by Shobhaa De
Aasha Rani plucked out a rose from the vase on the bedside table and ran it down the length of his body. He shut his eyes and moaned, “A drink, I need another drink.”
“Let me fix you one,” she said, filling her mouth with rum from Suhas’s half-empty bottle and lying on top of him. “Open your mouth,” she commanded, as she lowered her face over his. When her lips reached Suhas’s mouth, she poured the rum straight into it. “Let’s have the next one on the rocks,” she suggested, placing an ice cube between her teeth. She passed it into his mouth the same way and then retrieved it. “Don’t stop now,” pleaded Suhas.
Aasha Rani reached down to feel him. He was still small. “No more drinks,” she announced firmly. But Suhas’s inability to perform made him crabby. “Do you try this trick with all your directors?” he demanded, peevishly indignant all of a sudden. “Only those whose birthdays are celebrated by the units.” Aasha Rani smiled at him. “Bloody bitch!” he snarled. “Take your filthy fingers off me!” Aasha Rani sat back and surveyed him pityingly. “Poor Suhas! What a little boy you really are!” He leaped out of bed and frantically tied his lungi. “I’m not used to sleeping with cheap call girls like you,” he spluttered. “Of course not,” Aasha Rani said sweetly. “Even cheap call girls don’t do it for free. Not even do kodi ones as cheap as your wife!”
She watched as he staggered out of her room, slamming the door behind him. And then she went to the bathroom to gargle. What a nasty aftertaste rum left.
AASHA RANI’S EARTHY “new look” publicity stills were plastered on the covers of not just the popular film magazines but also figured on the covers of the more “serious” newsmagazines that gave her gushing writeups to go with the sexy pictures. Reluctant snobbish critics switched from bitching about the “zero-talent sweetheart” to raving about her “amazing histrionic range.” The awards followed soon after. “Bhavnagar Fan Club,” “Bhubaneshwar Popular Film Awards Circle,” besides dozens of Lions Club Achievement Awards sent through the mail or hand-delivered. The recognition that might have meant something to Aasha Rani still eluded her—she had yet to receive the National Award—but there was no doubt at all that she had cracked the commercial film jackpot. All this in less than seven years with not even twenty films in her bag.
Dressed in her favorite white outfit (an extravagant costume created by the industry’s top designer), Aasha Rani stole the show at the Bechari Begum premiere. Perhaps it was all for Akshay’s benefit. Even after the sordid way he had treated her, she still tried to phone him sometimes. But he refused all her calls. Linda advised her to lay off. “Keep some dignity, yaar. Don’t go after him like a bitch in heat. There are other men, other cocks, if that’s what you are looking for. I would have thought by now I’d converted you…”
She tried to explain that she sorely missed Akshay’s company, the sound of his marvelously cultured voice, the music and books he sent her, even the makeup tips he offered. The success of Bechari Begum, and a little advice from Akshay which she had disdained earlier, had made her change the way she did her eyes these days. And she had stopped painting over her lip line. She switched from plastering her face with ghastly pink pancake in an effort to look “fair” and finally started using the bronze makeup that Akshay had picked up for her in New York two years ago (“All the black fashion models use it—try some. Great stuff”). It had made all the difference. Aasha Rani looked sophisticated now. Gone was the trampy, hungry, take-me-when-you-want-me come-hitherness. And it was all thanks to Akshay. Today their worlds were so different.
It was Akshay who had introduced her to ghazals and shairis. At first she couldn’t understand a word. Hindi was tough enough. And now, Urdu! He’d corrected her when she went wrong with her English, or her accent slipped. Akshay had a certain superficial gloss which passed for class in the industry. He could pronounce words like “Bordeaux” and he’d heard of Frank Capra.
Aasha Rani had been an eager student. She had missed going to school, though Amma had tried, halfheartedly, to employ tutors for her. Aasha Rani was aware of her deficiencies. For instance, her diction, the tone of her conversational voice, was frightfully pleb. She knew she ought to modulate it and speak in the softly refined tones of society ladies she encountered at the health club. And it was Akshay who’d helped her to achieve this. Not by mocking her, but by helping her constantly, correcting her gently and encouraging her till she’d gotten it right. All these changes in her baby had upset Amma. “Who do you think you are? Sounding so silly. Speak up! Speak up! Why are you whispering? So many books, so much money. All those cassettes! Why do you want to listen to that music? Will it help your career? No! It is all that man’s evil influence. First he ruined his wife’s career and now he wants to ruin yours!”
Aasha Rani wondered whether Akshay would attend the premiere, and if he’d bring Malini with him. These days he’d become very conscious of his “family man” image. He even refrained from flirting with the extras on the sets. And his affairs on location were conducted discreetly. Often, Malini would accompany him on outstation jaunts. Once on location she’d see to it that they spent all their free time closeted in the suite watching videos. His recent interviews too were full of the joys of fatherhood. Aasha Rani tried to convince herself that the whole charade was for her benefit. That somewhere along the way, Malini had gotten him to swear off Aasha Rani.
But it would still be thrilling to see him at the show. And even more thrilling to have him see her. Did he keep track of her triumphs? Surely, he must have received reports about the incredible success of Bechari Begum and all the other hits? Did he know about her and Amar? Stupid question. The entire industry was aware of it. Would he turn his face away? Greet her as a stranger? Pretend he hadn’t seen her at all? Aasha Rani wrote out a little love note anyway and tucked it into her bra—one of the early ones Akshay had gotten her. The kinky one without nipples. She felt sexy wearing it. Just thinking about the time he had put it on her made her nipples taut. Akshay still did that to her.
Aasha Rani coyly said her namastejis to everybody and quickly scanned the audience. No sign of Akshay. It was silly to expect him to be around. Unbidden, the image of Akshay as she had seen him last came to mind. He had looked so tired. Maybe he was unwell. She remembered reading somewhere that he was having problems with his health. She hadn’t given much credence to the information at the time—given its improbable account of terminal cancer and imminent death—but now she wondered. He had looked thinner, less happy. A sudden inexplicable fear gripped her, and she forced herself to calm down. A police band was playing a restrained version of her LLKK song. She smiled and waved to them. Fat, overdressed Punjabi matrons with lipstick on their teeth came rushing toward her with autograph books. “Please write, ‘For Bunty,’ thanks, yaar,” they said as she held her breath. She couldn’t stand their “Punjabi smell,” as Amma had dubbed it. A vile combination of onion-garlic on the breath, sweaty BO under the arms and gallons of stale perfume all over. Sickening.
Linda kept up a steady commentary. “I can see Supriya. She’s looking ugh! Yellow salwar-kameez. And that chimpanzee Kiran with that bhoot! Look at Dara—no, don’t look now. And Chunk the Hunk. He’s with his mother. Also Anju and Anish. Quite cute. Tuck your paunch in—saali, are you pregnant or what? That lech is staring at you—Kanhaiyaji. Ignore him. Real ghatiya chap.” But Aasha Rani’s entire being was focused on just one person. And he wasn’t there.
Luckily for Aasha Rani she met Abhijit Mehra that night. She’d never heard of him. Of his father, yes. Which Indian hadn’t heard of Amrish Mehra? It was said he was as powerful as the prime minister, as ruthless as a hangman and as wealthy as the dictator of a banana republic. A.M., as he was known, was a legendary figure in business circles. An industrialist with a sprawl of businesses that spanned everything from heavy machinery to fine textiles. And Abhijit was his only child—heir to the A.M. millions. For Amrishbhai was a cold-blooded professional robot with just one known weakness—his son.
He was stylish, all right, and physical. But a bit of a mutton-head despite the foreign degrees. Perhaps his father recognized his shortcomings. And that made him even more vigilant and protective.
Abhijit’s mother, having put in her all and producing a son, had retired from the worldly life and pleasures. She spent all her time pilgrimaging to various shrines scattered around India. While in Bombay, Bakulben would retreat into the marble mandir in her duplex (yes, her duplex) and pray the hours away. She was rarely seen in public and nobody really missed her, least of all her husband. He traveled in a pack with the senior vice presidents of his companies. “We prosper together, work together, whore together and die together,” he’d chant as he went through his daily body massage at his private health club. He inspired undying loyalty in his staff, who were willing to do anything for him—even commit murder.
The night Aasha Rani met Abhijit, he was the chief sponsor of the show. No, it was his father who had agreed to underwrite it. But Amrishbhai had had to rush off to Geneva on some urgent business. Abhijit was just standing in for him. Just as well, thought the sharks at the show. Amrishbhai was a prickly, egotistic bastard who invariably demanded his pound of flesh. It would have been difficult to refuse him if he, per chance, had fancied the star of the evening. There was no such possibility with Abhijit—who was younger and more sophisticated. But their calculations proved wrong.
Abhijit had taken one look at Aasha Rani and flipped. He’d summoned one of the organizers and told him he was interested in meeting her. And that had put everybody in a fix. What would the Shethji’s reaction be? And Amrishbhai’s? Or Aasha Rani’s, for that matter? What if she snubbed the request and snubbed Abhijit?
It worked out differently, however. Aasha Rani very charmingly agreed to garland Abhijit on the stage at the end of the show. She noticed the outline of his body under the light Italian silk suit he was wearing. She took in his polka-dotted tie and the gel in his slicked-back hair. Like a gangster. An attractive gangster. She wondered what he’d be like in bed. Funny, she always wondered that about any man she saw. Any. He didn’t have to be good-looking, and she didn’t have to be attracted to him. He just had to be a man, that was all, and Aasha Rani’s X-ray eyes would instantly undress him and get him into bed with her. What would he do to her? Or she to him?
With women, it worked differently. She stripped only those she was attracted to. And that didn’t happen very often. Aasha Rani was far more discriminating with her own sex. But as she used to giggle with Linda, “It’s so much more relaxed with women. Sex is fun when the person knows your body as well as she knows her own. Only a woman can really please another woman sexually. Only another woman knows where to touch, when to touch, how to touch…”
While garlanding Abhijit, she experienced a secret thrill as her fingers brushed past his ears. With her four-inch heels she was the same height, so their eyes were parallel, as were their lips. He bent his head to receive the garland and his mouth was near her breasts. She could feel his warm breath on her throat as he raised his neck, took his arms up to remove the prickly flowers and, in a smooth, spontaneous gesture, garlanded her back with the same. Nor did he stop there. He held her hands in his, leaned over and kissed her warmly on both cheeks to uproarious applause. Flustered, flattered and immensely thrilled, Aasha Rani stepped back and stared at him wide-eyed. He snapped his fingers in front of her face, winked and said, “It’s OK. I’m for real. What are you doing later tonight?” “Not tonight,” she whispered back. “Call me,” Abhijit said, and passed a business card to her. “Meanwhile,” he added before striding off the stage, “Love, Love, Kiss, Kiss. It’s good for health!”
Abhijit Mehra
IT WAS AT A FANCY JEWELER’S SHOP IN ZAVERI BAZAAR THAT Aasha Rani ran into Abhijit again. She was busy trying on a pair of diamond kadas when someone placed a large hand over her slim wrist and said, “Tch! Tch! Poor woman. No bangles for the beautiful lady. So sad.” She looked up sharply and saw Abhijit staring at her, laughter lighting up his eyes. “Very funny,” she said, and laughed too. Outside the enormous glass windows she could see the narrow crowded street already full of fans who were being kept at bay by the burly durban, but (just about). She could hear the shouts of “Love, Love, Kiss, Kiss,” followed by vulgar smooching sounds. She looked back at Abhijit, and he said, “Don’t worry about them. I’ll escort you out, and maybe you’d like to visit my home.” She noticed a young girl with him. “My fiancée,” he said. “Nikita. She’s from London.”
Aasha Rani looked at the fresh-faced teenager and said hello. She was lovely, with streaked hair and trendy clothes. “You should become a film star,” Aasha Rani said to her. The girl stared coldly and in an accented voice replied, “No, thank you. I have better things to do.” Abhijit tweaked her nose and admonished, “Naughty girl! Don’t you know who you are speaking to? This is Aasha Rani, India’s leading movie queen.” The girl blushed deeply and apologized. “I am so terribly sorry. You must think me awfully rude. You see, I don’t live here, and I haven’t seen any Indian films. Forgive me for not recognizing you.” “That’s OK,” Aasha Rani said. “But I still mean it. You should join the industry—you are a very pretty girl.” Abhijit interjected, “Nikita happens to be a barrister. A maha-intellectual. Don’t go by her looks. She is all brains as well.” Nikita looked away modestly before asking, “What are all those people doing out there? God! There must be thousands of them.” Abhijit smiled and said, “Oh, those? I’ve hired them for Aasha Rani’s benefit. I thought she’d feel most insecure if she wasn’t mobbed in Zaveri Bazaar.” Aasha Rani gave him a friendly shove. He took her arm. “Shall we go?”
So they went off, the three of them, for a cup of coffee at Abhijit’s favorite restaurant in Bombay—the Sea Lounge. They managed to get a table overlooking the Gateway of India. For a while nobody spoke. They watched the little boats of the Yacht Club bobbing up and down on the waves and the pigeons being fed by a group of Japanese tourists. The sky was aflame with the colors of the setting sun. The islands in the far distance looked lazy, and an impressive-looking oil rig suddenly floated into view. “It’s so pretty out here,” Nikita commented. Everybody was silent. “So how does it feel to be in a place like this where everybody pretends they don’t know who you are?” Abhijit said finally. Aasha Rani looked around. It was true. Everyone else in the large restaurant was studiously looking away. The waiters, too, were behaving with the utmost discretion, neither hovering around too conspicuously nor neglecting their duties. “It’s such a relief, actually,” Aasha Rani said. “We film people can’t go anywhere without being disturbed.” “Doesn’t that flatter you?” Nikita asked. “It did in the beginning but not anymore. Now it is a real jhanjhat.” “What is a ‘jhanjhat’?” Nikita asked. Both Aasha Rani and Abhijit laughed. “Yeh to badi memsaab hai, yaar,” he explained. Nikita flushed and protested, �
��Look, I understood what you just said. I know that much Hindi, you know. It’s not a question of being a memsaab. I’m unfamiliar with local slang. I haven’t ever lived in India, remember?” Aasha Rani smiled at her sweetly and said, “Just ignore the man. He’s only teasing you. Now tell me, when is the wedding?”
Abhijit sat back and let Nikita gush. “Oh, we are planning it in December. It’s a good time of the year, I’m told. Not quite this hot. God! I’m sweating all the time!” “Where is it going to be?” “The Turf Club, you must come.” “I’ll organize the fans and the police bandobast; don’t worry. We must have a top star at the function; otherwise people will say we haven’t really made it.” Abhijit laughed. Then, turning to Nikita, he explained, “Film stars are considered status symbols in India.” Nikita smiled at Aasha Rani. “In that case, you must come. And bring your favorite hero along.” Abhijit winked and kicked her under the table.
When they came down to the foyer, Nikita excused herself and asked, “Where’s the ladies’?” Abhijit escorted her to the door, then caught Aasha Rani by the sleeve and held her back. “I have to talk to you,” he whispered. Aasha Rani stayed back and the two of them stood awkwardly in the narrow passage, while people pushed past them staring openmouthed at Aasha Rani.
“When can I see you?” Abhijit asked urgently. “You’ve been on my mind from the day we met at that ghastly show.” Aasha Rani looked at him with surprise. “I thought you’re getting married to that sweet, pretty child in December?” “That has nothing to do with my seeing you—it’s an arranged affair. Our families have a business connection. I like her but I’m not in love with her.” “You aren’t in love with me either,” Aasha Rani said. “Maybe I am. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve wanted you desperately from that day. I’ve even seen all your terrible films.” “Thank you. I suppose I should be flattered that you took the trouble. But I’m really not interested. Besides, I’m very busy with my shooting.” “We don’t have time, Aasha Rani. She’ll be out any moment. Say you’ll see me. Let me come to you tonight. Say yes, wait for me, you won’t regret it. I’ll be there at ten thirty.”