‘Are you getting her films to do now? Like her dalal?’
The barb was severe even by his mother’s already daunting standards of taunting, but Arty chose to maintain his cool.
‘Luckily, Ma, she doesn’t need one. She’s doing pretty well on her own.’
The woman sniggered quietly but markedly, just as elegant elderly ladies too posh to show their disapproval do.
‘She is a woman of many talents, Ma,’ Arty continued. ‘Sadly, it looks like you will never make the effort to know that.’
This time, Subhadra sighed. She didn’t care for her son’s mistress’ talents. What use was it when all it did was besmirch the Rathore name?
‘Your girl’s so-called talents are not going to help me or our family. Or you, for that matter, my son,’ she said.
Arty simply shook his head, surrendering the pointless debate.
‘You know that your brother will lose the next election. Despite that, I am trying my best to gather support wherever I can. If your keep hadn’t been a stupid nautch girl who is willing to shake her breasts at anyone who has eyes, we could have even used her for some campaigning! But, that is what her reality is. So, you tell me, my dear boy, what use is her talent to me if I can’t even parade her around the constituency without ruining our family name?’
Arty’s eyes finally rose from the newspaper to look at his mother. She was calmly holding her cup and staring at nothing. In fact, other than her mildly flushed face, there was no trace of the anger and frustration that Subhadra had been going through for the past few months.
The two sipped coffee silently for the remainder of the time at the table.
‘I’m sure your fans would love to know more about your interests outside of films. And I ask this question to all my guests. What is that one big thing about you that we don’t yet know about, Jazmeen?’ Charan Grover asked.
‘I don’t think your viewers would like to know that!’
‘Do you really want to know?’ she said.
‘Of course! Why keep any secrets from your fans?’
‘OK, I am saying this only because you said I shouldn’t keep secrets. My favourite hobby is that I like to kill people.’
Charan coughed at the woman’s morbid response. Then he chuckled, trying to make sense of what he had heard.
‘Have you decided to not answer any of my questions today without adding your mirch-masala to it, Madame Jazmeen?’ he said in the tone of a mock reprimand.
‘No, I’m serious, Charan! How can I help it if you don’t believe me?’
‘Ah OK, so you like to kill people. That’s a kinky hobby, don’t you think?’ Charan asked with a straight face, playing along with Jazmeen.
‘Some might think so, yes. But I find it very satisfying. Pleasurable, in fact.’
A bemused smile broke through Charan’s straight face. ‘I am sure you love it! Killing people with your latkas and jhatkas. If that isn’t enough to finish them off, your acerbic tongue takes care of the rest!’
Jazmeen merely shrugged her shoulders.
‘And what else? What else excites you? You are quite a rage at award functions and celebrity weddings all around the country these days,’ Charan asked.
‘Yes, people are kind, they invite me to their happy occasions,’ Jazmeen said. ‘I never say no.’
‘Of course, why would you—say no, I mean. They are your fans, after all.’
‘Yes, why would I say no? I am happy to be happy for anyone who can afford my happiness.’
Charan made a face trying to figure out what Jazmeen meant by her twisted phrase. ‘Anyone who can afford it?’ he asked finally.
‘Why not? I don’t discriminate when it comes to providing happiness. The colour of money is the same, no matter who or where it comes from.’
‘I see,’ Charan nodded. ‘So that is why you are seen gracing a fashion show in Ludhiana one day and an industrialist son’s wedding party in Bhubaneswar the next.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Or play in a celebrity cricket match in Nagpur?’
‘Yes.’
‘Or dance at a private political event in Gorakhpur?’
‘Clever man!’ Jazmeen thought. He probably knows about my connection with Arty. But she relaxed, liaisons like the one she had with Arty were seldom spoken about in public by the select few who knew. She was certain that Charan wouldn’t dare break that unwritten rule of Bollywood.
‘Sure,’ was all she said in response.
‘And these are the places you go and charm the socks off your fans, don’t you? Oh, wait, I should say, these are the places where you go and kill them!’
It was Jazmeen’s turn to chortle at the man’s play of words this time. ‘You can laugh about it all you want, honey!’
‘You could say that, my dear Charan!’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s how I send them to heaven!’
Around six months before Jazmeen had her gupshup with Charan Grover on national television, Arty and she had been celebrating her fifth straight box office smash by taking a quick holiday at the Fort Rajwada resort in Jaisalmer. The time-off was God-sent, especially because her last film had felt like a personal victory of sorts to her.
Jazmeen had been in a bitter war of words with the lead heroine of the film, an established actress with a decade of success under her belt, winner of two Filmfare awards, and acknowledged as a reasonably good actress. The public persona of the veteran was that of a well-spoken charmer from a popular film family, but the insider truth was quite the opposite. In reality, the woman was a neurotic monster, paranoid about her image and position, and too egotistical to tolerate another female cast member getting any kind of importance in either the script or on the sets. That meant that the presence of Jazmeen in her film was going to be like negotiating a minefield of temper tantrums and cold shoulders for everyone around. For the unit members, the slanging matches between the senior actress and the junior starlet had, perhaps, been more exciting than the film itself. The last fight between the two women had been over the film’s promotional material.
‘Why the fuck does she even get a mention in the posters? She has a bloody guest appearance with two scenes and a stupid item song! Have you forgotten that I am the heroine of this film?’ the actress had yelled at the director in the presence of Jazmeen and the other key cast members at one of the meetings with the marketing and promotions team.
Jazmeen had never taken bullshit from anyone ever since she had first started working in films. She was not prepared to tarnish that record with her latest adversary. She had her own saucy image to uphold! And if that required her to fling verbal acid back at her colleague, she wasn’t going to be found dithering. ‘Both eyes for an eye’ was her motto.
‘You do realise that if you could sell tickets, they wouldn’t need a “bloody guest appearance” from me in the film!’ Jazmeen yelled back.
‘I have two fucking Filmfares, you ignorant shit from some no-name small-town! What do you have, bitch?’
‘I have fans who have a pulse! When did you ever raise anything in a man other than his temper?’ was the explosive response.
The hero of the film, a muscular mega-star in his mid-40s who usually had a habit of turning dust into gold, had gleefully enjoyed the cat-fight. In the end, the film’s producer and director had no option but to pull their hair out, and accede to their heroine’s demands because she was, well, the heroine.
As expected, the news had made it to all tabloid magazines and gossip channels, most likely leaked by the film’s marketers themselves. It hadn’t hurt the film’s saleability one bit.
Yet, despite everything that had transpired at that promotions meeting that day, it was clear to Jazmeen now that, ultimately, she was the one who had had the last laugh. As she and Arty were being driven around the beautiful Rajasthani city in the air-conditioned hotel SUV, she could see signs of her personal victory emblazoned everywhere. The posters of her latest film were on hoardings and walls and every other open spac
e possible.
And, apart from the hero, they featured only one other face on them.
Hers.
Yes, her fans did have a pulse. And when their pulse raced seeing her gyrate on screen, it made her film give a pounding to everything else at the box office.
Jazmeen had a very solid reason to celebrate indeed. And Arty couldn’t be happier for her.
A pall of gloom had fallen over the rest of the Rathore family, however. That was what Arty was discussing with Jazmeen as they lay naked on their stomachs getting a massage at the luxury hotel spa.
‘Karan Bhai is going to lose the election this time,’ Arty said, as the masseuse kneaded his buff shoulders trying to liberate a tight knot.
‘Is it that bad?’ Jazmeen asked. Her masseuse was working on her right leg.
‘I was on the phone with Ma this morning. I have never seen her sound so perturbed before. The latest internal opinion poll is worse than the one last month. Yadav now appears to have an unassailable lead over Bhai,’ he said, mentioning his brother’s main opponent in the election. Amrit Singh Yadav, a powerful local leader, was close to causing the upset of the century—the defeat of the Rathores from their home constituency of Gorakhpur.
‘What does Karan think?’ she asked.
‘Bhai couldn’t talk for more than a few minutes when I called; he was busy campaigning at a rally. Anyway, one can never tell what he is really feeling.’
‘The elections are only weeks away…’ Jazmeen said.
‘Yes, this doesn’t look good at all.’
‘Will it be so terrible if Karan loses? I mean, it’s just an election, isn’t it?’
Jazmeen’s innocent question made Arty laugh. He waved his hand to motion his masseuse to stop. Then he propped up his torso and turned to his side, facing Jazmeen. He could see the gorgeous mound of his woman’s left breast as it lay squished and hidden under her body. A tiny towel lay on her barely hidden buttocks, barely accomplishing the task it had been assigned. Jazmeen’s face was turned towards him, but her eyes were closed.
‘Jazmeen, do you know what a heart attack is?’ he asked. The strangeness of the question made Jazmeen open her eyes in a flash. She looked at him quizzically.
‘You see, up until blood flows freely inside its arteries, the heart stays healthy. Beats strongly. Keeps the person alive. But when that blood flow is impeded by a big blockage, the muscles of the heart start to die immediately. Once the heart muscle is dead, it’s gone, forever. And with it, the chances of the person’s survival recede as well. If the blockage is too severe, the damage to the heart is catastrophic. And once the heart goes…’ Arty whistled, playfully demonstrating with a wave of his hand how the soul departs a dead body.
‘Who the fuck is having a heart attack, Arty!’ Jazmeen asked, waving away her masseuse too.
‘The Rathores, baby,’ he replied simply. ‘The Rathore brand is about to die.’
‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic!’ Jazmeen scolded. She propped up her torso, fully exposing her breasts, and making no attempt to cover them.
‘It’s true. See, it’s quite simple. The Rathores are the person I am describing in my example. Karan Bhai is the heart that beats, he is what keeps the Rathores alive. If he were to be brought down by a blockage, by that bastard Amrit Singh Yadav, he will lose the ability to pump the blood required to keep the Rathore name alive. You see, what we really are, is our aura of invincibility. We are not supposed to lose! But once that aura is demolished, what else is left? Once the voter sees that even we can lose, then losing can quickly become a habit,’ he said joylessly.
‘And the blood that pumps through the Rathore heart is…’
‘Power. Political power and clout. It’s that power that keeps Bhai beating. Keeps Ma behaving like she is still some bloody Rajmata of a princely state. Keeps the voter servile as our subjects.’
Jazmeen didn’t know what to say to her lover’s analysis of his family.
‘The mighty Rathores are about to be brought down by a bloody Dalit leader with no history, class or morals. That bastard called Amrit Singh Yadav has killed two of his own sisters because they fell in love with boys of a higher caste! And his ex-wife whom he suspected of infidelity. All common knowledge in our corner of the world—but does it matter? No. Nothing matters,’ Arty spat his words. ‘Nothing matters except naked ambition.’
‘You are saying that as if ambition is a bad thing,’ Jazmeen admonished. ‘You and I have it too. And, God knows, Karan has it in spades. We are all what we are because of this naked ambition,’ she said, emphasising the last two words.
‘Correct, so we do,’ Arty said as he dropped his torso back on the mattress and gestured to the masseuse to start again. ‘Sadly Bhai’s ambitions will have no place to go in a few weeks’ time.’
Jazmeen kept staring at her lover. When her masseuse stepped forward to resume her work, Jazmeen shrugged her off again. Then, suddenly, she quietly signalled both the masseuses to leave the room, which they did without a murmur. Jazmeen needed to think. Her mind was whirring with a plan.
‘Arty, what if the elections didn’t happen?’ she said finally.
‘Didn’t happen?’ Arty mumbled.
‘Yeah, what happens if the elections get cancelled? I mean, postponed to a later date? Wouldn’t that give us time to recoup? Give Karan some breathing space?’
‘Baby, elections don’t get postponed at our whim! Something catastrophic has to happen for the Election Commission to change the date.’
‘I know, Arty. Like riots or natural disasters, right?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘What about the death of one of the candidates?’ Jazmeen said quietly. ‘Isn’t that a solid reason to postpone elections?’ Arty, who was drifting into the lazy state of partial sleepiness, was instantly jolted alert. He didn’t raise his torso this time, but opened his eyes and looked directly at Jazmeen’s face. Her lips had a partial smile.
‘Yes, that could be a reason,’ he said after a brief pause.
‘You know, Arty, the heart is a strange thing,’ she said, her eyes smiling too. ‘How we all rely on it so—to keep us alive, control our name and power. It makes us feel invincible! But imagine the irony, that it takes practically nothing to make that little thing stop ticking!’ Then, adding after a pause, ‘I’m assuming this Amrit Singh Yadav has a heart too?’
‘Do you think it was in your karma to be successful? You come from very humble origins, don’t you?’ asked Charan Grover.
‘I don’t believe in karma, Charan.’
‘Surely you must believe in fate!’
‘All I believe is that my life today is the sum-total of my experiences gathered from all who came into or exited my life. Some were like saints—like a lady named Katy Katrak, who gave me a job when I came to Mumbai, kept me grounded and always believed in my talent, and who I still call Mamma—and Sareen, my hair and makeup man who has stayed by my side through the years. Many others I have met may not have been saints, but yes, they were all teachers. Like Master Brandy, who taught me to dance. Or Ankit Mohile Sir, who gave me my first film break. Both of them are, sadly, no more. They came into my life, played their part in my education, and then they left.’
‘I’m sorry for your losses.’
‘Don’t be. These things don’t bother me. We have no control over who enters or exits our lives. Really, why do we care so much when someone dies, especially someone whose time in your life was up anyway?’
‘That sounds quite insensitive,’ Charan said seriously, almost taken aback by the depth of Jazmeen’s response for the first time.
‘But it is true, isn’t it, Charan? See, there is very limited space in our lives—we have to make sure that we keep making room for new people and new experiences, and chuck out those who may simply be dead weight. Not just a burden to us, they may even be a burden to the ones we love!’
‘And when you chuck these people, you have no regrets? No remorse?’
‘Re
morse?’ Jazmeen laughed, the tinkling sound filling the plush set. ‘I don’t even know what the word means!’
Jazmeen’s plan to strike Amrit Singh Yadav out from the lives of the Rathores was delectably simple. It was founded on three basic truths. First, that a person like Yadav, a small-town man but with lofty images of grandeur, could easily be enticed to hobnob with a hot celebrity visiting from Mumbai. Second, that a goon like Yadav would be surrounded by an elaborate security detail, which can be easily breached by said hot celebrity from Mumbai. And, third, that a married politician like Yadav would care enough about his social reputation in a conservative constituency that he would keep a sexual encounter with the hot celebrity from Mumbai a secret. If said hot celebrity from Mumbai were to offer him the opportunity to get sexual with her, that is.
There was only one hitch with the plan, though. It was the fact that Arty was vehemently against Jazmeen’s involvement in it. It was the reason behind the first major row he and Jazmeen had ever had since they had got together.
‘You are crazy to think that I will let you even consider this!’ he admonished Jazmeen as soon as they were back at their Rajputana suite after the massage. ‘And for what? To help Bhai win a stupid election?’ he said, scoffing.
‘To save the Rathore name,’ Jazmeen replied.
Her remark infuriated Arty even more.
‘My family doesn’t need a “pity kill” from you! If we really had to knock off that bastard Yadav, we would find one from a dozen supari-takers to do the job,’ he shouted.
‘Except, that you can’t, Arty, and you know it. It is impossible for anyone to get close to the guy—you said so yourself that Yadav’s security is tighter than even PM Saran’s!’
‘So I should send my woman to do the job?’
‘You are not sending me to do anything, Arty,’ she said, her voice rising as well. ‘I am telling you I want to do this. That I can do this!’
Pretty Vile Girl Page 27
