Spice and Smoke

by Suleikha Snyder

  Alarm flashed across his face. “Why? Is it Avinash? I know he is out at all hours. Is he troubling you? Is he hurting you?”

  No. Not in the way Harsh thought. Never in the way Harsh thought. It was enough to make her chest ache, but she didn’t dare press a palm to her heart and try to breathe through it. “Leave me alone, Harsh. Main shaadi-shudha hoon. I am married, and these things are between my husband and I.”

  It was one of her most convincing line deliveries, and yet Harsh’s curled lip—curled, sensual, kissable—told her that he did not believe it. “You are married to an idea, an illusion, but not to a man. Avinash doesn’t belong to you. He can’t.”

  “But you can? Bullshit,” she enunciated icily. English was such a delightfully precise, profane language. “Ten years is too late. What’s done is done. I am not crawling to you just because you finally joined the race of man and got a damn erection.”

  It was as good an exit line as any. Trishna gathered the hampering folds of her sari and swept inside the tent.

  It felt like they’d been filming for centuries, not just hours. An early morning call was the worst, especially with his increased daru and cigarette intake, but somehow Avi had managed to make it through without missing a single mark or blowing a single line.

  He felt, rather than saw, Michael approach. It was like his every nerve ending was immediately set on fire. The claustrophobic, traditional drawing room, which would look gargantuan onscreen, suddenly felt tighter. As though all the air had been sucked away, leaving only the heat of Michael…looking like a model from a classic Vanity Fair photo spread, suited and booted from head to toe in pale brown linen.

  Only his hands fisted in his pockets ruined the clean lines and betrayed that he wasn’t at ease. “Your Hindi’s sounding a bit too Amrikan today,” he said, abruptly. “Joshi’s just afraid to tell you, because that last take was near perfect.”

  Michael knew just as well as Avi did that it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed in the dubbing booth. But, for some reason, he’d opened the channel of communication. Avi wasn’t about to close it.

  “Really, Mr. Punjabi Brit?” He chuckled, glancing down at his dialogue notes. “What am I doing wrong?”

  Michael moved just close enough to crane his neck and peer over his shoulder at the pages. “Addressing Mr. Austin as if he’s a girl, for one. It’s ‘tera’, not ‘teri’, remember?”

  Fair point. Remembering the nuances of Hindi had never been his strong suit; not after all his years in the States and his parents constantly speaking English at home. Was it his fault that even the verbs had gender? “Well, if we’re picking at it, it’s ‘aapka’, but Varun thinks Mr. Austin is a bastard firang and wouldn’t use the formal address on principle.”

  “What about you, Avi? Do you think I’m a bastard foreigner like Mr. Austin?” It was a question that could go one of two ways: entirely too serious, or completely ridiculous. He chose the latter path.

  “Nahin, yaar,” he scoffed. “I’ve known too many Punjabis.”

  Michael’s eyebrows rose as if in shock, but he was already shaking with mirth. “In the Biblical sense? Why am I not surprised?”

  “No, in the Vedic sense. Much more spiritual. Much more acrobatic.”

  They went on in this fashion for at least ten minutes, until Michael was nearly crying from laughter, bent double in a narrow wing chair. So, Avi should’ve curbed his next impulse, reined in the urge to shatter the easy camaraderie. But Avi Kumar’s lack of impulse control was legendary, na? He barreled on ahead, murmuring, “God, you’re even more beautiful when you laugh,” and meaning every word.

  Michael stiffened. All traces of amusement vanished, and he rose from his seat like The Wizard of Oz’s Tin Man, creaking and in need of oil. “Thanks.” Even before the next sentence, Avi knew he wasn’t being thanked for the compliment. “I almost thought we could be friends, that you’d given up the nonsense from the muhurat. I won’t make that error again.”

  His temper flared. “Oh, get off your high horse. Like your heroines never say how handsome you are?”

  Michael looked every inch the English Company man then. So superior. “My heroines aren’t bent on seduction.”

  Two could play at that game. Avi knew his arch glare was just as dangerous. “I don’t have to seduce you, Michael. You’ll come to me all on your own.”

  “Like Hell.”

  “No, Hell is what you’re putting us both through by denying the inevitable.” Avi’s knack for that, too, was legendary. One only had to ask his wife.

  But Michael didn’t go and ask his wife. No, his questions were in the here and now, for Avinash’s ears only. “Why are you even interested?” he demanded. “Surely there has to be easier prey, even in the wilds of Bihar. Or is it because I’m providing you with a challenge?”

  “No.” Avi, by all rights, should’ve just told the pompous, principled, Michael Gill to fuck off. But, instead, he found himself being more articulate than that. Too articulate. Too honest. “It’s because every time I’ve seen you, whether in a club or at a party or across the room at a muhurat, you look totally at ease. It’s because you know the names of everybody in the cast and crew and never shout at a single one of them. It’s because you make wearing clothing look like a crime against the human body. And it’s because you’re a challenge.”

  Michael turned so pale it was as though Mr. Austin had once again come to life in the old haveli. “I only need one reason to dismiss all of those things, Avinash. Her name is Trishna…and she should be your reason, too.”

  It wasn’t his habit to end up in the bar after a day’s shooting, but since deep tissue massages and a trip to the juice bar were in short supply in this corner of Bihar, Michael found himself sipping at a nimbu-paani while Harsh brooded over beer. Quite a lot of beer.

  “Yaar, you know they yelled ‘Cut’, yeah? No need to stay in Alok’s shoes and sigh and moan over Nishta.”

  This only served to elicit a sigh. Also a moan. “Haven’t you ever loved anyone?” Harsh asked mournfully.

  “Besides my mum?” Michael’s lips twitched as he struggled not to smile. Harsh’s newfound talent for melodrama was better than anything on Zee TV. But he understood where it was coming from. More than he wanted to. “Of course. When I was shooting my first campaign in Milan. I was barely nineteen and mad for this photographer. We shagged for months, and I was nearly convinced I’d be a June bride.” No joke, he’d been looking at rings for a commitment ceremony…until he caught Claude in bed with some Spanish boy—emphasis on boy, barely legal. So ended Michael Gill’s brief foray into risking his heart. He’d sworn off entanglements, he’d washed his hands of bad boys. It was why his sudden weakness for a confessed bastard like Avi Kumar didn’t make sense.

  He frowned even as Harsh grinned, as though they were on an emotional seesaw. “I was near nineteen when Trishna and I met up at Handful of Stars,” he sighed. “Kitni ziddi thi. Nothing stood in her way. God, she had such fire, such tej.”

  The lovesick dreaminess on his face was uncomfortable to behold. It was so naked Michael felt a bit like he was intruding. “She still does,” he reminded, lightly punching Harsh’s arm to snap him out of the moment. “Don’t get burned, yaar.”

  “But I want to burn.” Harsh wore frustration as well as he did everything else. No wonder every film of his was shot primarily in close-up. “I am tired of being made of ice. I’m just a man, na? Trish saw that. Bachpan se. From the start. She simply saw a boy from the village and claimed him as hers.”

  “And that’s what you call love? Her stamping ‘property of Trish’ on your arse? Shit, man, then Avinash Kumar must be the goddamn love of my life.” Michael shoved back from the bar, shaking his head…even as his tongue went thick from the words he’d just spouted. Avinash Kumar must be the love of my life. No. Not ever. His first and last charismatic jackass had been Claude. “He’s not. A man like that isn’t my match.”

  “But what if he is?” Harsh stoppe
d Michael’s flight from the lounge with a hand on his shoulder, a veritable gentle giant. “What if it is your lot to heal him? To find what’s good in him? He can’t be all bad, na?”

  “He’s not.” Michael surprised himself with the instant acknowledgement. Avi wasn’t a monster. Like Harsh, he was just a man. “He’s a selfish egotist, but he’s brilliant at his craft. I’ve never worked with anyone as focused when the cameras are rolling. And when he’s not being a total prick he’s quite fun. Filthy, but fun.”

  “So, what if Avinash Kumar is who Ishwar has written in the stars for you?” First love-struck and then stressed, now Mathur the Monk was painfully insightful. “Then what will you do, Michael Gill? You’ll be crying into your Kingfisher like I am.”

  “Shove off, Harsh.” Michael pulled a face, shrugging off his grip. “If I ever cry, it’ll be into a Heineken.”

  Chapter Seven

  Avi stood in the doorway of the washroom, broad shoulders nearly spanning its width, staring at her as she rubbed Ponds cream into her freshly scrubbed cheeks. For a moment, Trish could imagine that they were back in their flat in Pali Hill, and he was watching her take apart her carefully constructed façade after some party or another. But then she inhaled the scent of expensive liquor and cheap Bihari cigarettes: two clear reminders that he was obsessed by another. Far more obsessed than she’d ever been with Harsh…for she’d never dared pursue that foolish fantasy, had she? Nahin. She’d waited until now…when, suddenly, she was the one pursued.

  The smile faded from her face, and she turned away from the mirror. That was when her husband joined her, taking her hands in his and rubbing the excess cream into his own roughened skin. “I’m sorry,” he said, the syllables clinking together like ice in a cocktail. “I’m so sorry, Trishna. For everything.”

  God, when he spoke to her like this, touched her with such domestic intimacy, she remembered she was just a girl still, not yet thirty and full of romantic ideals. “Kis kiliye? What for? I came to this marriage with my eyes open, Avinash. You can’t apologize for being who you are.”

  “I can say sorry for hurting you in the process, na?” He massaged her hands, her wrists, worked his way up her bare arms. Foreplay for sex he didn’t intend to have. Not with her, at least. Slowly, he turned her back towards the mirror. What a picture they made, her in her nightgown and him in his clothes from the night before…Beauty and her Beast. “You know, I still remember the day we met? Some soundtrack launch thing in Bandra.”

  She did, too. Clear as daylight. She’d been wearing some white, frothy lehenga, edged in silver…and he’d told her she looked like an Amrikan wedding cake.

  “And you said to me, ‘But I’m desi beneath, Avinash Kumar. I’m not wearing any panties.’” He laughed; the sound warm and familiar against her throat, her jaw, the shell of her ear. “An auspicious beginning to a beautiful relationship, na?”

  A lewd beginning to a disaster was what it had been. But, oh, for a time it had been glorious. The diva-in-training and her bad boy…somehow they had taken Mumbai by storm, breaking hearts while it appeared they, themselves, had none.

  Trishna let herself lean into him for a minute. Perhaps two. Then five. Then she closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at the illusion in the looking glass…the love story they’d never been meant to be.

  “Don’t be kind, Avi. Go back to being a drunk kaminey,” she pleaded quietly. “Make eyes at Michael. Hurl insults at me and stay out all night. Pretend you don’t give a damn about anything but what you need.”

  “Why?” His voice was bewildered. As young and naïve as hers. “Why would you ask that of me instead of asking for more?”

  This misty reminiscence couldn’t last. It wouldn’t last. She knew better.

  “Because that man is the husband I know how to let go of.”

  His breath left his lungs in a harsh gasp, and he seemed to grow hard as marble. Her only answer was the swift absence of his body, and the bitter remnants of smoke.

  The fight master had worked with them on the hit. A simple back fist. They’d blocked it so it would just glance Michael’s cheek. Shot from the correct angle, it would seem that impulsive Varun had thrown down the gauntlet, igniting the film’s central conflict as he dared strike an Englishman. But what should have been an easy stunt sent Michael staggering backwards. The sound was like a shot, echoing far louder than the clapboard signaling an automatic “Cut!”

  His jaw stung. His pride, too. Avinash was already stalking from the set when the cacophony began. Michael shook away the makeup girl who was instantly ready to powder away the emerging knuckle marks.

  “Nahin, Mili. Stop.” He caught Joshi’s eye. “I’ve got this,” he assured, pitching his voice low enough to carry in a way that meant business, while trying to ignore how his head was still rattling.

  He found Avi on the small side veranda. The veranda. A return to the setting of the original indecent proposal. Somehow, Avi had already found and uncorked a bottle of liquor.

  “What the Hell was that about?” Michael demanded.

  All he received in response was a noisy swallow and a tight shrug. “I warned you, na? I need just one take to get things done.”

  He shook his head, rueful despite the urge to give Avinash a punch. “I’m fairly sure that’s not what they meant by ‘getting the shot’.”

  Avi slouched against a column, scowling like an ill-tempered tomcat. “Did a committee elect you to look after me? No thank you, sir. I am fine.”

  “Obviously.” Michael rubbed at his jaw, wincing at the tenderness, and ran his tongue across his teeth—relieved to find nothing had been knocked loose. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long in the industry being so ‘fine’. D’you knock about every guy who refuses to shag you, or am I just special?”

  “You didn’t have to refuse.”

  “Trishna was at the same bloody party. You shouldn’t have asked.”

  “You think this is so easy? That I can just leave my wife? Do you think this is Amrika? What do you want from me?” He shook his head, as if laughing along to a joke only he knew. “Even there…even there it wasn’t simple. It wasn’t allowed.”

  “By who, Avi? You? When are you going to let yourself live your own life?” Michael had worked with some of the most beautiful men in the world. Hell, he was one of the most beautiful men in the world. Yet, there was something about Avinash ugly with rage and booze that was abso-bloody-lutely stunning.

  “You think you know me? Tum kuch nahin jaantha. You know nothing.”

  “Then enlighten me, Avinash. Tell me who you are.”

  Avi’s eyes were red-rimmed…from drink, from smoke, probably from lack of sleep. Another few weeks of this, and no amount of makeup was going to make him look like a film star. “I know who I am. I’m not enough for you.”

  Michael’s heart lurched. He was a grounded man, a proud man, but not one made of stone. “You’re wrong, yaar. You set the rules long before I came into this pornographic little picture. It’s me who isn’t enough for you. You need to suss that out without involving the entire bloody crew.”

  “What about you, Michael? Don’t you have something to ‘suss out’?” Avinash practically snarled. “Or are you just so perfect that nothing runs through your veins except milk and honey?”

  “Better milk and honey than piss and whiskey.” He wasn’t perfect. Not by a long shot. But he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bitter. “Who hurt you so badly, Avinash, that you’re resigned to a half-life?”

  Avi came away from the column, crowding into his space. Big and masculine and such a mardh. Such a man. “I don’t have a half-life. I have a full life. Everything I have is what I want. Except you…you are standing just out of my reach, na?”

  It was just enough truth to make Michael’s nerves dance. To send his blood south and stirring. He inhaled, but the breath wasn’t cleansing or calming. It was full of heavy, humid air and the taste of Avinash’s mouth. It would be so easy to fuck him. T
o say “yes” and end this bullshit dance of tension and violence and lies. He wanted to. He wanted Avi to cover him, hold him, wring every last drop of come from his body and render him insensate. But he wanted more than that, too.

  Michael wanted honesty. He wanted integrity. He wanted commitment. Passionate confessions and stupid musical numbers in a field of yellow flowers. Everything that they sold to eager young men and women crowding the cinema halls. He didn’t want to believe that was completely an illusion…that they were marketing something that couldn’t be attained.

  God, he was beginning to sound like Harsh.

  “Don’t you believe in love, Avinash? Sachai pyar? Real love?”

  The bottle in Avi’s hand nearly slipped. But his fingers caught hold of the neck before it could fall. Michael was drawn to the way his thumb and index finger hugged the lip…knowing they would cradle his cock the same way. Fuck. Goddammit. This time, when he breathed in, he counted to ten, and the air felt pure.

  The same could not be said for Avi’s gaze. It was as black as a crow’s wing. “I stopped believing in poetic nonsense when I was twenty, Michael. When I learned that love can be bought and sold, the price haggled over like fish at market. There’s no such thing as ‘sachai pyar’. There’s just deep trust. Trishna and I have that. You and I could have it also.”

  No. No, they couldn’t. Michael wanted to take his face between his palms, to kiss him until there was nothing left but heat and sweetness. He wanted to bathe the redness from his eyes and slowly, softly, scrape the beard from his cheeks. He wanted to tell him, “Rest with me” and “Be with me” and “Fight with me” and “Fuck me”. But he couldn’t promise to trust a man who didn’t trust himself.

  So he did what he’d done just weeks ago on this very veranda.