by Diksha Basu
The old lady smiled happily. Seema flashed Jay a secretive, superior smile that made my jealousy surge again. Jay said, ‘One last question. The gentleman at the back in the grey shirt, please.’
A large man with an impressive handlebar moustache and sweaty armpits stood up and aggressively asked Seema, ‘What do you think of Sania Mirza’s marriage?’
Fortunately, finally, the formal part of the launch came to a close. Ritesh got up efficiently and said, ‘Come on, let’s go. I’ll buy you that Old Monk I promised. God knows I need six of them.’
‘Wait, come on. I want to meet Jay. Please.’
‘I’ll wait outside and smoke a cigarette. But I’m waiting for exactly five minutes and then I’m leaving.’
‘Ya, ya, go.’ I didn’t need Ritesh cramping my style anyway.
Jay stepped off the stage only to be immediately grabbed by Rupali who began whispering possessively in his ear. I just continued standing where I was. He was bound to make his way over to me. I knew that he had noticed me. He did make his way over, but with Rupali attached to his side. I felt my palms get sweatier as he got closer, but I held his gaze and smiled at him. He was so close that I could see his individual, long, beautiful eyelashes. He said to me, ‘Was that Ritesh with you? Where did he vanish?’
‘Oh, um, out. He left. He had a date.’ I didn’t want Jay to think I was with Ritesh.
Rupali was standing there, looking grumpy and impatient, but Jay continued, ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Listen, here’s my number. Tell Ritesh to say hi sometime. Or maybe you say hi.’
And he walked off.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Nal!
I met Jay Gupta! He’s such a flirt and so handsome and we’ve exchanged numbers. I’m going to text him over the week and set up a meeting. I Googled him and he’s just acquired the rights for that British-Indian novel, From London to Lucknow, set in Brighton and Tanjore. I haven’t read the book, but the back cover suggests there’s a female character in it that I would be perfect for. It would be an amazing launch in Bollywood. I can’t think of a better debut. He’s exactly the sort of person I want to be affiliated with. He’s even more handsome in real life than on camera. This could finally be the break I was looking for. And, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t exactly kick him out of bed.
Anyway, you tell me what’s on at your end. Is it starting to get cold yet? You know how much I love the fall in New York. I envy you being there. Though I won’t envy you being there when the snow inevitably arrives. It always gets all yellow and muddy and gross after the first day.
Love,
Naiya
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Jay Gupta. I Googled him, and he looks delicious.
I’m good. It’s a bit of a low period right now – there haven’t even been any good auditions lately, but everything else has been going well. I got some good temp work with a law firm in Chelsea so at least I’m making money while waiting for the acting scene to pick up again. It isn’t easy, though. All this waiting. At least things are going well with James. Ever since that weekend with my family, I feel like he’s trying to be more Indian than I am. We went to Curry Hill for Indian food twice last week. And now he’s gone and bought some Indian cookbooks and plans to make biryani. Just what I need – my apartment in Brooklyn smelling like my parents’ house in New Jersey.
Love,
Nal
Naiya Kapur is a German philosophizing queen. on Wednesday x
I didn’t pass Jay’s message on to Ritesh. I wanted him to myself. For what? I don’t know. I wanted to audition for him. That was what I told myself. But, somewhere not that deep down, my Happily Ever After was also flashing at me. I knew I had to see him again. It wasn’t something that I had to think long and hard about. And, truth is, even if I had, I would have reached the same conclusion. When my instincts are strong enough, no amount of thinking can change my mind. I wanted to see him again with an urgency that I hadn’t felt in a while.
However, in Bollywood, as in love, certain rules must be followed. I waited two days before sending Jay a text. When I did finally contact him, I left no room for him to not meet me. I texted:
Hi. Naiya here. Ritesh’s friend. Met you at book launch. Just moved here from NYC and would love to meet you and get some advice. Is Wed morning possible? Thanks.
Hours passed and I didn’t hear back from him. I was disappointed, but hardly surprised. He was obviously a ladies’ man and hadn’t really registered me on Friday night. After texting him, I spent two hours mindlessly looking at pictures of him online and reading endless articles about him. He had quite a reputation. And he had gone through dreadful phases of sporting a thin moustache and a little triangular soul patch. Thank god that was short lived. Aamir Khan in Dil Chahta Hai is possibly the only man alive who could ever pull off the soul patch. I was ready to give up on Jay and pour myself a vodka on the rocks when my phone beeped. My heart nearly leapt out of my mouth as I read:
Nice to hear from you. Come Wed. at 10. Sending address.
Wednesday came sooner than I had expected. I woke up hung-over and miserable and in no shape for my meeting with Jay in Andheri. All I could remember from the previous night was that Ritesh and I had done a passionate dance number to ‘Beedi jalai le’, chest heaves and all. Cursing myself, I sent Jay a text message:
So sorry. Forgot about another meeting. Can we push it to noon?
Scared that a busy man like him would cancel, I lay in bed clutching my phone and pressing my head while the room continued to spin. I was determined, once again, to never drink again. A quarter of an hour later, ‘Yes’ was all I received as a reply. Fortunately, I was feeling far too miserable to pine over the meaning of the monosyllabic answer and took advantage of the two-hour delay to lie in bed and drink copious amounts of water. Two hours later, I showered and dressed in a record-breaking fifteen minutes. I threw on a pair of brown cargo pants from the Gap that made my ass look phenomenal, and a plain white tank top. A quick swoop of mascara, a sprinkling of bronzer, and I was off. Other than the fact that my eyes were the size of golf balls, I was good to go. Thank god I was feeling too miserable to be nervous.
A forty-five-minute rickshaw ride down Linking Road, through Juhu, and finally into Andheri, and I was ready to turn back and go back home to sleep. Or just stop at the Marriott and curl up and nap on the floor. The Marriott had Bollywood stars, air conditioning, big bathrooms and comfortable couches … four things that made it significantly nicer than our flat. And, I don’t know why, but I swear the air smelled like America. Some places have that about them. Mostly swanky department stores and five-star hotels. I love that smell.
As the rickshaw pulled up in front of Jay’s apartment building, I was struck by the averageness of the building and the neighbourhood. Also, the dried fish smell that I had to navigate through to get there definitely did not do my hangover any favours. Jay lived in a concrete jungle that looked and felt distinctly different from the leafy lanes of Bandra. I knew that Andheri/Versova was supposed to be the new hotspot to live, but I just couldn’t see its charm. I had been to a few coffee shops scattered around Yaari Road, but the muscular men with their unbuttoned shirts, sunglasses permanently attached to their heads, always made me go running back to Bandra.
In any case, I prepared myself to meet Jay. Ever since the launch, Ritesh had been a bit evasive about anything that had to do with Jay. ‘He’s just eccentric,’ he had warned. ‘He’ll look but he probably won’t touch. Anyway, you probably want him to touch. His film won’t ever get made, though. I’m warning you.’
‘He is handsome though, isn’t he?’
‘Too much. I have so many stories about him.’
‘Tell.’
‘No, re. I don’t want to influence your meeting. And I haven’t seen him since I stopped using, so maybe he’s changed too
.’
I put my phone on silent and headed up to Jay’s apartment. The hangover had been replaced with all kinds of nervous excitement. I rang the doorbell and posed prettily in front of the eyehole in case he peered through it to check who it was. I even pouted a little. I wanted his first thought to be: ‘Yes, I want to cast her and start shooting the film immediately.’ Instead, there was no answer. I rang again. This time I saw a shadow move over the eyehole before the door opened, and there he was, Jay. All the butterflies in my stomach decided to take flight at that exact moment, and for a terrifying instant I thought I would have to push past him and run straight to the bathroom. He looked dishevelled and sleepy, and stunningly disoriented. I tried to smile perkily, but all I got was a grunt in response as he turned and walked back in. He was barefoot and there was an assortment of shoes in the passage. So I stopped to throw my chappals off before scurrying after him. By the looks of it, he had had a much harder time waking up that morning than I had. I wondered what condition he would have been in if I had managed to make it two hours earlier. Following in his wake, I nearly got drunk again just from the fumes of alcohol emanating from him.
I tried to get a glimpse of the bedroom as we passed it, but the door was pulled almost entirely shut. I could have sworn I saw a pair of feet on the bed, though. I didn’t have the chance to explore that possibility because I was rushed straight past the bedroom and to the study.
His study was one of the messiest rooms I had seen in my life. Filled ashtrays were scattered around the room which itself was filled with a cloud of cigarette smoke. A half-empty bottle of Beefeater lay on the ground near a mattress covered in crumpled sheets and newspapers. The tiny window in the corner of the room looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. Translucent spider webs covered the entire top right side of it. The rest of the room was just stacks and stacks of books, DVDs, notebooks and scripts. A whole bookshelf was devoted to books by Malcolm Gladwell. That was the only neat thing in the room. He had multiple editions of the same book, and it was all perfectly organized. The walls were covered with framed pictures of him from his modelling days. There was one black and white one of him, shirtless, wearing jeans with the top button undone and holding a baby to his chest. That formula never fails.
There was undoubtedly something charming in the clutter. I imagined that the mess that spilled out all around him was a representation of the creative clutter that filled his mind. I wasn’t sure what creative clutter modelling involved, but was certain that Jay was a tormented artist on the inside. He jerked his head in the direction of a chair, which I took as an invitation to sit on it. I carefully cleared the chair of all its contents and made myself as comfortable as I could. Jay threw himself down on the mattress on the floor, lit a cigarette and opened a newspaper. He was acting as if I wasn’t even there. I anxiously crossed and uncrossed my legs, and leaned back. He didn’t say anything. I sat up straight and looked around the room. I stared at the picture of him with the baby, then looked back at him. He really seemed to have forgotten my presence. He was completely immersed in the newspaper by this point. Mumbai Mirror, entertainment section. Not so intellectual, after all. But, I have to admit, it was the section I usually read first too. And often, the only section I read at all.
He finished his cigarette and I decided to take matters into my own hands. ‘Do you think I could make myself a cup of coffee?’ I asked. He looked up at me with one beautifully defined eyebrow arched. Oops. I’d been too demanding. Too brazen. I looked back at him confidently while my stomach tied itself into numerous knots.
‘Coffee? I’ll make some. Sit. Milk and sugar?’
‘No milk. Just half a teaspoon of sugar, please. But I can make it. Really. It’s no big deal.’
But by this point he was already out of the room and I was ready to give up and go home. Where had the gorgeous dimpled, flirtatious charmer from the book launch vanished? And who was this curmudgeonly rude thing? But I hadn’t endured the miserable rickshaw ride in the heat for nothing. Despite the immense amounts of smoke, his study was air-conditioned, and I was willing to bear a little awkwardness in order to avoid stepping back into the afternoon sun just yet. And there was something about Jay that just wouldn’t allow me to leave that room. I was trying to figure out my plan of action when he came back in with two cups of steaming coffee. He handed me one that had milk and no sugar.
He lit another cigarette … wait, sniff sniff, no … that was definitely not a cigarette. He was smoking weed that early in the morning. His phone rang. He rummaged around in the mess until he found it. He rejected the call and finally turned to me and said flatly, ‘So, tell me about yourself. You just shifted here, no?’
‘Yeah, thanks so much for meeting me. I really enjoyed the book launch the other day.’
‘Yeah, yeah. What? You’re a writer?’
‘Oh, no, no. I’m an actress. Actor. I just wanted to get some advice from you. I’m pretty new here and …’
He looked up at me, bored, and asked with a hint of disdain, ‘So you act? Let me guess, you model too?’
Suddenly, I was annoyed. Jay had no right to sit on his high horse in his messy study, light up, and look down on me. When I smized at Jay the previous Friday, this was not what I was signing up for.
‘No, I do not model. Acting and modelling are not the same, and I only act,’ I said with more irritation than I had intended, and then quickly looked down and brought my coffee mug to my face for security. Suddenly he smiled. He smiled that thousand-watt smile he had flashed at me at the book launch, and his entire face lit up and made me go weak in the knees. I wished he would take his shirt off and find a baby to hold.
That smile immediately softened the meeting. He folded up the Mumbai Mirror and turned to focus on me at last. ‘Sorry. So, you don’t model then. Good. You recently came here from New York. How has that been?’
I was rather pleased with the turn of events and started my explanation of why I had decided to make the move from NYC to Bombay. Ninety per cent of the people I met asked me why I made the move, and of that, 99.9 per cent didn’t really care about the answer. So I had come up with a perfect, concise answer that sounded exhilarating but stopped short of causing the questioner’s eyes to glaze over with indifference.
‘I really enjoy New York, but yeah, I completely understand why you left.’ He was the first person who had ever responded like that. His phone rang again, but he rejected it immediately. He was finally paying attention to me. Suddenly, I felt the knots in my stomach untying themselves and I settled in to chat more with Jay. This was the man I had been wanting to meet. Not the grumpy, smoky Mumbai Mirror fan. As I got more comfortable, I heard the front door slam far more loudly than seemed necessary. Jay jerked up, whispered ‘Bloody bitch, man’, and excused himself. He carefully shut the door of the study and then I heard the front door open. I got up, rushed to the door of the study and pressed my ear against it. I heard muffled voices fighting. So there had been feet in the bedroom. A few moments later, the front door slammed again and I heard footsteps coming back. I was so engrossed in listening that I forgot to move away from the door and get back to my chair. Jay opened the study door to find me standing right there, smiling like a fool, stumbling backwards towards my chair. I pretended to have been looking at his pictures on the walls and he smiled indulgently enough at me, sat back down and re-lit his joint. We continued chatting, but he seemed troubled and kept pulling at an imaginary fibre on his pant leg.
The conversation was quite easy, though. I thought he would have the hang-ups of fame, but it turned out to be the opposite. He even talked about how he planned to quit the industry and move to Europe to write or learn to cook. Perhaps he would move to Lisbon or Florence and my dream would become my reality? I didn’t want him to move before he made his movie and turned me into a star, but if he did move after that, that would be amazing.
Jay certainly did not fit the age-old stereotype of the dumb model. He knew about everything. From
poetry to literature to philosophy. I was thoroughly impressed. I managed to steer the conversation into German philosophy over and over again since it’s the only subject I can hold forth on. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to figure out the common theme joining Kant, Hegel and Nietzsche, so I just sounded brilliant and informed. He, on the other hand, dazzled me with everything and everyone.
Strangely, though, abruptly, in mid-conversation, Jay took my coffee mug out of my hands, stood up and said, ‘You should go.’ Had I said too much? Or somehow managed to offend him? We were beginning to get comfortable and it suddenly came to a grinding halt. Had he figured out that all I knew was German philosophy? Did Malcolm Gladwell frown upon effortless conversation with new people? He stood there looking uncomfortable and fidgety, and I had no option but to get up and gather my things.
‘Um … thanks so much for taking the time to see me. I know you’re really busy …’
‘Yeah, yeah. It’s fine. Listen, just let yourself out. Great. Yeah. Be in touch. Okay.’
With those words, I was left standing alone in his doorway, barefoot, with my bag in one hand and cell phone and sunglasses in the other. We didn’t even get around to discussing the movie. Utterly perplexed, I rode the elevator down, hailed a rickshaw and headed back to Bandra. I tried desperately to reach Ritesh on his phone on the way back but to no avail. I was completely disoriented by what had happened. I tried Jess and Dino, but no answer. That day’s Jay had turned out to be the polar opposite of the Jay of the first meeting.
Dismayed, and once again aware of my hangover, I got back home and fell into bed. I fell asleep pretty easily and was woken up by the sound of my cell phone beeping. While feeling around for the phone, I noticed that it was already dark outside. I absolutely detest falling asleep while it is still light out and then waking up to find myself enveloped in darkness. That always makes me feel depressed and stale and awful. Especially when I fall asleep with my contacts on and wake up with my eyes dry and scratchy. I rubbed and squinted and blinked my eyes back to life and checked my phone. It was a text message. From Jay.