by Shobhaa De
Aasha Rani had dialed her number a couple of times and then rung off. And now, here she was with a gorgeous stranger having tea at Churchill’s just off Oxford Street. Shonali waved to a couple of Arabs who came over and said a few soft words in Arabic. Shonali introduced Aasha Rani to them. Later she casually told her that they were her “clients.”
Aasha Rani took some time to pluck up the nerve to ask her newly acquired friend what exactly it was that she did. Shonali lit a cigarette with a fancy gold lighter before she replied. “I run a PR agency. A worldwide affair. We represent a lot of VIPs, you know—socialites, princesses, sheikhs, movie stars, showbiz personalities, television tycoons, that kind of thing. It’s very exciting. In fact, the moment I saw you, I said to myself, ‘Wouldn’t it be spiffy if I could get her in?’ That is, if you are at all interested in looking around for something different to do? Why don’t you give it a bash? I could introduce you around, no strings attached. And then you decide if it’s for you. I know just about everybody there is to know in London—journalists, editors, politicians, royalty. We party together all the time. The job involves a lot of traveling, and frankly, darling, I’m exhausted. Too, too, but too tired. I’d love to pass on some of my special assignments to someone like you. I mean, look at you—you are like an orchid. Exotic, passionate, sensuous. You’d be sensational! I’m already jealous. I can see all my admirers deserting me once they see you. Plus, you have a name! You were a siren, a screen queen. You are famous. And young. And sexy. I mean, how lucky can a woman get? I take it you are here alone. You look alone.”
Aasha Rani nodded.
“Splendid! It’s settled then,” Shonali said, and put a gloved hand over Aasha Rani’s bare and cold one. She brought out an expensively embossed business card and a tiny notebook encased in gold. “Tell me, darling, where can I reach you? When can you and I get together, you know, to firm things up?”
Aasha Rani was too nonplussed by the speed at which Shonali was going to say a thing. “But I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t really have any experience. What exactly does the job involve?”
“Details. Details. Don’t be a bloody bore, darling. Those can always be worked out later. Just say yes and let’s meet for a drink at the club tonight. I’ll introduce you to a couple of my good friends. We can make a party of it. What fun. Come on, smile; let’s see those gorgeous teeth of yours. Remember, in the PR business there is no room for women whose mouths droop at the corners! Why don’t I drop you off so you can get some beauty sleep before putting on your glad rags for tonight? Hey, listen, we are here to have a good time. Trust me. I have great instincts. You and I are going to get along just fine. I feel it in my bones. We were destined to meet. And, by the way, wear a sari tonight. You look awful in those pants. Where on earth did you pick them up, anyway? A jumble sale?”
Aasha Rani didn’t quite know what to make of the encounter. The whole thing had happened far too rapidly. There was nobody she knew in London with whom she could’ve exchanged notes. Who was Shonali? And what exactly was her game? Aasha Rani was intrigued and attracted. She decided to meet her that night—and find out.
Aasha Rani wore a peacock blue sari with a backless choli. The blue did great things for her, especially when it was teamed with the right accessories and a golden bindi. She stuck on lots of gold jewelry and decided to wear golden stilettos. Surveying herself in the mirror, she was more than pleased. She looked like her old self—sultry, sexy and desirable. Very much the “Sweetheart of Millions.”
Shonali gasped when she came around to collect her, “Ravishing! You horrible woman. How dare you do this to me? I look like a blooming maid in comparison! Or was that the whole idea?”
Aasha Rani smiled a mysterious smile. “Maybe,” she said.
Shonali, too, was dressed to kill—or perhaps slaughter—in a black miniskirt topped by a sequined jacket. Her hair was slicked back into a tiny swirl secured with a black velvet bow. Aasha Rani looked admiringly at her long legs encased in sheer black silk stockings. The shoes and bag were fuchsia pink to match her lipstick.
“So, where are we going?” Aasha Rani asked her as they walked down to the car. “You’ll soon find out, darling, that with me there’s never a dull moment. By the way, the man in the Bentley is Lord Ashley. He’s sweet, just a touch kinky, like most Englishmen, but great fun. We’re seeing a couple of his friends for drinks and then on to the theater, with a late supper. And after that, well, who knows.”
The man in the car was buried in the leather upholstery but perked up at the sight of the two women. He was around fiftyish and very distinguished-looking, Aasha Rani noticed. His voice was slightly high-pitched and his hands like velvet—with long, manicured nails. The rings on his slim fingers glinted in the dark. Shonali introduced Aasha Rani as a “tribal princess from one of the remote villages of India.” Before Aasha Rani could react to that, Shonali nudged her and whispered, “Chhup raho.” On the way to the party, she made up an incredible story about her which sounded more improbable than all the films Aasha Rani had ever acted in.
“What if someone finds out you’re fibbing?” she asked Shonali casually in Hindi.
“Don’t worry, darling, we’ll think of something as we go along. We can say your father remarried a wicked woman after your mother died giving birth to you at age fifteen. And that your father and your witchlike stepmother threw you out of the house, since you weren’t the son they wanted. You were forced to come to Bombay, where an eagle-eyed talent scout spotted you, and that’s how you became a famous movie star. We can also add that your horrible stepmother died an unnatural death—ritualistic murder or something—and that her only son killed himself by ODing on coke while studying in Paris. That left just you. And now you are the rightful claimant to the throne and an heiress in your own right.”
“Then what would I be doing hanging around in London?”
“Oh, India bores you. You like action; you do the scene—the Riviera and all that. And you have your tribesmen to look after your affairs back home. Your kingdom will pass on to your son, when he’s born. The Brits love these Far Pavilions type of stories. They fall for yarns about the Raj, lap them up; we could sell your story for thousands of pounds. Maybe get a television series out of it. Now, it’s up to you; just play the part. And don’t talk too much. Men don’t like women who yak-yak. Listen a lot. Look interested and keep telling even the toads how handsome and wonderful they are. The worse they look, the more they’ll want to believe your lies. Flattery, darling, is the key. It gets you anywhere and everywhere. Watch me in action tonight and you’ll learn fast enough.” Lord Ashley appeared to have gone to sleep. Shonali pressed Aasha Rani’s hand, then his lordship’s, and began flirting with him in English.
For the rest of the evening Aasha Rani observed Shonali closely. She was quite something. Her modus operandi could teach a few of the film women a trick or two. Aasha Rani deliberately played herself down. She didn’t want to reveal to Shonali that she too had a few tricks up her sleeve.
The people they met that night couldn’t keep their eyes off Aasha Rani. Shonali took her aside and whispered, “Darling, you’re a hit. A smashing hit. I can see it, sense it. Everybody wants to know more about you. I’ve changed the story here and there, but basically it remains the same. If someone asks you which royal state you belong to, think of some tongue twister that they’ll never be able to catch or pronounce. That way you’ll be safe. There are quite a few ‘highnesses’ floating around London society, and they seem to know just about every royal family in India. We don’t want you caught out. I mean, we are dealing with real snobs here; the last thing we want is a fraud on our hands. And tonight you go home like a good girl—alone in a cab. Refuse all offers to bed you. Tell them you don’t go for that sort of thing. That will arouse their interest still more. I’ll call you tomorrow. We can plan things.”
SOON AASHA RANI FELL headlong into an endless whirl of parties, country weekends and small jaunts across the Channel
. This was the high life in London (or the low), and Shonali, without doubt, was the reigning empress on the social circuit. Aasha Rani was more impressed than she cared to admit. Shonali had sass, style, spunk and sex appeal. Plus, she was intelligent. With her coaching Aasha Rani learned rapidly and well. Her accent changed along with her thinking. This was certainly better than slaving at some seedy hairdresser’s.
If Aasha Rani found the Brits more than a little strange, it seemed inconsequential when weighed against the compensations. Within six months she’d moved out of Jay’s apartment and into her own smart Knightsbridge flat. Shonali lived in a sprawling apartment in Carlos Place, where, she insisted, all the real action was. Aasha Rani partied there often and longed to acquire something similar for herself. Her daily routine revolved around shopping and beauty care by day and wild parties by night. She reveled in the attention she received as someone mysterious, unusual and immensely sexy. She’d even received a couple of mentions in trendy magazines which referred to her as the latest “heat and lust” import from India. Shonali was very proud of her discovery and enjoyed flashing Aasha Rani around, describing her as “the Jewel in the Crown” princess who’d abandoned a hundred richly caparisoned elephants back home to enjoy the good life in England. “It’s so boring, darling,” Shonali usually added. “I mean, there’s just so much one can do with elephants!” This got the usual laughs, and the people turned to Aasha Rani with additional interest in their eyes.
Shonali preferred to handle all the “transactions,” saying, “Leave it all to me, darling. I have the setup for it. You know, secretaries, tax men and things. You concentrate on being beautiful. I’ll make sure you get rich in the meanwhile.”
Aasha Rani didn’t object to the arrangement. Besides, she trusted Shonali. These days Shonali let her go solo on dates, saying, “I have a couple of things that need looking at. Why don’t you carry on, have a good time, tell me all about it tomorrow. Don’t leave a single dirty detail out…” Sometimes Aasha Rani felt guilty about the people she’d abandoned, to all intents and purposes—Amma, Appa, Sasha—but she would quickly remind herself that the only way she could help them was by helping herself. Also, as the months went by she had less and less time to herself as the engagements piled up.
Shonali was a remorseless critic and guide as Aasha Rani plunged into her new life.
“Darling, you are wasting your time. You must educate yourself. Keep up with the news. Read the papers. Catch up on books, current affairs. Improve yourself. These people we meet are very sophisticated. They want good company, intelligent conversation, humor, amusing little stories. After all, we aren’t in the Lady Di league as yet, and even her admirers complain how dumb she is after a point. If you want to keep your new friends, you’ll have to stop seeing all this junk.”
Sometimes Aasha Rani resented Shonali’s pep talks. But she dared not rebel. It was true that the men they met were not all that easy to please. There were evenings Aasha Rani felt hopelessly inadequate. Particularly when the topic turned to politics. Shonali seemed clued-in and more than merely well-up. She often threw in a nugget or two of information that was considered classified. Aasha Rani noticed how shrewdly she timed her little bombs. And the way she assessed the impact. Once Aasha Rani even asked her about it. Shonali replied casually, “Oh, I have friends in high places, you know, editors and people. And that minister you’ve met a few times at my place? A real sweetie, but gay as a coot. I listen to every word. Sometimes these men let on more than they should. Especially after a couple of cognacs. After they leave, I jot down some of the information—you never know when it might be of use. But I am the soul of discretion, darling; I keep my lips sealed. It’s strictly ‘no names.’ Even my diary doesn’t have any. But I’ve got my secret codes. I can decipher it all. One day my jottings are going to fetch me a fortune—just you watch!”
Aasha Rani didn’t want to know more. She respected Shonali’s privacy and expected her to respect hers. She knew Shonali kept secrets well, since she’d never caught her compromising anybody. Men relaxed in Shonali’s company. She had a knack for making them talk and reveal more than was good for them. And she did it all without coming on too strong, without being aggressive. She encouraged Aasha Rani to imitate her, saying, “You disarm people far better than I can. These men who seek out our company are powerful, rich and influential. They control the world. They find us relaxing, charming and desirable. We are doing them a favor—they spend their days under stress and tension. Their lives are complicated, their wives are bitches, their children hate them and their English girlfriends use them. We are safe. We give them what they want. That’s why we are successful. Do you think others don’t try? They’d love to be in our position. People come to me offering vast sums for information. They want me to tap all my conversations, record everything. I refuse to do it. Who needs complications? The reason I’m telling you all this is simple. Why don’t you get into the act? You’ll soon be on your own. Frankly, darling, you don’t need me anymore. You have your besotted admirers—hordes of them. I only made the introductions. You could capitalize on the idea if you want to. I have friends who can wire your place up. It’s easy. Nothing to it. You’re good at making men talk. Use your talent. There’s a lot of big money involved. You know how these Arabs are with cash. They’re willing to pay the earth. Do it for a year, and then, when you’ve made your pile, you can opt out. Retire to the country. There are some wonderful seventeenth-century estates going. I could put in a word. Or you could go back to India and start something there.
“For me the situation is slightly more difficult, darling. I live here. I don’t have any other place to go. I hate the United States. I detest the French; by the way, always remember to carry a disposable razor in your handbag when you are out with a Frenchie. They all love to sixty-nine. It’s almost obligatory. And it isn’t much fun if you have a mouthful of hair! In any case, I hope you do use hair conditioner down there with every shampoo. An absolute must, darling. Men prefer it nice and silky…so, as I was saying, all my friends are here. We could work out something; think about it.”
Aasha Rani did. But she was scared. She didn’t want to mess with shady characters on her own, especially after her encounter with the goondas dispatched by Jojo’s wife. They all seemed so far away. But the image of the goondas still kept recurring in her dreams. Till now, she’d managed to keep the more suspect “clients” in London at bay, and she wanted to keep it that way.
Shonali never discussed their “profession” explicitly. They had a tacit understanding about that. Not even oblique references were allowed. Their nights out were called “entertaining.” Shonali would call and say, “I’m entertaining tonight. Feel like a foursome?” Aasha Rani too kept up the charade. Not even to herself did she acknowledge that she was nothing more than a high-priced whore. London was full of them. Aristocratic call girls who settled in kind if not in cash, though most preferred the liquidity provided by the latter. There was no shame in it, Aasha Rani reasoned. No real shame. She was providing a service; that was all. Occasionally she even enjoyed herself. Besides, it was difficult to sniff at the perks of the job. She’d managed to stash quite a chunk away. Plus, she’d gratefully accepted jewelry from some of the men. Jewelry she never intended to wear but had gotten evaluated nevertheless.
Over the days Shonali kept at her with the suggestion that she go solo. And with the real big fish—the shadier the better, for that was where she said the real money lay. Gradually she wore Aasha Rani’s resistance down. And, in a way, the idea excited her the same way her first few years with the Shethji used to turn her on. But now she was alone—without a godfather, without a protector, without a cover. No. She felt far too exposed and vulnerable. She told herself she was not smart enough for these sorts of high stakes. She also felt Shonali was keeping things from her. For instance, their “chance” meeting at Harrods seemed suspicious in retrospect. Had someone set it up? But who knew about Aasha Rani’s whereabouts? And how
would she ever know if that was how it really happened?
She decided to ask Shonali directly. She knew her well enough by now. If Shonali tried to feed her a line, she’d know that too. All she needed was the right opportunity. Aasha Rani didn’t have to wait long. And what was even better, she didn’t have to ask. The answer was provided automatically the minute Aasha Rani’s eyes fell on Gopalakrishnan.
GOPALAKRISHNAN WAS TALKING to a group of English bankers in a quiet corner of Shonali’s living room on one of their party evenings. She saw his profile, lit up by the glow of burning logs in the fireplace, the minute she entered Shonali’s apartment. Initially, she got a start. What was he doing here? Then the whole thing fell into place. Of course. It was he who’d orchestrated the whole thing. Aasha Rani walked up purposefully and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Remember me?” she asked huskily. He raised his glass and smiled broadly. “How could I ever forget? It was the best glass of champagne I’ve ever had.” The bankers looked at Aasha Rani and then back at him. He introduced her easily as “a friend of our hostess, Shonali.”
Excusing himself as fast as he could, he took her away from the group, saying, “How wonderful to see you again like this. You look even better than I remember you. Irresistible too.” Aasha Rani looked steadily at him. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one who got Shonali to track me down? Bump into me ‘accidentally’ at Harrods? Go on, admit it.”