Bollywood Nights

by Shobhaa De

  Nikita came out. She’d freshened her lipstick and had combed her long hair. “You look lovely,” Abhijit said to her as he took her hand.

  WHEN HE ARRIVED at Aasha Rani’s house Abhijit was very agitated. “I need a drink,” he said. “Go ahead; help yourself,” she replied, pointing to the bar. “I’m so thirsty.” Abhijit groaned, pouring himself a large Scotch as Aasha Rani watched. He looked so haunted, so troubled. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly. “Everything!” he said, and collapsed into a deep chair. “I’m so fucked up. I hate my life, my job, my house, my father, Nikita. I hate everything—India, business, my dad, yes, him most of all. He’ll go to any lengths to show me down. Today he yelled at me in front of his employees because we lost a two-crore contract. He blames me for everything. I hate him; God help me, I hate him…”

  Aasha Rani went up to him and took off his jacket. Standing silently behind his chair she started massaging his neck. “Close your eyes…relax,” she instructed. She unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off his tie and worked on his tense muscles. “Relax…relax…relax…” Gradually Abhijit began to unwind. He felt his tense musles slacken and his eyes began to droop. “That feels good. That feels so-o-o good,” he said as her fingers moved deftly down his back and her thumb located the stiff spots on his spine. “Come and lie down here,” she said, leading him by the arm. Once on the bed, she got to work seriously, sitting astride his bottom and working vigorously with her hands. Ten minutes later, Abhijit was fast asleep.

  He woke up with a start at three a.m. and grabbed a sheet around his middle. He tried to reach for a light switch. Aasha Rani restrained him. “Ssssh, it’s all right. You are with me, in my home.” “Who are you?” he asked groggily. “And where the fuck am I?” She rolled over and brought her body nearer his. She placed his hands on her breasts and got him to cup them. “Guess…” she said.

  Abhijit was wide-awake now. He laughed and pulled her to him, kissing her mouth tenderly. “Sorry, my queen,” he said. “I had a nightmare. I get them every night. That’s why I hate sleeping alone. Always have. Shall I tell you a little secret? This big, grown-up man in your bed is scared of the dark. Yes, he is. And he’s also quite a crybaby. Don’t laugh. If you shout at me or hurt my feelings, I will weep all over your lovely bed and ruin the sheets. Just be nice, OK?”

  “How nice?” Aasha Rani asked, reaching down under the sheets and holding him. “This nice?” she teased, giving him a squeeze. “No, nicer…” He moaned as she slid down, her tongue leaving a wet streak along the length of his body.

  For a while, Aasha Rani was sufficiently distracted by Abhijit’s attentions. She thought of Akshay often but made no attempt to reach him. Often he would be shooting in the adjoining studio. She’d spot his van parked inside the gates and she’d tense with anticipation. Once they’d even crossed each other as she rushed from one set to the next, and she’d noticed how pale Akshay had looked.

  Her attitude toward her work had changed. And she wondered whether it had anything to do with Akshay. She felt listless, distracted. Directors began to comment on her indifference. One of them suggested kindly that she should take a break. Go on vacation. Shop till she dropped in Singapore. But even that didn’t turn her on. Who would she go with? What would she do? And just how much could she shop for? She’d lost interest in her cuddly toys too. She’d stare at her menagerie and cry for no reason.

  THE NEWS OF ABHIJIT and Nikita’s marriage was splashed on the front page of every daily. Every single paper and magazine carried photographs of the couple. Aasha Rani stared at Nikita’s picture. She did look rather lovely. Abhijit looked handsome too—with an enormous pheta on his head and a smart ivory-colored sherwani. Amrishbhai had invited the entire city, but Aasha Rani had decided not to go—she was feeling too low and listless. Akshay was there; so were all the other girls, her rivals. She spotted Anushree in a photograph looking stunning in green. And Tanya, the latest temptress, who had created quite a sensation with her first film. She saw Amirchand’s picture with the chief minister—looking every bit the mealymouthed politician in a khadi churidar-kurta. Little did the world know about his dirty secrets, Aasha Rani thought. Nitesh was there with his overdressed wife. And Ritaji, of course. Good God! What had she done with her hair? Malini’s picture was with Suhaila—both of them trying to outethnic each other. Suhas, said the report, was away on location, shooting a film on the Bhils.

  Aasha Rani had just about heard the names of the industrialist invitees. She certainly didn’t recognize even one of them. That made her think of her filmi duniya. What an isolated, unreal world all of them lived in. A world built on illusions and Technicolor dreams. A world as phony as the films it churned out. She hardly knew a single person outside the film industry. Nor did she have the time to get to know the real world—whatever and wherever that was.

  On the few occasions that she did meet non–movie people, she discovered she had nothing to say to them. They spoke a different language. Their interests were entirely alien. Their thinking was on a totally different plane. They were “normal.”

  There were times Aasha Rani wanted nothing more desperately than to be “normal,” like she imagined those others to be. Studios, parties, photo sessions, dubbing—that was all. She felt self-conscious in the presence of non-filmi types and avoided contact with them because she didn’t want to appear stupid; didn’t want to be “found out.” She knew she was unaware. But she also knew she was smart. Why should she allow these outsiders to judge her and call her stupid just because she was not interested in the same things? She could sometimes sense their hostility, their mockery. Especially at charity premieres for causes such as the Army Widows Welfare Fund. Women would come up to her on these occasions and make sly remarks like, “It must feel nice to make so much money for such little work. You girls are lucky, no responsibilities, no family, nothing. Just sing and dance and romance with the hero in Kashmir and get paid lakhs for it.” “We are fortunate. God has given us so much,” Aasha Rani would agree. And the women would zoom in for attack. “So much? Arrey—what about a family? What about a husband? Children? You may not miss these things now, but later, when your looks and popularity fade, then you’ll think, ‘My life is so empty and these women are so lucky.’”

  They were right, Aasha Rani thought as she read Nikita’s interview in a city glossy. “I’m the luckiest girl in the world,” she was quoted as saying. Well, she’d certainly bagged a wonderful man. An unfaithful husband. But a terrific lover. Aasha Rani smiled at that. He’d promised to visit her right after his Hawaiian honeymoon.

  ABHIJIT WASN’T THE SAME on his return. Or maybe it was her. She had no right to feel cheated. But somewhere along the line, she held his marriage against him. “My life is beginning to resemble the movies I act in,” she told him. “You are like Devdas, and I, Chandramukhi.” Abhijit didn’t know what she was talking about. He hadn’t heard of the classic. So she switched the VCR on for him, saying, “Watch! That is you and this is me.” She disappeared to wash her hair and emerged half an hour later to find him crying. “Why are you torturing me like this?” Aasha Rani looked at him with surprise. “Me? Torturing you? I should be the one saying all this! You are a married man with a lovely young wife. And yet, you come to me. Why? For sex. Nothing else! What does that make me? Not even Chandramukhi—she was a courtesan. I’m just your celebrity fuck! I wouldn’t turn you on as much had I been a nobody—just a sexy Madraasi girl with big tits. You aren’t making love to me! You are screwing my image—my screen image. Get out of here, Abhijit. Go back to your wife and make a man of yourself! It’s all over between us. I never want to see you again!”

  Abhijit hadn’t wanted to leave. “I’ve made a mistake,” he whimpered. “I should never have married Nikita. I don’t love her. She doesn’t excite me. I needed booze, uppers, a sniff of coke on my honeymoon to make out with her. Each time I tried, I thought of you, Aasha Rani. Don’t throw me out of your life like this! I need you.” Aasha Rani looked at him
pityingly. “Go home, Abhijit. I have my own life to lead…”

  But did she really lead her own life? Aasha Rani wasn’t sure. It seemed more and more like she was leading someone else’s. As if the real her was trapped forever in the wrong movie, in the wrong role.

  She was shooting with Tushar, a seasoned hero, who was still going strong after twenty-five years in the industry. It was an emotional scene. Aasha Rani was required to cry, but prettily, so as not to mess up her makeup. Tushar, playing a dacoit chief going in for his final encounter with the police (who’d surrounded the village), was holding her in his arms, saying, “Don’t mourn after my death. Think of me as I was in life. And take care of my unborn child. He will be a son. I know that. Tell him about his father. Tell him about our love.” That was Aasha Rani’s cue to start crying, which she did, only she couldn’t stop.

  The director called out, “Cut,” thrice. Finally Tushar led her gently away from the set. The director called for a cold drink, while the unit hands shrugged, switched off the lights, lit up cigarettes and waited.

  Tushar sent everybody away and let Aasha Rani finish crying. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It happens to everybody at some point—this profession is such. Take your time. The unit can wait. You’ve been working too hard. Relax. Take a holiday.”

  Aasha Rani told him softly, “It isn’t that. I don’t work that hard anymore. I’ve stopped doing the third shift unless it’s urgent. I don’t work on Sundays. It’s not the work. And it’s not a holiday—I just had one in Madras. I don’t know what it is. I feel depressed all the time. My heart is not in shooting. I come to the sets mechanically because I have given dates. Besides, if I wasn’t shooting, what would I do? I have no friends. I suppose I’m just very lonely. I miss Madras.”

  Tushar held her hand tenderly. “I used to feel the same way years ago. I’d cry to go back to my village in Punjab. I missed the green fields, the food, my own people. But after five years, I got used to the industry. And to Bombay. This city is such—it isn’t like any other city in India.

  “People are caught up with their own lives. Nobody has time for you. You can die on the pavement and not a single person will stop to spit in your direction. All of us who come from other states feel shocked by this. Bombay is a cruel city. Only matlab ki baat. Do you think I have made friends here after twenty years? Do you think there’s even one person I trust? No. I can never relax in Bombay. Never speak my heart to anyone. Nobody cares. They’re only interested in what they can get out of you. The minute your use is over, you are over. So long as you are a success—at the top—people will flock around you. After that—khalaas.

  “It is not a place for women. I know so many heroines who used to work with me ten years ago. Where are they today? No roles, no friends, no money. The lucky ones are those who escaped in time. Got married. Left this wretched industry and never looked back. That is what you should do. Find a good man, settle down. Have children, forget all this. How long will it last? Another two years? Three? And then where will you go? Make your money and quit in style. But one piece of advice I must give you—your time is right now. If you mess up your career at this point, you will be out. No hope after that. There are dozens of pretty girls waiting to take your place. Younger, better-looking, ambitious. If you start doing nakhra on the sets, keeping producers waiting, not showing up on time, forget it, you will be out. And if your films flop—again—out! Remember the industry rule—you are as good as your last film.

  “Nobody cares if you’ve had ten silver jubilee films in the past. Nobody cares if producers have become millionaires because of your hits. The industry is also changing fast. It isn’t what it was in my time. Video—that is our biggest enemy. You will see—there is a big crash coming. We will all have to lower our prices. Act in small-budget films. Compromise. Or we’ll be driven out. Before that happens, you should finish your assignments and make another life.

  “You are still young, beautiful, successful. Cash in on that now. Your market value is good. Any man will be proud to marry you. Two years from now, you will be sorry you didn’t listen to a wise old actor’s words. I tell you this because you are like a daughter. Do you know my son is older than you are? And see how ridiculous the whole thing is; I’m playing your lover in this film! That is how unreal, shallow and meaningless the industry is. Chalo, let’s finish the scene. Everybody is waiting—the show must go on.”

  Aasha Rani

  AASHA RANI DETESTED BOMBAY MONSOONS. IT WAS THE ONE time of the year that she seriously considered abandoning the city and fleeing to Madras. She hated waking up to a gray morning with the sound of rain pelting her windows. She hated the oppressive dampness. No building in Bombay, no matter how posh, was monsoon-proof. Moldy patches all over the house, the stench of carpets heavy with water. The walls wept, the windows leaked, and the rain seemed to seep into everything—including her mind.

  The monsoons disoriented her completely. She couldn’t judge from the light outside whether it was early afternoon or late evening. She disliked having the lights on at home all through the day. There was absolutely nothing romantic about the downpour outside, and no amount of listening to mood music removed the dark, gloomy clouds that hung over her. Most of all Aasha Rani loathed stepping out of her villa into the puddles outside.

  The long drive to distant studios would get even longer as her van stalled every few meters. Traffic snarls were everywhere: raised voices and tempers, irate drivers honking in a vain effort to get everybody moving. As if the sound alone would blast the clogged drains and empty the roads of mounds of rotting garbage. Bombay stank during the rains. The three monsoon months seemed endless.

  The producers took advantage of the weather to pin stars down to extended indoor shooting. The action had now shifted from suburban studios to suburban bungalows. Enterprising owners of these sprawling residences had discovered new avenues to raise money—film shootings. At over ten thousand rupees per day, they’d allow units into their homes to take the place over and shoot around the clock. Aasha Rani preferred these studios—at least there were decent loos to go to, unlike the smelly studio bathrooms, or worse, secluded spots behind rocks and trees during outdoor spells!

  It was while her car was stuck at the Bandra intersection that she noticed Akshay’s Mercedes right next to her. He was alone in the backseat reading India Today. She looked at him for nearly five minutes with longing and sadness. He wasn’t keeping very well these days. It showed on his face. Why had he cut her out of his life so totally? Did his career matter all that much to him? Was it just Rita’s and Malini’s threats that did it? Or had he gotten tired of her? She had to know.

  She lowered her window and tried to attract his attention. Her sleeve got drenched in seconds. Damn! Akshay’s driver saw her before he did and turned around to inform him. Akshay looked up from the magazine and quickly looked away. Aasha Rani was crushed. Why? What had she done to him? It was so unfair!

  Spontaneously, in the pouring rain, she opened the car door and jumped out. Before Akshay knew what was happening, she’d gotten in beside him. “You are dripping wet and ruining my car,” he said coldly. “Akshay, please, not in front of—” And she indicated the driver. Her own was staring at the scene openmouthed.

  The lights had changed. Akshay’s driver had to move, but he didn’t have instructions. To the studios as usual, or…? There was a deafening cacophony of car horns, and to add to the confusion, almost out of nowhere a crowd of half-naked urchins appeared and surrounded Akshay’s car. “Abbey hero, Love, Love, Kiss, Kiss!” they hollered, thumping the windows and obstructing the windshield.

  “You have no right to behave like this,” Akshay said, his nostrils flaring with rage. Aasha Rani pleaded with him. “Please, all I want is one hour of your time. Don’t turn me away. Don’t create a scene, not here.” Akshay glared at her. “I’m not the one creating the scene—you are. I’ll ask my driver to pull up after the lights, and I’d be obliged if you got into your own car. There�
��s nothing I have to say to you.” Aasha Rani tried to hold his hand. The urchins screamed with delight and shouted, “Chuma-Chuma.” He pulled his hand away and said a sharp, “Chalo,” to the driver.

  Aasha Rani knew she was running out of time. In desperation, she bent and touched his feet. “I beg of you, don’t do this to me. You have humiliated me enough. All I want is an explanation. Tell me why you stopped seeing me, wanting me, and I’ll never bother you again.” Akshay looked into her eyes, and something about their expression made him change his mind. He told the driver to turn the car around and head for Holiday Inn.

  It felt so good to be back in the familiar suite and the even more familiar bed. Aasha Rani clung to Akshay. She was dying to ask him why he had cut her out of his life. But she knew better. Their lovemaking was different too. No biting, clawing or frenzied passion. Akshay was gentle and unfrenzied. Aasha Rani didn’t feel too much like a tigress herself. They hardly spoke. But both of them knew that the affair was on once more. That the self-imposed ban had been lifted.

  The romance helped to see Aasha Rani through the monsoons. She canceled shootings and spent every moment she could get in the “secret suite” with Akshay. He didn’t have too many films on hand. Aasha Rani noticed that he had dark circles under his eyes and that he didn’t have the same energy, nor the zest for living that she had so envied. They spent time lying in each other’s arms listening to music, eating, reading magazines. Once again gossip columns bristled with juicy tidbits about their affair, and Linda made it very clear that she disapproved. Aasha Rani didn’t care. She was with him and that was all that mattered. They didn’t talk about Rita or Malini either. It was no longer important.