasha Rani opened it curiously. A Gulf Air ticket to Dubai. First class. On the back of the ticket there were two sentences, written in black ink: “He’s not worth it. Jao, aish karo.” Accompanied by a barely perceptible sudarshan chakra.
The trip to Dubai was just the diversion Aasha Rani needed. She was going to make the most of it. “Don’t worry about money,” the Shethji said when she phoned to thank him. “Sheikh Mushtaq and his men will take care of everything. You shop for whatever you want, anything at all. Buy up Dubai—bas, forget Akshay and come back quickly.”
She was met at the airport by a bunch of strange-looking men, most of whom spoke Malayalam. Aasha Rani felt instantly at home. They were dressed like the stuntmen in Hindi films, with flashy gold watches, rings and chains. One of them caught hold of her arm and said, “Boss wants you.” Aasha Rani was hustled into a waiting stretch limo with tinted windows. Inside she saw a short, good-looking man dressed in white, sitting at the far end. He held out his hand and said, “Salaam-ali-kum. Welcome to Dubai.” She got in next to him. Her tough escort climbed into the front seat next to the driver, who had a glistening bald pate. She noticed two Sten guns in front, and a snub-nosed revolver between her and the man in white.
As the man beside her seemed to have no desire to engage her in conversation, she looked out of the window. The car was speeding by a creek that had dozens of dhows floating on it. The silence grew. The man in front hadn’t spoken a word and seemed very tense. The driver looked back and said, “All clear, boss.” The mysterious stranger placed his hand over Aasha Rani’s. “He’s gone. We’ve shaken him off. Bhaag gaya saala. Ab relax, meri jaan.”
Later, she found out that the man in the car was the Gold King of Dubai, known simply as “Badshah”; wanted in half a dozen countries, including India, on charges of armed robbery, murder, narcotics and smuggling.
Badshah wasn’t turned on by Aasha Rani. He preferred his girls white and preferably blond—a variety there was no dearth of in Dubai. His palatial beachside villa housed a harem that was admirably international; four Thai masseuses from Bangkok, a Cockney waitress from Liverpool, an Australian au pair and a French barmaid.
Badshah’s hospitality was lavish, but he didn’t sleep with Aasha Rani. The last thing she wanted to do at this stage was to meet men, and she was only too content to look around and talk to the other wo
men. She got her shopping done, plus she had her body dextrously worked over by the Thai girls, who giggled at the size of Aasha Rani’s breasts (“like melons”) and took turns rubbing coconut oil over them. Aasha Rani found their ministrations most pleasurable and thought of Akshay and how unpleasant he turned out to be. But that was past. The Thai girls asked her flirtatiously whether she wanted to try a “sandwich massage.” Game to try anything once, Aasha Rani agreed readily.
It was an experience so sensuous, so arousing, so complete, that it was weeks before she could forget the feel of two, smooth, soft, oiled, practically breastless bodies on either side of her, touching, licking, stroking every naked inch, making her skin tingle and come alive in a way she couldn’t have imagined possible.
When she returned to Bombay a fortnight later she had with her two VCRs, two CDs, enough makeup to fill three trunks, and had experienced some of the greatest orgasms of her life. When the Shethji looked out for you, she thought as she arrived home, you got nothing but the best.
Amma
THE FIRST THING AASHA RANI DID ON HER RETURN WAS TO race up to her bedroom and turn on the answering machine. Narinder Gupta, the director of her latest venture, barely concealing his anger at her unexplained vacation in the midst of shooting, had called to say that the unit was moving to Manali, where the rest of the film was to be shot, in two weeks’ time. There were no messages from Akshay.
Aasha Rani wasn’t too keen to go to Manali. Her costar in the movie was an aged lech whose extramarital cheez had just left him, while Narinder Gupta, a devoted family man in Bombay, was wont to let the exhilaration of a new place go straight to his libido. Dubai had still not prepared her for life without Akshay, and she was in no mood to spend her time in the hills fending off the advances of the various men in the unit. She decided she needed a chaperone and on an impulse called Linda, her reporter pal from Showbiz magazine. Her cheery irreverence would do her good. But Linda was up to her neck in work. “My editor is a real bitch, yaar. She’ll never give me chutti. Sorry, darling, got to go, I’ll call you back.”
It was at times like this that Aasha Rani longed to have Amma back with her. She must have heard of the rooftop incident. Amma had warned her about Akshay so many times, especially about his sadistic tendencies. Indeed it was because Amma had spoken up once after Akshay had beaten her that she had been banished to Madras. At the time Aasha Rani had hated her. Mostly because she was so blinded by her love for Akshay, but also because (even though she was reluctant to admit this to herself ) she resented the way her mother had exploited and used her. Still, for all her faults, she was her mother, and when she was down and out, on days like these, she missed her.
Aasha Rani pulled out her old family album from the back of her cupboard and gently blew the dust off the cover. Sitting down on a large floor cushion, she flipped through old sepia-colored photographs of the family that once, a long, long time ago, she had called her own.
God! Amma had looked beautiful. But after a few years with Appa, by the time she was twenty, Amma started putting on weight. They were not staying together then. For Appa already had his own family: the formidable Girija with her three sons—Aasha Rani’s half brothers. Appa had already been married when he’d whisked away Amma—a fledgling, fifteen-year-old aspiring danseuse—to the big, bad city of Madras. Appa had bought a bungalow for Amma a few years later. After Aasha Rani’s birth. By then, all of Madras had known about them. But Appa was so powerful, nobody dared to say a word. Amma had often talked about that period. Appa, as the owner of Madras’s biggest and most successful studio, controlled a large chunk of the South Indian film industry. “Your Appa was a real movie mogul,” Amma would tell her. “Everybody came to him—music directors, film directors, heroes, heroines, sound recordists, extras, dance masters, stuntmen, everybody! He was generous, but not gullible. The films he backed were hits—big hits. The songs from those films were on everyone’s lips. Madras swayed to the music from his films. And the posters! Appa was the first one to start the craze. He had larger-than-life cutouts displayed in all the prominent corners of the city. He was the one who thought of putting tinsel on the painted clothes of his stars, so that they gleamed in the night. He created his own stars—they were loyal to him and nobody else. You should have seen them at our home! They’d come like humble servants, begging for a role in Appa’s next film. We entertained them all—politicians, businessmen…even a few smugglers!”
Aasha Rani particularly liked looking at her mother’s photographs at various film functions, when she dressed up in gorgeous Kanjeevarams and wore fabulous jewelry. “What did you do with all this?” she’d ask Amma, who would promptly lose her good humor and change the subject.
Piecing Amma’s life together, Aasha Rani knew more or less what had happened. How Appa had lost interest in her. How Girija had humiliated her and called her a common prostitute. How Appa had abruptly cut off all money, leaving Amma with no choice but to sell all her jewelry—and the clothes off her back. That was when the nightmare had begun. Moving out of their luxurious bungalow and into some ugly little place in an overcrowded, filthy area.
When Appa had left, Amma had aged overnight. She had looked worn-out and middle-aged, though she must have been in her late twenties. Aasha Rani remembered a succession of dubious “mamas” turning up at their place and taking Amma out on mysterious missions. On those occasions Amma would make an attempt to dress up. Put kaajal in her eyes, flowers in her hair and rouge on her cheeks. She’d come back late in the night, smelling strange and looking sleepy. But the next morning, she’d be up on time as usual to give the children their milk and send them off to school. On those days they’d come home to dosas and uttapams; Amma would look relatively less harassed and in a more relaxed mood. Through all this, Amma made sure Aasha Rani continued with her dance lessons. The gurus in that locality were not all that good, but Aasha Rani progressed well enough. Thanks to Amma.
AS SHE FUSSED about her house in Madras, seeing to lunch, organizing Sudha’s dance class, keeping track of her errant “husband”—most of Amma’s waking thoughts were of Bombay. Of her daughter Viji. That silly girl was going to lose everything in her absurd obsession for that wife-deserting flop hero, Akshay. How many times had she warned Viji against him? How many times had Kishenbhai tried to make her see reason? But it was to no avail. Viji had deserted her own mother for Akshay, packing her off to Madras now that she was a big star. Now that Akshay Arora had replaced everyone and everything of importance in Aasha Rani’s life. What did she see in him? What kind of security did he give her that she couldn’t? What kind of love?
Did Aasha Rani enjoy being beaten? She hadn’t really seemed to mind—that time when Akshay had whipped her mercilessly in her makeup room. When Amma had gotten the door broken down to save her daughter. The sin for which she had been banished to Madras.
The Dil Ke Katil incident had been one of many. Amma had been hanging around the studios as usual when Akshay had walked in from a neighboring set and, without bothering to glance in her direction, had marched straight up to Aasha Rani’s makeup room, where she had been changing her costume for the next scene. Locking the door behind him, he had started to abuse her. At first his voice could be heard only by the terrified makeup man and the hairdresser standing outside, but soon the decibel levels went up considerably, and even the people hurrying around the studio floor could catch some of his yelled abuses and the sound of smashing furniture. Amma had been alerted, and she came rushing up frantically.
“Open the door, Baby,” she had shouted, pounding on the door. Akshay had continued to hurl abuses at Aasha Rani while she had sobbed pathetically. Amma was hysterical. She had summoned some studio hands and had asked them to force open the door. The producer and director had come along to see what was going on. One of them had knocked loudly on the door, identified himself, and had requested Akshay to open up. Just then, another loud crash and a sharp cry were heard inside. Amma had urged the workers to break down
the door. The flimsy plywood door didn’t require much muscle.
The astonished people outside had seen a naked Aasha Rani cowering on the couch opposite the dressing table with Akshay poised to strike her with his belt. The room had been totally trashed: The costumes were in tatters, and there were jars of makeup scattered all over the floor. Amma had rushed in and thrown a tablecloth over her daughter. Akshay had stridden menacingly toward her, saying, “It’s because of you—what sort of a mother are you? This girl is nothing but a pricey prostitute, and you her pimp, her madam. Screwing this man and that. Kishenbhai and Amirchand and maybe even her own driver and sweeper! No morals, nothing. You can’t call yourself a mother—you are scum. A wretched exploiter of your own child. You think you have made your daughter a big star—but it is her life you have ruined! How do you sleep at night? Doesn’t your conscience kill you?”
Amma had been rendered temporarily speechless. When she had found her tongue it was Tamil. A torrent of invective had followed, and she’d spit a couple of times. She’d been an awesome sight, arms akimbo, eyes blazing. Her hair had come undone, and the flowers she had worn after her morning puja hung from her loose tresses at comic angles. Amma had lashed out at him: “You are just jealous of my daughter’s grand success, not her other lovers. You can’t bear it that she has beaten you. Today, she is a bigger star than you—ask these people. Her name sells. She makes more money. But you—shameless fellow—running after women when you have a wife at home! My daughter is not married. She is free to see anyone, any time! She is not your property, understand?” The producer and director had tried to calm her. In the meantime somebody had phoned the police. They had arrived, screeching in a van, and run up to see what was going on. Amma had looked at the inspector and said, “Arrest this loafer. He tried to kill my daughter. And he assaulted me. Look…just look…he has done all this. He has damaged the property, broken everything. He is a goonda—arrest him.”