by Sonia Singh
Jai leaned forward. “Pardon me, sweetie, but what LA career? You’ve been waiting for a ‘great opportunity’ for seven years!”
She sighed and leaned her head back against the seat. Jai had a point. Maza, umm, sort of did too. What was holding her back? A personal dislike of Bollywood films? Her dream of becoming the next Gwyneth Paltrow?
Maza shot Raveena a sidelong glance. “You’re thinking about Gwyneth Paltrow, aren’t you?”
“How’d you know?”
“You’re always thinking about Gwyneth,” Jai said. “You constantly compare yourself to her.”
“Well, we’re the same age, and she’s an Oscar-winning actress.”
Jai yawned. “No one of Indian descent is going to win an Oscar. We just don’t get those types of roles.”
Raveena disagreed. “What about Ben Kingsley? He’s Indian and he won an Oscar.”
“He’s half,” Jai said.
“So? I’ll change my name to Raveena Queensley and say I’m half too.” Mentally, she apologized to her parents for disowning their heritage.
Maza thumped her horn and switched lanes. “Anthony Quinn,” she said suddenly, checking her rearview mirror.
Jai’s head whipped around. “Where? Where?”
“He passed away in 2001, Jai,” Raveena clarified.
Maza gave the driver behind her the finger, and then proceeded to explain. “Anthony Quinn was half Mexican and half Irish. He struggled for years in Hollywood, but no one would cast him as a leading man. Finally he got an offer from an Italian director. So, does he go off to Italy and start making movies there, or does he stick it out in Hollywood?”
“Italian men are so hot,” Jai said dreamily.
“Anyway,” Maza continued, “Anthony moved to Italy and began working in the industry. People back home told him he was ruining his career. They told him there was no way starring in Italian films was going to help him in Hollywood. But Anthony eventually became the number one actor in Italy with fans all across the country. They were mad about him.”
“How do you know so much about Anthony Quinn?” Jai questioned.
“I had writer’s block and ended up watching his biography on A&E.”
Jai sighed. “He was a gorgeous man, wasn’t he?”
“But back to my story,” Maza said, quickly cutting across the lane, swerving right and somehow bypassing ninety percent of the traffic. “Because of Quinn’s status as an Italian idol, Hollywood finally took notice.” She pulled up in front of the Standard and put the car in park. “And the rest, chica, is history.”
They all filed out, and the valet guy jumped into the car. Anthony Quinn’s story left Raveena quiet. She’d assumed the man had arrived in Hollywood and become an overnight sensation.
Well, Raveena really wasn’t that naïve, but she hadn’t realized the famous actor had to make a side trip to Italy on his journey to Hollywood.
Jai put his arm around Raveena. “So, what do you think? I hear Bollywood fans number almost a billion.”
Maza pulled a pack of Marlboros out of her bag. “Really?”
Jai gallantly held open the door and ushered them into the famous shag-carpeted, bubble chair-decorated lobby.
Raveena recalled an article her mother had once read her. “I think he’s right. India’s population is now practically a billion. Add to that the millions of Indian immigrants scattered throughout the UK, Canada, the United States, Australia, Asia and Africa.” Her mother’s words swirled through her head. “And Bollywood fans aren’t just Indians. Russians, Armenians, Israelis, Turks, Arabs, Japanese, Chinese, Malaysians, Thai…they all watch Bollywood films.”
Maza stopped in the lobby and turned to face her. “Now, before we hit the bar, what’ll we be toasting to?”
Raveena couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll do it.”
Looked like she was going Bollywood!
Jai threw his arms around her and planted a big kiss on her cheek. Raveena was pretty sure it was the first time he’d kissed a member of the opposite sex in five years.
Maza nodded and lit up a cigarette. The concierge spied her, frowned and came running over.
Raveena was moving to Bombay.
Chapter 6
“India is a dirty stinking place. Too many stinking people. Bad smells. Why go there?”
Waiting for Raveena’s reaction to her comment, Auntie Kiran stuffed a samosa from the plate on the table into her mouth and began chewing furiously.
Raveena had dropped by her parents’ house to pick up some Bollywood DVDs. She figured she may as well watch some of the latest releases.
Merely for research purposes, of course.
Unfortunately she’d chosen the very afternoon her mother was holding her weekly kitty party. Basically, a group of Indian aunties got together at a restaurant or at one another’s homes. Their game was Gin Rummy. Everyone anteed up, and the entire kitty went to the winner.
The dining table was practically buckling with the weight of all the snacks it was supporting: nachos, samosas, chicken tandoori tenders, cheesecake, chips and several varieties of dips and chutneys. And in the center of it all was Auntie Kiran—a very competitive card player.
Kiran wasn’t technically Raveena’s aunt, but her mother’s best friend. She was short with chubby cheeks and frizzy hair dyed an unnatural burgundy shade. Whether at the travel agency she owned or at a party, Aunt Kiran habitually wore brightly colored sweatpants and decorated her ears, nose, throat and wrists with heavy gold jewelry.
Leela laughed. “Come on, Kiran, it’s not that bad.”
Taking a seat, Raveena helped herself to a piece of chicken and dipped it into the nacho cheese. “What about the Taj Mahal? People from all over the world go to India just to see that.”
Auntie Kiran scoffed and Raveena had to dodge a chunk of potato that came flying out of her mouth. “Taj Mahal? Big deal! Go to Atlantic City. See the Trump Taj Mahal. Much better. And it has clean bathrooms.”
Auntie Bindo, who read palms as a hobby and enjoyed playing practical jokes on her children (she once hid in the laundry room and jumped out of the hamper, scaring them to death), nudged Raveena. “Did you get your shots?”
Before she could answer, Auntie Kiran butted in, “What’s the point of getting shots? Indian germs are too strong. They’ll latch onto her clean American blood.”
“Make sure you drink only bottled water,” Raveena’s mother told her for the hundredth time.
Auntie Kiran scoffed. “Bottled water isn’t safe. Tourists have been getting all manner of diseases from bottled water that was really taken from the sewer.”
Sewers?
Raveena had an aversion to drinking out of public water fountains because of the germs.
At that moment, Auntie Bindo slammed down her cards and shouted “Gin Rummy!”
Auntie Kiran whipped around, pointed a stubby finger, and accused her of cheating.
The table erupted into shouts and recriminations, and suddenly chutney became a projectile weapon.
Ducking her head, Raveena raced from the room and took refuge on the front steps outside.
Sitting down, she could still hear shouting from inside and scooted farther away from the door. Putting thoughts of Auntie Kiran and bottled sewage out of her head, she dialed Griffin’s office.
As it turned out, Griffin was wearing a blue cashmere sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes.
No, Raveena wasn’t psychic. The first thing Griffin said to her after hello was, “Raveena, doll, the blue cashmere sweater I’m wearing absolutely brings out the blue of my eyes.”
“I’m sure it does, Griffin,” she answered. Meanwhile, according to her mother, the red shirt she was wearing brought out the broken capillaries in her cheeks. “Did you get my flight details?”
He had and promptly informed her that a first-class ticket to Bombay would be waiting at the Pan-Asian Airlines counter at LAX, as well as a car when she arrived in Bombay to take her to a five-star hotel. All
courtesy of Randy Kapoor.
“Fabulous,” Raveena said and gave Griffin her parents’ fax number so he could send over all the details.
She was about to go back inside when her call-waiting beeped. Griffin was eager to get off the phone anyway and show off his new cashmere sweater, so she pressed the green call button. “Hello?”
“I have a date tomorrow night,” Maza said.
This was interesting. Maza’s dating life fascinated Raveena (and not just because Raveena didn’t have one). Maza’s last date had been with a shaman from the Arapaho tribe. Propping her elbows on her knees, she settled in for some juicy details. “Do divulge. Who’s the man?”
“My gynecologist, Dr. Kim.”
Raveena sat straight up. “What?”
“I was on the examining table when he asked if I was free this weekend.”
“Your gyno! Isn’t that against the law or something?”
She could hear Maza taking a drag of her cigarette.
“All his patients are women. He’d be crazy not to take advantage of the fact.”
Raveena frowned. “I’m definitely not okay with this, Maza. The voodoo priest was weird enough, but this—”
“Listen,” Maza interrupted. “Dr. Kim knows I’m free of disease. Beats hooking up at a bar or a club.”
Raveena rubbed her forehead. “Remind me. You were spread-eagle at the time, right?”
This time when her call-waiting beeped she eagerly took the call. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Jai said, distinctly morose.
“What’s the matter?”
“Luke dumped me.”
Luke was Jai’s current flame. Raveena didn’t care for the guy. Luke was from Long Beach but affected a stupid European accent and insisted on leaving wet slobbery kisses on both her cheeks as greetings. But Jai adored him, and she was sorry to hear the news. “Why? What happened?”
Jai had gone from morose to despondent. “He said I’m too gay.”
“What?”
“I’m too gay for him,” Jai said loudly.
Raveena was confused. Sure, Jai had less body hair than she, along with a flatter stomach and tighter ass, but those qualities were common in the gay community. “I don’t understand; isn’t Luke gay?”
Jai sounded exasperated. “Obviously.”
Okay, this was too much.
Raveena was leaving for India in a few days. She didn’t have time to deal with the dating dilemmas of her friends.
She did, however, agree to meet them for drinks that night at the Viceroy.
For a moment it felt good to be single.
The moment faded.
She shook her head and got up to go back inside.
Okay, seriously—back to the more important question.
What the hell was the deal with water in India anyway?
Chapter 7
Raveena was standing in the first-class passenger line at the Pan- Asian Airlines counter when she heard the horrible news.
The airline representative frowned at the computer and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have you on our first-class passenger list, Ms. Rai.”
Raveena’s stomach flipped and then flopped.
How could this be? She had the fax from Griffin in her hand.
Thanks to her mother—packer extraordinaire—she’d been able to fit into two suitcases what mere mortals could only hope to fit in seven. It had taken the combined efforts of her father, Jai and herself to heft each bag onto the weigh-in counter. All around her, Indian families were doing the same thing, paying overweight baggage fees, lugging their suitcases like oxen with a plow.
Raveena briefly wondered how the plane could possibly take off with all that extra weight.
But now…
Had Randy forgotten to get her ticket? Had Griffin gotten the dates wrong? Would her father be able to lug the suitcases back to their car without having a stroke?
Speaking of Bob, Raveena rubbed her aching right arm where she’d been poked and prodded by needles in preparation for the onslaught on her immune system in India. Daddy Dearest—having put the fear of God and hepatitis B in her—had begun clipping out articles about various disease epidemics in India and then calling and reading said articles to his daughter before she went off to sleep.
This did not provide for pleasant dreams.
When he clipped out an article about a possible typhoid scare in a town hundreds of miles from Bombay, Raveena’s mother had finally taken away his scissors and forbade him to cut out another newspaper article for at least a year.
To make matters more complicated, Raveena’s condo was now occupied by Jai, who, desperate to move out of his parents’ home in Pasadena, had already shifted his things into her place and promised to take care of her plants.
Was it all for naught?
She forced herself to calm down. “Please check again. I know I’m leaving on this flight.”
The clerk rubbed her chin and her fingers began flying over the keyboard. “Aha.” She smiled and nodded. “I see what happened. You’re definitely on the flight, Ms. Rai. Sorry about the mix-up.”
Raveena relaxed and smiled back. “No problem. Once I’m in my seat with a glass of champagne in my hand, I’ll forget this ever happened.”
The clerk tapped her nose. “Hmm, well, you see, that’s sort of the mix-up. You’re booked on the flight, but not in first class.”
Raveena’s mouth went dry. “What? Are you sure?”
The clerk tapped her nose again and nodded.
The woman really couldn’t keep her hands off her face.
Raveena swallowed, and when she spoke, her voice was weak. “Business?”
The clerk frowned and shook her head no. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t mean…”
The woman pinched the space between her eyes. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true.”
Raveena’s heart began pounding. A scream welled up in her throat.
The clerk gazed at her sympathetically. “You’re booked in coach.”
Raveena held onto the counter as the room swayed and dipped around her. She struggled to take a deep breath. So she’d be spending the next twenty-three hours in economy class.
That wasn’t so bad, right?
Who was she kidding?
She’d rather date Maza’s gynecologist.
“Isn’t there something called economy class syndrome?” Raveena whispered.
The clerk tugged on her lower lip. “Yeah, you might want to walk up and down the aisle and stretch your legs at least every hour. Prevents a blood clot from forming.”
She then pushed a button, printed out Raveena’s boarding pass and handed it to her with a smile. “Enjoy your flight with Pan-Asian Airlines.”
Bob wouldn’t stop crying.
They were standing near the security checkpoint and Raveena’s parents and friends could go no further.
Her father continued to cry.
Frankly, Raveena was a bit surprised.
Sure, she’d seen her father tear up before. He’d bawled in the theater during The Joy Luck Club. He’d bawled when his internist had informed him he had irritable bowel syndrome and not heart disease. He’d bawled when they’d gone to see Yo-Yo Ma in concert at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.
But he hadn’t bawled when his parents had passed away. He didn’t bawl—according to her mother—when Rahul and Raveena were born. And he’d never bawled during any of their family arguments, where Raveena struggled to act like an adult and usually ended up crying and losing all credibility.
But he was bawling now.
She hugged him. “It’s okay, Dad. We’ll be in touch. And I’m coming back.”
“We’ll miss you,” he choked out between sobs.
Raveena looked over at her mother. Leela’s eyes were bright but her lips were pressed in a straight line.
Her mother never wept.
Raveena pulled her mother into a hug.
Leela gently touched her daughter�
�s hair. “Be safe,” she whispered.
Jai looked like he was close to tears while Maza, like Raveena’s mother, remained stoic.
And women were supposed to be too emotional?
From his pocket, her father pulled a handkerchief, dark blue this time, and mopped his face.
Raveena decided to end the good-byes before this turned into a wake.
She hugged Jai, who promised to ensure the survival of her leafy friends, and then hugged Maza last. Maza wasn’t much of a hugger. Raveena loved her dearly but was positive there were corpses more affectionate.
“Here,” Maza said and handed her a gift-wrapped present. “You’ll need this in Bombay.”
It looked too small to be a water-filtration system. In fact, it looked very much like a book.
And then Raveena was through the line and waving good-bye. Rahul had called the night before to wish her bon voyage.
Six months.
Raveena was starting to get vaclempt. Clutching the gift to her chest, she hoisted her shoulder bag and went through the security line. By the time she reached the end, her loved ones were no longer in view.
Taking a deep breath, Raveena headed for her boarding gate.
Chapter 8
Halfway through dinner, Randy Kapoor fired his screenwriter.
The man was in his mid-fifties with graying hair. He clutched the bound script to his chest and looked aghast.
“But I need this job. No one hires writers my age anymore.”
“That’s your problem,” Randy said, as his mother entered the room and took a seat next to her son.
“Is the food to your liking?” his mother asked with a doting look, ignoring the older gentleman who continued to stand there with a helpless expression.
Randy pouted. “It’s become cold.”
His mother frowned. “Munnu! Come out here at once!”
Munnu, the household servant, appeared in the doorway. “Yes, memsahib.”
“I told you Randy likes his food piping hot. Now, refill his plate and heat it up again.”
