Pretty Vile Girl

by Rickie Khosla

  Pretty.

  Vile.

  Girl.

  Pretty.

  Vile.

  Girl.

  Rickie Khosla

  First published in India 2017

  © 2017 by Rickie Khosla

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  Prologue

  The Choli That Hides a Big Secret

  Present Day

  All eyes in the theatre were on her, as her lithe body swung into delicious shapes to the rhythm. Each thrust of her torso and every jerk of her hips was being feasted on, as if the king’s banquet had been thrown open to a crowd of starving tramps. The last-minute preparations for the mega event had come to a dead stop; the ushers, the guards, the handymen, the cleaners and the carpenters, all of them frozen, mesmerised, awestruck by the star on the stage. She, of course, couldn’t care less for the commotion she was causing. She was quite used to it. She had even learned to thrive on it.

  Like an expensive sparkler. Tall and curvaceous. Crafted exquisitely by the God of Breasts and Hips.

  Her name was Jazmeen and she was Bollywood’s shiniest starlet—the first choice of film-makers who wanted brazen charisma plus large ‘assets’ for generous box-office returns. Since demand outstripped supply by a mile, even in films where she was unavailable to play the lead, she was invited for a ‘special appearance’ or an Item Song. She was the darling of choreographers, especially those who were shy of explaining their raunchier moves to more self-conscious heroines.

  ‘You know how other actresses draw a line in the sand beyond which they won’t go? Me, I start at that line!’ she once famously said in an interview.

  Jazmeen’s recent dance hits had made her the unrivalled first celebrity choice sought by event managers all across the country, especially in India’s Class-B and -C towns. Only she was considered capable of delivering the kind of glamour and oomph that compelled patrons at those events to shower crisp Gandhijis amidst howling catcalls and loud whistles—even the occasional aerial firing. Her travel itinerary included flashy anniversary parties in farmhouses from Ranchi to Rohtak, and lavish weddings in hotels from Goa to Gurdaspur. Some appearances were scheduled in Mumbai and Delhi too, but Jazmeen was always careful to stay away from events where other stars were expected, stars bigger than her. Even when she found herself surrounded by other marquee names at a major Film Awards, a Fashion Show or a Benefit Celebrity Cricket Match, she’d drop a soundbyte so outlandish just before the function that it would leave the media and paparazzi no choice but to forget the others and chase after her instead. Whatever she touched turned to gold. Whatever she did turned to scandal.

  ‘Jazmeen, Jazmeen, why did you tweet—“She knows the importance of the couch for a good role”?’ yelled the bevy of journalists in unison as she walked the red carpet of a recent film premiere, referring to Jazmeen’s scandalous remark about a top actress nominated for most of the major awards that year.

  ‘Offo! All I had meant was that she always looks so well-rested when she starts a new film. So she must be spending a lot of time lying on a couch or on a bed, whatever, na, that’s all! You mediawale! You never quote me, you only misquote me!’ she had drawled, laughing her characteristic tinkling laughter. And then those very same mediawale would flaunt her quotes and misquotes in bold lettering on the next edition of Mumbai or Delhi Times, or play them in a loop on all the evening TV gossip shows.

  Because whatever Jazmeen said turned to TRPs.

  Today the It Girl was centre-stage at Siri Fort auditorium in New Delhi, where she was prepping for the most important night of her eventful 25-year-old life.

  ‘One, two–one, two–one, two, three, four—one, two…’ yelled the dance master over the mind-splitting beats of Jazmeen’s latest mega hit item song—‘Chhoti choli te bada bawaal’—which roughly translated to ‘much ado over an ill-fitting blouse’. The song had started slowly on its journey to stardom a couple of months ago, but once a Public Interest Litigation (PIL) had been filed with the Allahabad High Court urging a ban due to its ‘vulgar lyrics which will cause moral corruption of our youth and ruin our culture’, the notoriety had ensured its explosion on TV, FM and in the caller-ringtone universe. Its double-meaning lyrics were already being recited by cute 6-year-olds at family get-togethers, and the video was on loop on the cell phone of every auto and truck driver in India. And that was before the middle-aged High Court judge had even had a chance to decide on the PIL. As expected, the court threw out the plea, vehemently underscoring in its ruling that—‘Choli, the Indian tunic, is a traditional costume that represents the glorious history of our nation’s tailors. It is a clothing item that Indian women proudly choose to wear instead of other foreign options such as spaghetti tops and cut-sleeve shirts. Therefore, there is no case for a song that passionately talks about the choli’s inherent importance to our culture to be banned.’

  Jai Hind to you, too.

  The song had promptly hit No. 1 on all the charts and had stayed there ever since. It was even the Prime Minister’s favourite number, if the breathless reports on India TV were to be believed. That had driven even the organisers of a prestigious but otherwise staid government gala, such as the one happening at Siri Fort later that evening, to decide that they wanted Jazmeen to perform live for them, too. When the last minute request was made to the film’s producer, he had jumped at the opportunity to promote his song on such an important stage. The production team had scrambled to adjust everyone’s dates and travel plans. They had even managed to scrape in one afternoon to practice at the auditorium itself.

  Unfortunately, the practice session was not going smoothly at all.

  Jazmeen fumbled on a tricky step where she was supposed to thrust her left leg forward, shake her bust energetically and stick her tongue out—all at the same time. It was the fourth time that she had made a mistake at the same point.

  ‘This bewaqoof is not even worth four annas,’ thought an exasperated Chandrima, choreographer to the sta
rs. She was the dance director of the song and probably the only one in the film business who didn’t care much for Jazmeen’s ascending star value. Though fuming inwardly, outwardly, Chandrima was a picture of calm.

  ‘What happened, Baby?’ she asked as the music was paused at the flick of her wrist. ‘Finding it difficult to focus?’

  ‘Sorry, Masterji, I think this dress is too tight,’ Jazmeen lied.

  ‘Should we call the dress man?’

  ‘No, I think it will loosen a bit on its own if I continue to practice. Let’s carry on.’

  Had Chandrima’s forehead not been repeatedly botoxed to a standstill, her left eyebrow might even have raised itself quizzically. She knew instinctively that Jazmeen was lying. After all, whoever had heard of a film star continuing practice through even the slightest of physical discomfort?

  ‘No, re, let’s take a short break,’ the dance director offered, and Jazmeen pounced on the respite immediately. ‘Fifteen minutes!’ Masterji yelled for everyone on stage to register the deadline, including the two dozen or so background dancers who quickly stood down from their poses.

  Jazmeen was disturbed indeed. In fact, she was so racked by doubt that it was making her feel tired. All she wanted to do right now was to go and lie down in her dressing room at the back of the auditorium and not emerge until the next morning. But that was not going to happen. The evening was only a few hours away now, waiting for a decision that she was having so much trouble making. Amid all the uncertainty in her mind, the only inevitability was that her actions in the next few hours were going to change the course of her life.

  In fact, Jazmeen’s actions in the next few hours were going to change the course of the nation.

  Four weeks ago, Jazmeen lay in bed inside a Lutyen’s bungalow, the kind that is seeped in the pristine white of political power and pomp. The house belonged to her boyfriend, who was widely regarded as the second most powerful politician in the country. It was a Tuesday afternoon and Jazmeen had arrived just a couple of hours ago from Mumbai. She was in town because she had found herself in a predicament that she didn’t know how to handle. Till the previous night, she had been unsure if it was okay to even raise the matter with him at all. By morning, however, she had decided that she would speak to him, but still be judicious with the information she was going to share. It wasn’t a conversation that could have been had long distance. She needed to talk to him face-to-face. So, here she was, in Delhi via an afternoon flight, practically unannounced.

  Before they could talk, her hungry lover had yanked her body on to his and pulled away her clothes with practiced determination. She had not resisted. Half an hour later, spent but certain that he’d spring to action again in a matter of minutes, Jazmeen was going to take the opportunity of this hiatus to tell him what had been troubling her these last few days. He started speaking before she began.

  ‘It’s time to get rid of the bastard,’ he said, running a finger softly over Jazmeen’s naked body.

  She halted her train of thought and was immediately attentive.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked after a brief pause.

  He sighed. ‘That last fellow you took care of was small fry. This is going to be big.’

  She looked up at his face. His forehead was furrowed.

  ‘How big?’ she said, as her hand moved from his ripped chest and stopped at his delectable navel. Then, as her hand slid further down his body, she added, ‘You already know I have no trouble handling big, right?’ He smiled at the flattery and made no effort to stop her adventurous fingers.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Just when I was getting ready to make my move, behenchod had to start snooping on me. He is going to have me by my balls if I don’t stop him quickly.’

  ‘What makes you think he will find anything on you?’

  ‘He’s a bloody dog looking for a bone. He won’t stop until he finds it!’

  ‘What about the rest? Will any of those swines squeal?’

  Her lover sniggered in contempt. ‘They won’t dare open their fucking mouths. They all know that I hold the drawstrings of their kachchas in my hands. One pull and…’

  ‘But not him…?’ she half-answered her own question.

  ‘But not him,’ he confirmed. ‘If an enquiry request comes from his office, there is no way anyone can say ‘No’.’

  ‘You do realise that this is not some guy I can serve myself to on a platter of poisoned peas pulao and butter chicken and do my job. We are talking about the…’

  ‘I know, I know!’ he cut her off.

  ‘Plus, he rarely even goes to public functions. There is no probable reason for him to even meet me. Unless, of course, we get married and throw a big party? We know he’ll come for that!’

  He chuckled at her joke.

  ‘So, how do we get to him?’ she asked seriously.

  ‘We need to figure out a new way to fix him,’ he mulled.

  They were both quiet in thought for a few minutes.

  ‘That bastard really has no skeletons in his past that I can use!’ he said finally. Then, in a quick swoop, he drew his legs off the bed and stood up. Their afternoon frolic was over.

  Despite the unresolved situation, Jazmeen laughed loudly as he picked up his D&G boxer-briefs from the floor where they had been flung a short while ago. He turned to look at her with a smile.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just thinking, every warm-blooded man has some level of libido in him. You are most definitely a ten on that hunger scale—but he, on the other hand, seems to be at zero!’

  ‘Zero, my ass! He must have had his share of the ladies before he stepped into public life.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt it. He even looks like a suave Raja Harishchandra, don’t you think?’

  ‘He looks like a retired pimp, that’s what he looks like,’ he said, as he slipped on his underwear in one quick swoop. His helplessness at being unable to resolve his circumstance was starting to make his temper rise. ‘Let’s forget him for now. I am sure we will figure out a way to deal with him.’

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ve got to find a way to do this. And soon,’ he added with determination as he finished getting dressed in his customary white kurta and dark jeans. It was the look the country now associated with him.

  Her boyfriend left the bedroom to make some work calls, leaving Jazmeen to mull over the information she had just acquired. In a way, she was relieved that she hadn’t shared with him what was on her mind, the reason she’d flown all the way from Mumbai to see him.

  Perhaps there was an opportunity for her to—how could one put it—kill two birds with one stone? Jazmeen smiled. But before any options could be considered, she needed to figure out a way to get her boyfriend’s elusive adversary out of his hiding place and into her line of sight. ‘Get the rat out of the rat-hole.’

  After all, her own survival depended on it, too.

  Jazmeen got out of bed, strapped on her wispy Victoria’s Secret bra and put on the loose Ralph Lauren shirt that had been hanging on the chair near the window. Her Levi’s were super skinny and took a little bit of getting into, even for someone with her slight frame.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. Some cleavage was showing so she pulled up her neckline. Then she applied some lipstick and fluffed up her shoulder-length hair. She looked good—sexy yet approachable. Quite suddenly she realised that she was famished. She hadn’t touched the food on her flight nor eaten anything since. Unless, of course, one counted the nibbling of her lover’s ear and certain other parts of his body.

  Later that night as Jagdish, the chauffeur, drove Jazmeen in his boss’s personal Land Rover to her hotel, the Maurya Sheraton, she peered out of the SUV’s darkened windows on to the beautiful amber-hued avenues of New Delhi. It was past nine and traffic had thinned out considerably. Her boyfriend was at dinner at the Golf Club. Jazmeen had begun to almost enjoy coming to the capital, even though the memories of her past life here were still as indel
ible as a tattoo. Her recent trips to Delhi were almost always to meet her boyfriend; she had made eight in the past month alone.

  In her mind, Jazmeen pictured her lover’s handsome face, lit up in its usual sunshine countenance as he broke into a smile. Jazmeen’s own forehead mottled into a frown.

  ‘How could I have been so oblivious of such treachery?’ her insides screamed.

  Treachery.

  A hideous truth. An unpardonable sin.

  A crime that was not going to go unpunished. It beseeched revenge, and the only retribution, if one was even possible, was in plunging a dagger through her betrayer’s heart. Jazmeen constructed a vivid image in her mind. In it, a dying man’s punctured heart was causing a blot of red to expand at the centre of his pristine white kurta. He was trying to say something, but no sound emerged. Then Jazmeen saw her own face in that image. It looked cruelly gratified. It was the face of someone who had gorged on poison in order to satisfy her hunger.

  She shivered involuntarily at her reverie.

  Her savage thoughts were snapped shut by Jagdish. He was asking her something.

  ‘W-what?’ she said, suddenly back to the present, and aware of her surroundings again.

  ‘I was saying, Madamji, that your song is breaking all records. It’s a super-duper hit! You must be very happy!’

  ‘Chhoti choli te bada bawal’ was playing on Radio Mirchi on the SUV’s Fender surround speakers.

  ‘Everyone loves it!’ the driver added. ‘I heard that at the Gopinath wedding last Saturday, even ministers were dancing to it for hours. They practically didn’t allow anything else to be played! I found out from some of the SPG staff at the function.’

  Jazmeen knew that already. After all, she had performed at the wedding. Even shaken a leg with the most important men in the country when they had trooped on to the stage.

  Gopinath Chaube was the Minister of Steel and Mines in the Union Cabinet. There was talk that he had spent a hundred crores on the functions leading up to his daughter’s wedding with the son of Mohanlal Hanslal Bhai, the industrialist with a multi-sector presence in natural resources like iron and coal. The media was still in a frenzy figuring out how much more the wedding function itself had cost. An additional two hundred crores had been speculated. There was, of course, no discussion on those same news shows about the conflict of interest in the establishment of familial relations between the top mining baron and the top government watchdog of those very mines. Who cared about the fox guarding the hen house anyway?