Bollywood Confidential

by Sonia Singh

  “Okay,” Raveena said. “The only thing is, I don’t know where his office is.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will give you the directions. Where exactly are you residing, ma’am?”

  Since arriving in India she’d been called madam and ma’am more times than in her entire life put together.

  “Umm, I’m in Bandra. Portugal Road.”

  “Very good, ma’am. A beautiful area. Our office is in Bandra as well.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Bandra is home to many producers, directors and stars. Now, tell the auto-rickshaw driver to take you to Turner Road and—”

  “Auto-rickshaw?” Raveena interrupted. No way was she getting in one of those things. “I was planning on taking a taxi.”

  “Oh no, ma’am. A taxi will not take you such a short distance, and why pay extra money besides? Tell the auto-rickshaw driver to take you to Turner Road and from there 14th Road. We are located at 29 Jains Arcade, on the 2nd floor.”

  Raveena was scribbling this down as quickly as she could. “Jains Arcade. Got it.”

  “Wonderful. I will tell Mr. Kapoor to expect you at one. Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  Raveena set down the phone and ate some more of the scrambled eggs Nandini had made. They were delicious, flavored with green chilies, tomato and cumin.

  Stuffed, she pushed the plate aside and a large black crow immediately swooped in through the dining room window and scooped the egg off her plate. She screamed and threw up her hands.

  The crow then perched on the ledge of the window, gazed at Raveena with a beady eye and promptly guzzled the piece of egg.

  Since yesterday, she’d been startled by all manner of winged creatures flying in and out of the house. Because of the heat and Uncle Heeru’s devotion to birds, all the windows were open all the time. When she’d asked her uncle why he didn’t invest in air-conditioning, he’d responded by saying he did not want to catch a cold.

  The average temperature in Bombay that winter was eighty-eight degrees.

  Earlier, Raveena had seen Uncle Heeru fighting with a crow over a piece of papaya.

  With a sigh of acceptance, she pushed her plate closer to the window and addressed the crow. “Dig in.”

  Wings outstretched, the crow once more swooped in and grabbed the last piece of egg. Instead of dining on the ledge, the bird flew up into the trees shading the house.

  American crows definitely had better manners.

  Two hours later, Raveena thought she was going to die.

  The auto-rickshaw darted in and out of traffic, at times jumping up on the walkway, before zooming back onto the street. Open on both sides without doors, the contraption made her feel exposed. And she was guaranteed maximum exposure to exhaust fumes.

  Raveena had done her hair for the meeting, setting it with Velcro rollers, but the wind and humidity wreaked havoc with the curls. If she was going to be traveling by auto-rickshaw, she’d have to do it Jackie O. style, with a headscarf.

  Then again, Raveena saw plenty of Muslim women in burkhas walking up and down the street and thought about wearing one herself for practical reasons. Her hair would be covered. Her face would be protected from grime, and she wouldn’t have to worry about her clothes getting dirty.

  The heat was relentless. Not wanting to arrive at the meeting with foundation melting off her face, she’d wisely kept the makeup to a minimum. Just some eyeliner and a dab of Chanel lipgloss.

  However, Raveena was regretting her choice of clothing. Her parents had warned her to dress conservatively while in India. So she was wearing beige trousers and a white tailored Oxford shirt.

  Meanwhile, right alongside the conservative Muslim women in burkhas were teenage girls in shorts and twenty-something women in tank tops, jeans and everything in between.

  Obviously, Bombay was to India what Los Angeles was to the rest of America.

  A whole different world.

  Raveena especially liked the cute cotton tunics or kurtas she’d seen many women of all ages sporting. They looked comfortable and stylish. Raveena decided to buy half a dozen for Maza and herself while here.

  “Fourteenth Road,” the driver said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the gutter. He was thickset and heavy, sweat visibly seeping through his khaki-colored clothing.

  “Okay,” Raveena said, happy the tobacco spray had missed her nether regions. “29 Jains Arcade?”

  The driver didn’t reply, so she repeated the question. He gave her an impatient nod.

  “Fine,” she said, sat back and watched the scenery chug by. Cars, buses and auto-rickshaws battled each other for the road. Skinny cows walked alongside, nosing through rubbish for food. The barking of stray dogs was everywhere.

  The driver stopped beside a small stand where a man was busy rolling bidis—cheap tapered cigarettes that looked like marijuana joints.

  Not realizing they’d arrived at the place, Raveena continued to sit in the back of the rickshaw until the driver turned, looked at her and pointed to the right. She turned and saw a large building.

  Raveena paid the driver twenty rupees, about forty cents, and very carefully crossed the street, dodging bicyclists, auto-rickshaws, cars and a hungry cow.

  There was a guard at the entrance to the building who stopped her before she could go in. He had an AK-47 strapped to his back.

  One of them was seriously packing too much metal.

  “I’m here to see Randy Kapoor,” she said, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

  The guard looked her up and down, decided she didn’t pose a menace, and nodded. Raveena opened the door and nearly let out a sigh of relief as the air-conditioned coolness washed over her.

  She took the elevator up to the second floor and found herself confronted by a set of thick glass double doors. Engraved into the glass were the words:

  Karma Productions

  Behind the glass she could see trendy twenty-something Indians walking back and forth, answering phones and working on computers. Raveena entered the bright purple and orange lobby—very MTV—and went up to the black circular front desk.

  “I’m Raveena Rai, here to see Randy Kapoor.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Rai,” the woman smiled. “Please come with me.”

  Raveena followed her through another set of double doors and into a lavish waiting room done up in marble. Two beautiful gold statues of Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth, occupied alcoves on opposite walls. A second woman sitting behind a black marble desk rose at their entrance.

  “Raveena?” the second woman asked, and Raveena recognized her voice from the phone that morning. The woman came forward smiling. “I’m Millie D’Souza.”

  Millie was petite, her black hair cut in a shiny bob. A slender gold cross gleamed against her throat. “Mr. Kapoor has yet to arrive. Can I get you some coffee? A cold drink?”

  “I’d love something cold. Ah, you don’t happen to have Thums Up, do you?” Raveena had been craving the drink since yesterday.

  Millie looked surprised. “Yes, we do. It’s my favorite, but most people prefer Coke or Pepsi.”

  Raveena took a seat on a plush burgundy sofa while Millie returned to her desk and pushed a button on the intercom.

  A few moments later a young boy entered the room carefully balancing a tray with two tall glasses, his bare feet moving soundlessly across the floor.

  Millie waited until he had left, then took a sip of her drink. “In America you do not have people like our office boys?”

  Raveena thought about certain personal assistants in Hollywood who were expected not only to make calls, but wash the star’s Chihuahua’s butt, plan parties for the star’s kids, arrange for sex escorts and bring coffee. But she knew what Millie meant.

  “No, we don’t. I mean, secretaries will make coffee for their bosses and get lunch, but that’s not their main job. And they’re usually eighteen years old and over.”

  Millie nodded.

  Raveena sat back and drank her Th
ums Up. She was getting addicted to the stuff.

  By the time she finished her drink, Randy still had not arrived. Millie was busy taking phone calls and working on the computer but would shoot Raveena sympathetic looks now and again.

  To entertain herself, Raveena thumbed through several glossy Bollywood magazines. That was how she got two pieces of very bad news.

  The first was from an article on, yes, Randy Kapoor. Apparently, his last five films had all been expensive flops. The very last had been a Bollywood rip-off of Runaway Bride.

  She peered closely at a picture of a thin, balding gray-haired man in a suit. He was wiping his brow and looked like the worried accountant of a mobster. According to the caption, it was Randy Kapoor’s financier and father, Daddy.

  The picture of Randy himself was blurry, and she could barely make out his features. She did, however, make out the bright yellow Tommy Hillfiger jacket he was wearing.

  Very Ali G.

  The second piece of bad news was from the gossip pages of a Bollywood rag called Stardust. Raveena was shocked to see her name mentioned. Well, not her name per se, but it was pretty obvious who they were talking about. She quickly scanned the lines:

  Rumors have it that casting couch Casanova Randy Kapoor has brought in a foreign actress to play the heroine in his next film. According to the copulating Kapoor, the role required someone of Indian origin but with an American accent. However, Stardust tattlers tell the real tale. As it turns out, no self-respecting Bombay actress will work with the randy Randy. We wish the poor unsuspecting Yank all the best. Maybe she should have brought a chaperone with her…

  Great. Raveena had barely been in Bombay for two days, and already her reputation was being battered and splattered across the pages of India’s answer to Variety!

  About the randy Randy business—sure, the casting couch was a fixture in Hollywood as well. But Raveena had never encountered it.

  She couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or offended about that.

  Raveena was still deciding when the door opened and Millie looked up. “Mr. Kapoor,” she said.

  Raveena put the magazines away and prepared herself.

  She was finally going to meet Randy Kapoor.

  Chapter 16

  Not surprisingly, Raveena didn’t care for the director.

  And it wasn’t because he grabbed her ass as soon as they entered his private office.

  Randy Kapoor was, in the words of philosopher Thomas Hobbes, nasty, brutish and short.

  “I consider myself the Quentin Tarantino of India,” Randy said with a smug smile. “Or maybe a cross between Tarantino and Coppola.” He laughed loudly.

  Since Chris Rock wasn’t in the room, Raveena didn’t know what the hell was so funny.

  Randy was about thirty, five-five and slightly on the chubby side. He was dressed head to toe in Polo Sport: Polo baseball cap, Polo sunglasses, Polo track pants and a Polo T-shirt.

  Privately, she decided to refer to him as Mr. Polo Sport from now on.

  Mr. Polo Sport didn’t bring up the accommodations or her flight.

  Instead, Randy fixed her with what he probably thought was a seductive smile.

  Raveena thought he looked constipated.

  “The moment I saw your ad in Singapore, I knew you were the one,” he said. “You were very voluptuous and seductive.”

  “Err, thank you.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “My last film was nearly screened in Cannes. I suppose you saw it. It was a super hit.”

  “Oh, the remake of Runaway Bride?” Raveena asked.

  Honestly, she said that without any sarcasm.

  Randy narrowed his eyes. “My film was inspired by Runaway Bride. Why can’t anyone see that?” He sat forward and stared directly at her. “Let me ask you a question. You don’t hate the Japanese, do you?”

  “Of course not!”

  Randy threw out his hands. “Well, I’m like the Japanese; I take something American and make it better. Don’t you use Japanese products? Well, that’s me. I’m like Sony and Hollywood is Panasonic. We both exist in the same market.” He sat back in his chair and beamed.

  Raveena shifted in her chair, and for the umpteenth time since arriving at Randy’s office, she questioned what the hell she was doing peddling her acting prowess in Bombay.

  Oh right, because she didn’t have any other offers.

  To distract herself, Raveena checked out the office artwork and felt oddly comforted.

  Glossy posters of sexy Bollywood heroines and studly Bollywood heroes in blockbuster Bollywood films graced the walls.

  Movies starring people who looked just like her.

  Okay, so maybe her boobs weren’t as uplifting as the actress’s in the poster to her right, and she’d yet to see an Indian guy who looked as good as the actor featured in the poster to her left…

  And yet that wasn’t the point.

  The only Indian face Raveena had regularly seen on TV while growing up was Apu from The Simpsons.

  God, how she loved Apu.

  Randy interrupted her reverie. “I knew you would be perfect for my film.”

  No one had ever told Raveena she was perfect for a film.

  Well, no one other than Griffin, and he was usually talking out of his ass.

  She felt herself softening a bit towards the randy Randy.

  Crossing her legs, Raveena flashed him a smile. “Well, considering your main character is a girl from America. I’d say I’m absolutely perfect.”

  “We’re not doing that film any longer,” Randy corrected.

  Raveena sat forward. “Excuse me?”

  “Romantic films are out.” He waved his hand dismissively. “The audience wants action. They want lavish sets. They want larger than life.”

  She gripped the arms of her chair. “No one told me about this. Does my agent know? I was never sent a new script.”

  “There is no script as of yet,” Randy said. “I’ll begin working on one after we start shooting.”

  Did she just hear correctly?

  Randy took note of her shocked look. “The story is the least important aspect of the film.”

  “Am I still the lead?”

  Randy was about to say something when he paused, and placed his hand on a piece of paper, pushing it towards her. “Confidentiality agreement. No word of my film can leave this room. If it does, I will have you before the Bombay High Court.”

  Randy Kapoor, who had remade Runaway Bride without permission, was afraid of someone stealing his idea?

  Raveena grabbed the paper and signed her name with a flourish. “I’d like to hear about this new film now.”

  Randy framed his hands as though he were looking through a camera lens. “Picture the Taj Mahal. Who in the world has not heard of it? The Taj is a world wonder and synonymous with India.”

  Yeah, she’d read the guidebook and been there with her parents. “Go on.”

  “The epic of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal is a great love story. When Mumtaz died Shah Jahan threw himself into building the greatest testament to love the world has ever seen.”

  From what Raveena’s dad—a history buff—had told her, Mumtaz Mahal had been a beautiful shy bride, gentle and sweet.

  It wouldn’t be that much of a stretch for Raveena to play her.

  “So, I’m going to play Mumtaz Mahal?”

  “Well,” Randy hesitated, “my vision of her. I don’t want to turn this into a romance.”

  He didn’t want to turn the greatest love story ever told into a romantic movie? She waited for him to clarify.

  “In my vision, Mumtaz Mahal is like Xena, the warrior princess. Xena was very popular in India. Instead of coming to Shah Jahan a shy bride, Mumtaz meets him on the battlefield where she defeats him in hand-to-hand combat. Eventually their hate turns to love. I plan to use Hong Kong–style action sequences.”

  Raveena could feel an ache building in her temples. “Let me get this straight. Mumtaz Mahal is now a warrior
-princess who kicks the emperor’s ass and then falls in love with him?”

  Randy nodded excitedly.

  The ache in her temples began to pound. “And what is this ah, movie, going to be called?”

  Randy rubbed his hands gleefully. “Taj Mahal 3000…Unleashed!”

  Jesus Christ!

  She needed some Advil.

  Chapter 17

  Half an hour later, Raveena found herself at Sahara Studios. She was sitting in the shade of a coconut tree drinking a Thums Up and waiting for the rest of the cast and crew to arrive.

  She’d decided to be positive about Taj Mahal 3000: Unleashed. It was her first shot at a leading role, and she was determined to throw herself whole-heartedly into the project.

  Randy was pacing up and down the walkway blabbing into his cell phone.

  Raveena took another swig and gazed around.

  Sahara Studios was made up of a long dirt drive and several low-slung, one-story whitewashed buildings. Coconut trees were everywhere.

  A door opened in one of the buildings, and a man walked towards them. She recognized him from his picture in the film magazine. The producer of the film.

  Daddy.

  Raveena didn’t know whether it was the suit he wore that reminded her of her father or his gentle yet welcoming smile, but she instantly liked him.

  “How are you beti?” he asked.

  Beti was the Hindi word for daughter. Raveena was touched and liked him even more.

  “I’m fine Mr. Kapoor. Thank you.”

  He shook his head. “No, you must call me Daddy. Everyone does.”

  “Okay…Daddy.”

  “Your accommodations are good?”

  “Yes. I’m staying with my uncle.”

  For a moment he looked puzzled. “But I thought the Holiday Inn…” He shot a glance at Randy, who was still on his cell. Daddy turned back to her. “Never mind. It is always better to stay with family, no?”

  Raveena was tempted to ask him about the Holiday Inn. Was that where Daddy had arranged for her to stay? Could she be basking in air-conditioned bliss instead of perspiring at Uncle Heeru’s? She was about to open her mouth and tell Daddy all about how his son had booked a room at the Officer’s Club instead, but then thought better of it.