Bollywood Nights

by Shobhaa De

  Aasha Rani’s fate wouldn’t have been all that different. First she would have had to give up her career “for the sake of the marriage.” And then, the hero in her life would have rapidly changed into a villain. She’d seen enough of that. Men heady with power and success, treating their wives like dispensable commodities. Why did these men ever marry? she wondered. Why did Akshay? “For status, prestige and acceptability,” Kishenbhai had once told her. “A successful man in any field needs a grand home. A wife to look after it. Two good-looking children—a boy and a girl—and all the other domestic trappings.”

  The bigger the hero, the more miserable his wife, mused Aasha Rani. In fact, she hardly ever saw him. Some visited their husbands on weekends, on outdoor locations. But it inhibited the heroine and made the hero tense. So the wives were pulled out of obscurity only on “important” functions such as premieres, festivals and other VIP affairs which called for social conformity. Then she was expected to reflect her husband’s position in the industry and behave in accordance with his status—small, tight smiles for lesser beings, floor-sweeping namaskars for the biggies, blank looks for the small fry.

  Aasha Rani shuddered at the memories of all the stages, recalling in particular her experiences when she was a nobody, not even a glorified extra in the industry. How different the very same people had been when she became a star. Fawning and fussing all over her. Including those slimy photographers. Two-paisa chaps who didn’t bother to look in her direction when she’d hang around the studios. Suddenly they were there with flashbulbs popping, pleading, “Aasha Raniji, bas iss taraf. Thank you, ji.”

  It was Akshay who had taught her to tackle them all. “Fix the bastards who treated you badly,” he had said. “Teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.” He’d been through it all himself. And Akshay was one person who rarely forgot. Or forgave. What would her life have been like if she’d married him? At one point that thought used to obsess her. She’d made such a fool of herself. Journalists had noticed and commented on her mangalsutra, sindhoor and bangles. Akshay had admonished her, embarrassed by all the show: Are you crazy? Why are you doing all this? For heaven’s sake, stop it. What is all this rubbish? You want people to jump to the wrong conclusion or what?” Aasha Rani had smiled a secret smile and answered mysteriously, irritatingly, “Have I told anyone that you gave these to me? Think of me as a madwoman. If someone asks, I say I bought the mangalsutra for myself, and I wear sindhoor in my hair because I want to start a new fashion. Why should it embarrass you?”

  “Do what you want then. Suit yourself. If Malini asks me anything, I’ll deny even knowing you. Or I’ll tell her you have gone mad. Crazy. See a psychiatrist in any case—you need help,” Akshay had snapped. Now, looking back on that phase, she realized how impulsive and immature she’d been. How foolish and naive. Even her “second marriage” plan. Sure, other women in the industry had done it. Successfully, too, people said. But to the world they remained single women and unmarried mothers leading bleak lives without legal sanction. And what did the farce add up to publicly? Did their men acknowledge them? No. What about the children of these unusual arrangements? They were all still too young. They’d know how it felt to be illegitimate later. As she had.

  Sometimes she felt like asking Appa why he’d treated her mother that way. Once she’d tried. Appa had shaken his head sadly and replied, “Men are cruel. Very cruel. There is no justice in this world. And no equality between men and women. Don’t believe that a marriage alters that balance. Sometimes it only makes it worse. Power lies with the purse—remember that. Whoever controls that controls the relationship. When you review your own marriage, you will realize the truth of what I’m saying. The only difference is that some men can control their true feelings of superiority. These men are called ‘cultured.’ Other men display them openly. They make their wives feel under constant obligation. That is the best way to keep them suppressed. Your husband falls in the first category. But wait, maybe a day will come when you will have more money. And then you will see him change. Take my advice; start something to call your own. Do not remain dependent on him indefinitely. It’s been all right so far. Now your child is older. You have more time. You are intelligent. And still young. Come back to live in your own country amidst your own people. Come back to Madras. Revive the studio. You will make a success of it. I’m sure.”

  Aasha Rani had hung on to those words. Maybe Appa was right. But she lacked the will to push herself into anything. She was afraid of failure and rejection. Jay had taken care of everything for five years, and she’d enjoyed that. It was true that she had no idea about the state of their domestic finances. Jay hadn’t been forthcoming about such things. “Why do you want to bother your pretty little head with all that? Leave it to me. You just relax, enjoy yourself, make me a good wife, be a good mother. That’s what being a woman is all about,” he had said.

  Aasha Rani had been grateful for that. It had felt like an unheard-of luxury to have someone take charge and take over so completely. She was so tired of running at that point.

  But today was different. She lacked confidence. And it was true she was exhausted by all the problems that seemed to have converged on her, but, strangely, she’d never felt better. Perhaps the Jojo thing was what had jolted her out of the rut. Made her come to terms with life as it was. No illusions. No pretense. Her career as a movie star was unambiguously over. That much she accepted. She was even prepared to confront the fact that her marriage was over. At least, the old familiar marriage. If Jay and she were to go on, it would be on a fresh footing. With renegotiated terms. Maybe he’d want to opt out of the new deal. Maybe she would. But at least a few things were clearer. She had to come back to India. And more specifically, to Madras. She belonged there. Not Bombay. And certainly not Wellington. Madras. Madras with its unbearable summer heat, the crowds and chaos. Suddenly Aasha Rani knew she would want to hear temple bells for the rest of her life. Temple bells, fragrant jasmine, upma in the afternoon and crisp dosas at dawn. She wasn’t running anymore. But first, there was unfinished business to attend to.

  Reluctantly, she booked her flight back to New Zealand. Then she called Kishenbhai and asked him to keep an eye on her house while she was away. On an impulse, she bought a silk pavadai for Sasha and some cheap trinkets to go with it. Aasha Rani imagined her daughter in the traditional long skirt little girls all over South India wore with such grace. Sasha would look charming in one. She bought her silver anklets, hair ornaments, bangles, necklaces, sandalwood soaps and a tiny elephant with holes in its back to hold joss sticks. Would Jay find all this strange? Why should he? He was no stranger to India. He claimed he loved it. Wasn’t that why he’d married her in the first place?

  Gopalakrishnan

  AASHA RANI HATED FLYING ALONE. AND THIS TIME SHE WAS even more resentful than usual. Her homecoming was making her jittery. And she was feeling wretched about what she’d left behind. The stewardess came up solicitously once or twice to offer her the usual pampering first-class passengers took so much for granted. “Champagne? Orange juice? Caviar? Extra pillow? Blanket?” Aasha Rani waved her off wearily. Her mind was on Sasha, the little girl she no longer seemed to know. Just then Aasha Rani heard a voice at her elbow. It was the stewardess again, carrying a glass of chilled wine. “I’m sorry to disturb you, madam, but the gentleman in row four asked me to send you this glass of wine with his compliments.” Aasha Rani turned around to look.

  Oh God! Aasha Rani groaned. Not another letch who has recognized me and wants company on the flight. She smiled politely at the stewardess and declined the drink. “No, thank you, I don’t drink. And I am awfully tired.” The stewardess shrugged and took the glass back. The big, burly man—a swarthy, bearded Indian—looked disappointed. But undeterred. He unbuckled his seat belt and ambled over with a big friendly grin on his face, his hands raised in mock defense. “Look,” he said in Tamil, “before you say anything or ask me to get out…I’m an old friend of your father’s. Go
palakrishnan. No, that’s not correct. Not a friend. I used to work for him as a production assistant. I left him just before the tragedy, the accident, his stroke. I decided to go west and start my own production company to make documentaries and other programs for cable TV. I also have a side business in garments. I live in New Jersey with my family. My wife is American. She helps me. We have two young children. I’m on my way to Papua New Guinea. New markets, you know. We people can’t stay in one place. I’m on the move all the time. And you?” Aasha Rani wasn’t at all sure she wanted to get into an extended discussion with this stranger. She didn’t even believe his old yarn about knowing Appa and all that. She figured he was a rich, lonely businessman on a lonely trip to some foreign land. Seeing her, he’d decided to invent a small story just to break the ice and get talking. There were a lot of hopeful men out there, as she’d discovered a long while ago. Men who chatted up strange women on the off chance that they could jump into bed later. If not, it was still time better spent than reading Fortune and drinking martinis, with calf muscle cramps and swelling feet.

  Aasha Rani wiggled her toes encased in the airline tube socks. At least this man spoke Tamil. Of course, there was no rule that a friend of one’s father was necessarily a gentleman with paternal inclinations. On the contrary, she’d experienced distinctly nonpaternal vibes from Appa’s friends ever since she could remember. In those days child abuse was not an issue. In India it still wasn’t. Aasha Rani looked again at the stranger and noticed his strong white teeth. He reminded her of Appa’s old friends and colleagues. Somewhat like the man who had taken her to the circus when she was no more than seven years old.

  She remembered queuing up outside the enormous tent with this man holding her hand. Soon her hand had been slyly slipped into his mundu. And his hand had been replaced by what felt like a firm, hard stick. Aasha Rani had wanted to scream. But she was terrified. She knew instinctively that there was something wrong with the way this “uncle” was behaving. But what could she do? She was much too terrified to let go in case he hit her. So she had hung on for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he had turned limp and she had felt her small hand go damp with something sticky and smelly. He had nonchalantly wiped her fingers on his mundu and started to chat about the performing elephants and tigers. She had felt sick. Physically sick. Finally, she’d turned to him and said, “Anna, I want to go home. I don’t want to see the circus. I’m not feeling well.” He’d picked her up and asked solicitously, “Not well? What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” she’d answered, scared. “My stomach is paining.” She thought he’d looked very relieved as he’d said, “All right. In that case, let us go home.”

  And now here was this man with his American wife left behind in New Jersey asking her if he could sit in the empty seat beside her. Actually, it was unimportant whether or not he was married. Whether he had a Wendy or a Lindy waiting for him in Upper Montclair with blueberry muffins and Yankee coffee. This was now, and she decided that maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have him keep her company. Get her mind off her problem.

  The stranger did most of the talking, asking her about her life, even though it was obvious he knew quite a lot about it already. The stewardess came back to check whether they needed anything. Gopalakrishnan asked for champagne. There were just four other people in their section. “Cheers,” he said, holding his glass aloft, “to our reunion.” She found that funny and said so: “Why reunion? We haven’t met before.” “OK, cheers to our union then.” Gopalakrishnan laughed as they clinked glasses.

  By her third glass, Aasha Rani was feeling distinctly woozy. As a rule, she rarely accepted a drink on flights, since she knew how dehydrated it made her feel. But tonight was different. She needed something to lift her spirits. To help her forget Bombay. And the fact that Akshay was dead.

  She didn’t know what she was going back to. But it felt safe up here. She wanted to remain like this—forever in limbo—soaring high with an attractive, caring man who flashed his white teeth and tucked a blanket around her knees. “Just relax,” he kept saying. “Here, give me your feet; I give an excellent toe massage.” Obediently she removed the armrest between them and, sliding sideways, swung her legs over. He placed an air pillow under her head. “Close your eyes. Don’t be tense.” He spoke slowly, hypnotically. “Leave yourself in my hands. I have trained with Chinese experts. I know all the pressure spots, especially in a woman’s beautiful body. My wife often tells me that if our business fails, I could always set up a relaxation center and give erotic massages to lonely dowagers.”

  Aasha Rani wasn’t even listening. She had succumbed totally to the tips of his magic fingers. He pressed the balls of her feet, caressing the arches with his strong thumbs. Soon his hands went higher. Up, past the the ankles and on toward her calves. Oh, that felt wonderful. She felt herself relax. Her shot nerves were tranquilized, her aching muscles lulled. His fingers had magical powers. Gently, surely, expertly he rubbed her legs till they felt like jelly, all tingly and soft. Now he was working on her lower thighs. She felt herself drifting off while, below her waist, something incredible was happening. He stayed at that spot for so long that finally she grabbed his hands and placed them between her legs and over her belly. “Do it,” she moaned. “I can’t bear to wait.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “There is more. You aren’t ready yet.”

  “Not ready?” she asked in genuine surprise. “Look at this,” she said, and parted her legs. She took his hand and inserted it into herself.

  “Not yet,” he repeated obstinately, and licked the hand that had entered her so easily. He continued massaging her thighs and belly while she arched her back and demanded his hand once more.

  Aasha Rani had never experienced such hunger, such intensity. She wanted this man. Passionately. She hated the thought that she’d have to restrain herself and not scratch, scream and thrash around with him inside her. “Finish me off quickly,” she pleaded, “or I’ll die.” “No, you won’t,” he said, and his head disappeared under the blanket. Now she could feel his hot tongue on her—probing, searching, stabbing and withdrawing just as she was ready to come.

  “Pass me my glass,” he ordered. He took a sip of champagne and then plunged his cold tongue into her. “Do you like that? Does it burn?” he asked.

  “I prefer your taste. I like your hot breath, the feel of your beard; don’t stop now!” she cried.

  “Go to the loo and wait for me there,” he ordered.

  “I can’t. My legs will collapse,” Aasha Rani groaned.

  “No, they won’t. It will be worth it.”

  She tottered to her feet and just about made it. A minute later he had joined her.

  “Sit there,” he said, and plonked her near the washbasin. “Now open your legs wide.” She obeyed, and with one swift, smooth move he was inside her, thrusting expertly. “Hold my neck. And I’ll hang on to your bottom,” he said, and slid his hands under her, almost lifting her up and carrying her in his arms like one would a child. “Now, let yourself go. I’ll rock you back and forth and you contract in time with me.” They began a swinging motion that was so perfectly coordinated, Aasha Rani felt they’d done away with gravity. They seemed to be afloat in space, flying weightlessly. Both of them came together, with such force that the tiny toilet shuddered noisily with the impact.

  “First time?” Gopalakrishnan asked her with a wicked smile. “No, second,” she lied, then corrected herself. “There are two firsts, actually. One, at thirty thousand feet and two, a Tamilian.”

  “Let’s celebrate then.” He laughed. “No,” said Aasha Rani more soberly. “Let’s not. Let’s just forget it ever happened.” “Why?” he asked, pushing back a strand of hair from her damp brow.

  “Because, oh, I don’t know, what’s the point? Life is complicated enough anyway, and I know I’ll never see you again. Perhaps that’s how it was meant to be.” “I’m not so sure,” Gopalakrishnan said tenderly, and released her.

  THE HOMECOMING W
AS MORE PLEASANT than Aasha Rani had expected. Jay and Sasha both looked delighted to see her. As she hugged and kissed them, Gopalakrishnan stopped his baggage trolley next to Aasha Rani and handed her his business card, saying, “Just in case you ever need to consult a Chinese expert again.” She glared at him and slipped the card into her handbag. “Who is the stud?” Jay asked.