Bollywood Nights

by Shobhaa De

  “There’s a big, big world out there that you know absolutely nothing about. And I’m dying to share it with you! Come away with me. Someplace where nobody knows us. No pesky press, no besotted fans, no daddy’s moles, where I can fill a tub with champagne and bathe you in it. Where we can wake up in the morning together and gargle with it. Where I can shampoo your hair with bubbly. Let’s see—where? Not London—too many Indians, plus all of Nikita’s clan. Not New York—too full of nosy desis. Not Paris—I don’t speak enough French. Where? I know! In fact, even the old man won’t suspect a thing—New Zealand—that’s where! Let’s go to Auckland. It’s full of sheep—that’s all. It’s unlikely any of them will have seen your films—you can say ‘baa’ to them if they have. Plus, we have a vague project my old man has been presented with. I’ll have to find out more, something to do with state-of-the-art sheep rearing and sheep farming. I’ll tell him I’d like to check it out. He’ll believe me. As for your amma—you handle her.”

  AASHA RANI HADN’T THE FAINTEST IDEA where on earth New Zealand was. On their next evening together Abhijit gave her a world atlas and told her to locate it on the map. It was the first time that she had seriously studied a map. It embarrassed her to discover she didn’t even know where, broadly, to jab her finger. She knew Indian cricketers went there to play matches. And the only reason she knew that was because she had once had a brief thing with a fast bowler.

  She remembered the time she’d hooked off for a one-day match to Dubai with Ramesh, her gallant sportsman. It hadn’t lasted for very long. A few months at most. But the two of them had blazed headlines internationally, especially when she’d shown up for the match in a miniskirt (“un-Islamic and improper,” the local press had hissed). And what had made it a truly memorable relationship was the fact that Ramesh was the best lover Aasha Rani had ever had.

  It was rumored he took special shots to keep going for as long as three hours, but that, Aasha Rani had soon discovered, was just a team joke. Aasha Rani found him a very attentive and sensitive partner. The best she’d had. He took his time arousing her gently, and what was more, talked tenderly to her. Such a change from the crude, grunting intercourse she’d become accustomed to.

  Ramesh really did it in style: He usually started with a bubble bath, during which he had soaped her all over, taking time to massage the back of her neck, her toes, calves, and the insides of her knees. He was also the only lover to shampoo and condition her hair expertly. She remembered one particularly exquisite night. The mood was right and so was the music. There was champagne by the side of the sunken tub and delicate canapés to munch. He dried her off with a huge, fluffy towel, rubbing her down firmly, cleaning behind her ears, patting between her legs, and finally chivalrously draped a bathrobe around her and took her to bed.

  There, too, his manners had been impeccable. Unbelting her robe, he had powdered her like a baby and watched as she luxuriated in his ministrations. He had dabbed Guerlain on her pulse spots and waited for the fragrance to envelop her whole body. “Want to try something different?” he had asked. Aasha Rani giggled, game for anything. He had gone to the cupboard and brought out three or four silk scarves. “Take your pick,” he’d said. “What will you do with these?” she’d asked. “Ssh…You’ll find out. Just don’t hold back; that’s all.” With that he had swung her arms over her head and bound them loosely to the bedpost. Aasha Rani had started giggling some more. “Why are you tying me up?” “It’s more fun this way…believe me. You’ll love it,” he’d answered, and bent down to tie her ankles. “Do you like doing it with your eyes open or closed?” he had asked, kissing her softly all over. “Let’s try both options,” she’d said, surrendering totally.

  The next thing she knew, he’d bound her eyes with a scarf and whispered, “Relax; let me show you something new, something exciting. It won’t hurt; trust me.” And he had started stroking her slowly with two other scarves twisted together to form a rope. At first, the feel of silk against her naked skin had felt strange, but soon a different consciousness had taken over.

  Helped by the blindfold Aasha Rani had lost herself in a new, forbidden world. Ramesh had crooned erotic words of love and desire as the stroking became steadier and stronger. Her skin had started to tingle deliciously. She could feel Ramesh as his body moved skillfully over hers, and his hands continued to lash her with silk. It was a pain so exquisite, Aasha Rani had moaned with pleasure. Ramesh had stopped abruptly. She could hear him panting. She heard herself say, “More, don’t stop.”

  She was pulled out of her reverie by Abhijit taking hold of her hand and jabbing her forefinger down on New Zealand. Her finger traced the outline of the country. What tiny islands, she thought. What do they do there? Madras seemed vast, and India a giant in comparison. “It’s so tiny. We could swallow it up in one gulp, like an idli,” she said to Abhijit.

  AMRISHBHAI GOT TO HEAR of his son’s escape only after Abhijit and Aasha Rani were safely airborne. Malini told him. Not directly, of course. But through a common source. “Your son’s life is going to be ruined,” Kapal Singh told Amrishbhai at the latter’s gigantic office in a South Bombay high-rise. “He is having an affair with that cheap actress, that harlot Aasha Rani. She has already ruined other men and other marriages. Now, she has got her eyes on your son. You have to intervene and stop this ridiculous maamla at once. If bhabhiji finds out—that too, in the condition she’s in.”

  Amrishbhai was enraged by the news. He had become extremely fond of his young bahu and had left instructions that in her delicate condition, her every wish was to be catered to. “An heir is to be born in our family,” he’d said proudly at a board meeting at which Abhijit had been present. When his father made the announcement Abhijit had modestly looked down into his lap and accepted the congratulations. He was glad for Nikita, but the news of the baby hadn’t made much of a difference to him. In a way he’d felt relieved. “Thank God, yaar. Now at least she’ll stay out of my hair. It will give her something to do,” he had informed his squash buddy.

  After his visitor left, Amrishbhai sat for a long while in his office. Now everything fell into place: his son’s absences from his house in the evenings when he should have been with his wife; Nikita’s reliance on him when she should have been looking to her husband for support; his son’s casual acceptance of the fact that he would soon be a father. Amrishbhai’s brows creased with fury. How could his son do this to his wife? Betray her, in her condition, with that slut who’d sleep with anyone provided the money was right? He needed to come up with a plan if he was to save the family honor, prevent the scandal from blossoming. But most of all, he knew it was only he who could save his young, defenseless daughter-in-law. He instructed his secretary not to put through any calls. Strictly no interruptions or visitors. It took Amrishbhai three hours to arrive at a decision. Close to midnight he phoned his travel agent. Personally. The man jumped when he heard Amrishbhai’s voice. “Get me on the next flight to New Zealand—any route, any airline, any class. It’s an emergency.”

  Amrishbhai was already waiting at Auckland airport when Abhijit and Aasha Rani landed there, after a shop-till-you-drop stopover in Singapore. Abhijit was the first to spot his father standing in the lounge. “Oh my God!” he said, clutching Aasha Rani’s arm. “He’s here!” “Who?” she asked carelessly. “My father! It’s him. Bloody shit! How did he find out? Oh hell—I hope nothing has happened to Nikita or the baby. Why the fuck would he be here otherwise?” If Abhijit had had his way, he would have bolted from the scene. But that was impossible. Aasha Rani was nervous too, but didn’t want to show it. She tried clinging to Abhijit’s arm, but he shrugged off her hand and snarled, “Are you crazy? Take your hands off me. He’s looking.” Numbly he collected their luggage and walked slowly out to meet his father.

  Amrishbhai ignored Aasha Rani altogether. But he greeted Abhijit affectionately. “Don’t worry—nobody is dead. Come on; let’s go. Where are you booked?” Abhijit looked helplessly at Aasha Rani an
d stuttered, “Look, Dad, I can explain…” Funnily enough Aasha Rani was enjoying Abhijit’s discomfiture. She felt removed from the whole scene as the tough old man put an arm around his son, who, she noted, almost dropped at the touch, and walked him away like a small boy.

  Six hours later Abhijit walked into their suite. “It’s all over, darling,” he said in a small, broken voice. “There’s nothing to explain or say. Dad has said it all. I’m exhausted. Please don’t ask questions. I’m checking out. Dad wants you to stay here as long as you want. He’s left instructions that all your bills be settled. He has also left you money for shopping and traveling. There’ll be more when you get back to Bombay. His guys will be in touch with you. I don’t have to tell you that this is good-bye.”

  Aasha Rani looked at him wordlessly. She felt intensely sorry for the pathetic, scared man standing in front of her. She would have stayed out of Abhijit’s life for free, but since a gift package was being thrust at her she’d be a fool to turn her back on it. Coolly, she held out her hand. “All the luck in the world,” she said, “and thank your father for his generous offer. Tell him I accept.”

  A man she met in the hotel coffee shop suggested Wellington, and she thought, Why not? “What will I do there?” she asked him. “Well, you could take long walks, look at the sprawling farms, drink milk, eat cheese and count sheep. What else do kiwis do?”

  Aasha Rani spent ten days in Wellington. Ten whole days to herself. She hadn’t ever been alone before. Entirely alone—like she now found herself. In the beginning it felt strange. She thought everybody was staring at her. They were, of course, but that was because of the clothes she wore. She decided to blow some of Amrishbhai’s money getting herself a new wardrobe. She chucked all her salwar-kameezes, saris and dhoti pants and went shopping for sleek, well-tailored shirts, skirts and dresses. She decided to change her hair and rework her makeup while she was at it.

  The salon in the hotel may not have been the best in Wellington, but the young girl there was friendly and helpful. She picked up Aasha Rani’s long tresses and sighed. “Split and abused. You need conditioning, love. And a new look. Leave it to me.” Snip, snip, snip; the scissors ran through her hair in seconds. Aasha Rani stared at the strands lying on the floor and felt like crying.

  “It took me ten years to get it this length,” she complained. “My producers will kill me. What about continuity, oh God! My hairdresser will die when she sees me.” “You’re talking like a blooming movie star.” The young girl laughed. And that was when it occurred to Aasha Rani that she was truly a nonentity in this country. The young girl’s lighthearted remark had driven home the point.

  Nobody knew her here. And nobody cared who she was. It was a realization that exhilarated her. She could pass for anyone! She squeezed the hairdresser’s hand gleefully. “It’s great. I love it.” “Ooh, watch it, love—I could have nicked you there.” “Go ahead, streak it, frost it, bleach it, do what you want; I’m going to have fun.” Aasha Rani’s eyes were shining with mischief.

  “Your boyfriend won’t recognize you,” said the hairdresser worriedly. “That’s the whole idea,” Aasha Rani said. And laughed.

  Jamie (Jay) Phillips

  SHE MET JAMIE (JAY) PHILLIPS ON HER SIXTH DAY IN WELLINGTON. It was a Friday night and the local disco was crowded. Aasha Rani sat at a corner table with some newly acquired friends from the hotel. The deejay was in cracking form mixing music, playing old favorites with the latest chartbusters, urging people onto the kerchief-sized floor.

  Aasha Rani was enjoying herself, laughing with abandon and guzzling beer. She was smoking a cigar, more as an accessory to her hot pink sequined dress than anything else. For the past hour or so she’d noticed a tall, slim man observing her, but she didn’t pay him much attention; she was used to being stared at. People came up to her and asked all sorts of questions. With her new hair and crazy clothes she resembled Tina Turner gone wrong. Then, during a temporary lull in the music, the stranger walked up to her. “Listen, this may sound completely crazy and over the top,” he said, “but aren’t you Aasha Rani, the movie star from India?”

  The half-puffed Davidoff fell out of her fingers. “How do you know?” she asked incredulously. “Allow me to buy you another cigar, and I’ll tell you,” he said in an accent that was hard to place.

  She allowed herself to be led away from her group and they settled down at a tiny glass table. There he introduced himself and confessed that he was an unabashed Hindi film buff, in fact, had been one for a few years. She still didn’t get it. Where on earth did he get to see Hindi films? How did he understand them?

  “Oh, it’s a long story,” he answered, “but I don’t want to shout myself hoarse narrating it to you in here. Let’s go someplace else, shall we?” Aasha Rani went back to her friends and winked. “I have met a fan—here, of all places!” They didn’t really get the joke but they laughed anyway and waved her off.

  At a little garden restaurant Jay told her his story. He had an old Indian connection in his grandfather, an army general, who’d spent four long years in Imphal commanding troops during the war. He’d brought the family back to India regularly after that. The India link didn’t end there. When Jay was at university in England he’d met and had a brief affair with an Air India stewardess. They’d stayed in touch—more out of a warm friendship and kinship than anything else. When she got posted to London, he’d moved in with her and had been introduced to the gaudy world of Hindi films. Samira was hooked on them. Her reading was restricted to junky fan magazines, and her idea of a great evening at home was to root herself in front of a VCR and watch her favorite film artists dance, sing and ham in the hottest new potboiler. During their off-and-on association, Jay, too, had gotten the habit. He amazed Aasha Rani with his knowledge of films and film stars, quoting dialogues and recalling lyrics. She laughed and laughed when he mimicked her and did a takeoff on Akshay. “Married the guy, didn’t you?”

  Aasha Rani shook her head sadly. “He backed out.” “Still single?” he casually asked. “Unfortunately.” “In that case, lady…” Jay announced with a flourish, “would you do me the honor of marrying me? I am yours; single, AIDS-free and considerably well-off. I’ve been a little in love with you for years, and this seems like a dream come true. Would you make me very happy and be my wife?”

  Aasha Rani was taken aback. For a country whose main claim to fame seemed to be its sheep, people did seem to work fast. “This is all a bit too unexpected,” she said.

  “How long are you staying?” Jay asked.

  “Two-three days more,” she replied.

  “Well, how about letting me know by four in the evening Thursday?”

  “Deal,” she said.

  JAY PROVED TO BE AN ARDENT, passionate and imaginative husband. Aasha Rani felt relaxed and secure enough with him to teach him one or two tricks of her own. He was game for anything, dubbing her kinks “oriental love games.”

  “What kind of a girlfriend was she—that Samira of yours? She taught you nothing at all,” Aasha Rani would tease. Jay laughed her remarks off as he concentrated on pleasing her. Once Aasha Rani told him, only half joking, “Actually, if you must know, I prefer girls. They are so sensitive and soft. This, only another woman can know—how to turn a woman on. Can’t you find me a sexy girlfriend here?” Jay thought for a minute before answering, “Well, I don’t know about a female sex companion for you. But you could try sheep—or dogs or something. Considering how lusty and insatiable you are, you’d probably enjoy the experience.” Aasha Rani pretended to consider it before sniffing. “No, not for me. Too smelly.” “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Jay said, tweaking her nose playfully.

  Five months into the marriage, Aasha Rani discovered she was pregnant. Jay whooped with delight when she broke the news. He picked her up and twirled her around deliriously. “Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! Where do you want to have the baby? What shall we do? What names have you thought of? Do you want me to phone and te
ll your mother? Do you want to call her over? Shall we go to India?”

  Aasha Rani waited for him to quiet down. “I’m a strong girl. My mother had no problems with her pregnancies and deliveries. I don’t think I will either. No, I don’t want to go back to India. In fact, I never want to return. We’ll have the baby here. It’s going to be a girl. I know it. We’ll call her Sasha. I like the name; it’s so cuddly and sweet—like she will be.”

  Jay wasn’t too happy about Aasha Rani’s decision to have the baby on the farm. “Let me at least call my mother or one of my sisters across,” he suggested. “No way!” Aasha Rani put her foot down. “That will make me tense and uncomfortable. Didn’t you see how they behaved at the wedding? They find me weird—I know it. They think I’m some sort of savage you picked up. A colored, who doesn’t eat with a knife and fork. Who speaks English with a funny accent. Who wears strange clothes. And an actress! Baap re baap—the worst possible woman. They don’t like me at all. They haven’t accepted me—but I suppose I can’t really blame them. If they came here, I would have to look after them and be hospitable—or at least pretend to. No. I’d rather go through this alone. We have each other; that’s enough. There must be hundreds of couples in your country just like us, with no family members around. We’ll manage. And for God’s sake, don’t let Amma know. She hasn’t forgiven me and never will. Just see—not one letter, card or telegram from her—nothing. I’ve written so many times. You’ve written—we’ve sent photographs; we’ve tried everything. She does not want to have any contact with me. I know that. So let her be. I don’t care either. All my life she has exploited me. I’ve known only harshness and punishment from her. Nothing else. Today, she has no further need for me. Why should she bother whether I’m alive or dead? Please, Jay, let me do this my way, please.”