Busted in Bollywood

by Nicola Marsh

  Deep.

  “Not all of us are so lucky.” Anjali shrugged, the sadness tightening her mouth, making me wish I hadn’t probed.

  “What about Senthil? What’s he like?” I hoped switching from marriage back to the Ramas would divert her attention.

  “Very fine musician.” Her lips clamped into a thin, unimpressed line before she turned away.

  Guess discussing the Ramas hit a sore spot.

  I pointed at a nearby island. “Is that temple significant?”

  While Anjali prattled on about nearby Elephanta Island where the Temple Cave of Lord Shiva could be found, I pondered her revelations. She knew next to nothing about Rakesh, admired Senthil’s musical skills, and despised Anu. It shouldn’t have mattered, but her dislike for Rakesh’s mom made me uneasy. If Anjali had another agenda, one I knew nothing about, it could jeopardize our entire scheme. Like I wasn’t anxious enough.

  I focused on the Mumbai skyline, captured by the complexity of this cosmopolitan city. I’d been here a day and barely scratched the surface, but from what I’d seen on Anjali’s grand tour so far I was starting to get a feel for the place.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Anjali said as the boat docked and I helped her step onto land.

  “Just taking it all in.” The sights, and the mysterious disclosures.

  She patted my arm. “Don’t worry about meeting the Ramas. If Rakesh is anything like his father, you’ll be fine.”

  “What’s Senthil like?”

  “Nice enough.” She shrugged, her blasé response belied by a quick look-away.

  “Shame I’ll be dealing more with Anu and not him.”

  Anjali frowned. “Be careful with her. She’s astute and devious.” She made a slitting sign across her throat. “Cunning as a rat. Dangerous when confronted.”

  Uh-oh. The last thing I needed: a perceptive psycho. My nervousness morphed into full-blown terror.

  Before I could discover more, Buddy pulled up and we piled back into the car, his presence effectively ending further communication about the Rama plot. When Anjali started rummaging in her bag, I braced for another hottie fix-up. Instead, she pulled out a snack bag. “Sev?”

  “No thanks.” The refusal was barely out of my mouth before she popped the fine, crunchy, deep-fried strands of chickpea dough into hers. By the time she finished the bag we’d arrived at our next stop, the biggest train station I’d ever seen.

  I should stop pestering her and drop the subject of the Ramas, but the tidbits she’d revealed had only served to rattle me and I needed reassurance.

  As we left the car, I tapped her on the shoulder. “Auntie, I’m a little concerned.”

  “About?”

  “Meeting the Ramas.” How to phrase this without getting her riled? “If Anu’s so shrewd, won’t she see through me?” And worse, reenact some of that throat-slitting action Anjali had mimed.

  “We won’t fail.” Anjali squared her shoulders, ready for battle. “If she tries to intimidate you or harass you, she’ll have me to deal with, the sneaky snake. She’s a ghastly, horrid—”

  “This place is still functional, Auntie?” I’d had enough of Anjali’s adjectives. I got it. She hated Anu’s guts and further questioning would only contribute to her blood pressure skyrocketing if the ugly puce staining her cheeks and sweat beads rolling down her forehead were any indication. Besides, the more wound up she got, the more I wondered what the hell I’d become embroiled in. If Anu discovered my treachery… I suppressed a shudder.

  Anjali took a deep breath and exhaled, hopefully purging her angst. “Yes. Very busy place and the second UNESCO World Heritage site.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth and dusted off her hands. “Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus was formerly known as Victoria Terminal.”

  My very own walking, talking encyclopedia. Goody.

  “It’s amazing,” I said, unsure where to look first as we bid farewell to a patient Buddy again and joined the throng surging toward the station.

  Grand Central in NYC might be impressive but this place was something else entirely. A staggering feat of architecture, the station had countless archways and spires and domes and clocks that were an astounding combination of neo-Gothic, early Victorian, and traditional Indian.

  As we entered, Anjali pointed to a platform. “Over one thousand trains pass through here daily. Efficient, yes?”

  I nodded. “How many passengers?”

  “About three million.” She said it so casually, I could’ve mistaken it for 3,000.

  “Wow, this place is incredible.”

  We strolled through the station, admiring the architecture, the wood carvings, brass railings, ornamental iron, and precise detail engraved into every stone.

  As we neared the entrance, Anjali touched an archway with reverence. “So sad, the smog and acid rain is damaging this beauty.”

  I had to agree.

  “Next stop, my favorite restaurant.” Anjali rubbed her hands together in glee while my stomach rolled over in revolt.

  I didn’t dare ask why we’d skipped seeing Ghandi’s home. I knew. She’d been so rattled by my less-than-subtle harping about Anu, she needed to comfort eat. Besides, getting into a car here was living dangerously. Getting between Anjali and her apparent love of food? I wasn’t that brave. “Restaurant?”

  “No tour is complete without a stop at Chowpatty Beach.”

  A beach? Good, maybe I could walk off the inevitable gormandizing.

  We made small-talk as Buddy commandeered the streets, dodging buses belching diesel fume and carts and people, so many people. Interestingly, my death grip on the seat had loosened considerably by the time we reached the beach. I must’ve been growing accustomed to the chaos.

  Anjali gestured toward the shore. “Now we eat.”

  We abandoned Buddy and headed for the sand, the lack of restaurants confusing me.

  Reading my mind, Anjali pointed to a row of street vendors lining the beach. “The best bhel-puri ever.”

  I’d never tried the renowned chaat, fast-food. With Anjali dragging me toward the nearest stall, it looked like I was about to.

  She ordered and I watched, fascinated, as the young guy manning the stall dexterously laid out a neat row of papadi (small, crisp fried puris—flatbreads) and filled them with a mix of puffed rice, sev, onions, potatoes, green chilies, and an array of chutneys.

  I may not have been hungry but the tantalizing aromas of tamarind, mango, and coriander made my mouth water.

  “My treat.” I paid the vendor, who gawked at Anjali as she popped three bhel-puris in her mouth in quick succession.

  I laughed, loving her exuberance for food, more accustomed to it—even after a day—than the vendor.

  “What’s so funny?” she mumbled, eyeing the remaining three.

  “I’m just happy to be here.” I took one and shoved the other two in her direction.

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. “Positive.”

  She didn’t wait, tossing the bhel puris in her mouth and sighing with pleasure.

  That good, huh? I nibbled at mine, the instant sweet/sour/spicy explosion on my tastebuds making me want to demolish it as fast as Anjali. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to pass on the others…

  Anjali grinned at what I assumed was my orgasmic expression. “We’ll come back here one evening. You’ll be amazed.”

  “By more food?”

  She gestured toward the sand. “By everything. The beach is transformed with ferry and pony rides, balloon sellers, astrologers, contortionists, snake charmers, monkey-trainers, masseurs.” She snapped her fingers. “You name it, this place has it. Very entertaining to people-watch.”

  Glancing at the smallish crowd, most of them dozing in the shade of trees, I couldn’t imagine the
carnival atmosphere she described. Would be well worth another visit.

  Yeah, for the bhel-puri, too.

  “Sounds great. What about tonight?”

  She shook her head. “No can do. Glee finale.”

  I stifled a grin at her addiction to TV, along with food.

  She rubbed her belly and winced—no great surprise considering what she’d stuffed in there. “Time to head home and rest.”

  Good. My mind spun with all I’d seen, and I couldn’t wait to fill Rita in on the gossip.

  Plus I needed to steel my nerves to meet the Ramas. My rapidly dwindling confidence had taken a hit following Anjali’s disclosures about Anu.

  This could get messy.

  chapter two

  To: Amrita.M@hotmail.com

  From: Shari.J@yahoo.com

  Subject: Mumbai mayhem

  You owe me.

  Not just a year’s supply of cheesecake. Not ten year’s worth of mojitos. But big-time!

  We’re talking a date with Leonardo di Caprio, new apartment on Fifth, a Valentino original. Twenty pairs of Manolos. Get the picture?

  Nothing, and I mean nothing, could’ve prepared me for this. And I haven’t even met your lover boy yet. This place is crazy! But I guess you already knew that, huh?

  Went touring yesterday, fab fun. But hair-raising! The traffic? Seriously scary. Crashed for the afternoon. Had planned on emailing you but got waylaid by Anjali and her unforgiving addiction to Glee, CSI, and True Blood. Today, I’ve walked around the local area, exploring, but jet lag and the heat have caught up with me and now I’m laying around.

  On the upside, your aunt is sweet. She’s killing me with kindness and raising my cholesterol to staggering highs with her force-feeding habits. Don’t worry about my personality scaring Rakesh away. He’ll take one look at the lard-ass he’s supposed to marry and run all the way to Delhi.

  Speaking of your betrothed, the big welcoming party for me/you is set for tomorrow. Apparently, the Ramas can’t wait to meet me/you, though Anjali has held them off for my first two days here, thank God. Your aunt has some serious issues when it comes to Anu. ‘Hates her guts’ would be putting it mildly.

  Have you heard from your parents? Better brace yourself for the heavens to fall in when they return from the Canyon. If we succeed in getting rid of Rakesh, guaranteed they’ll fix you up with someone else, only child or not.

  Anyway, will do my best to repel Lover Boy at the party tomorrow. Anjali gave me a special outfit to wear, an amazing green salwar kameez I’m sure inspired Versace’s spring collection last year. The flowing pants make my legs look like Gisele’s and the tunic is mid-thigh, embroidered in crystals and utterly fab. I actually look Indian! Mom would be proud.

  That’s about it. Anjali’s about to twist my ear and drag me away from the computer for dinner. Can someone overdose on halwa?

  Missing you.

  Missing Mojito Mondays more.

  Hugs,

  Shari xoxo

  (PS. Is it a coincidence my name rhymes with sari? Maybe I was fated to be a stand-in fiancée all along. See, I’m hallucinating from the heat already.)

  “Shari, come and eat. You need to put some flesh on your bones.” Anjali’s screech drifted upstairs and I glanced around the room, wistfully contemplating a getaway.

  I darted to the window and peered at the drop to the dirty concrete below, wishing an escape route would miraculously appear. If I saw another pakora, bonda, or vada—heavenly deep-fried lentil and veggie snacks—I wouldn’t be responsible for my actions.

  “Shari.”

  I sighed and cast a final, tempted look out the window. “Coming, Auntie.”

  Before I let the gauze-like curtains slide back into place, a movement in the semi-darkness across the street captured my attention. Someone leaned against the shop front opposite, Punjab Sweets—where else would Anjali live, but opposite a sweetshop?—smoking a cigarette, staring at my window.

  He kicked at an empty soda can and I noticed fancy steel-capped snakeskin cowboy boots poking out beneath his jeans. A devoted shoe aficionado, I always noticed footwear before faces. Tate had discovered my weakness, taking note of my ‘matching shoes, matching outfit’ motto at work, and homed in for the kill accordingly by taking me on a shopping spree for our memorable third date. His hand cupping my heel as his thumb caressed my instep had been seductive. His platinum AMEX, impressive. His consideration in carrying four boxes of the most exquisite shoes I’d ever seen all the way back to his apartment had sealed the deal. I’d shown my gratitude by donning strappy red-sequined sandals with a three-inch heel, knowing they perfectly matched the satin bra and thong I wore beneath my T and jeans. Yeah, he got to see everything, lingerie and all.

  Come to think of it, my inherent stupidity probably started around that time.

  Back to the Mumbai cowboy. A slow spiral of smoke from his cigarette wafted skyward, the only indication of movement. What happened to the teeming hordes that swarmed the street all day? And where was the usual line outside the sweetshop? Everyone had vanished, leaving me locked in a staring comp with a stranger.

  “What’s keeping you, child? I’ll starve to death waiting for you.” Anjali’s shriek had reached ear-splitting levels and I grinned, knowing if she were to die it sure as hell wouldn’t be from starvation.

  Curious, I peered at the international man of mystery before facing another interminable meal with Anjali. Yeah, I know, pretty pathetic way to get kicks, but hey, there wasn’t much else going on. I let the curtain drop and he moved, stepping away from the shadows to stare directly at my window.

  Jeez-us. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps on full display in a cut-off denim shirt stretched across his chest, trim waist, and long legs. Impressive. Tate had worked out, but this guy had muscles. I couldn’t see much of his face thanks to his hat, a Stetson.

  I giggled. First the boots, now the hat. The Lone Ranger, surrounded by a million Indians. By the size of his biceps, bet this cowboy could bench-press a thousand Tontos without breaking a sweat. Humming “The William Tell Overture” under my breath I snuck another peek, glad for the anonymity the curtain provided.

  As if sensing my stare, he tipped his hat—freaky—before sauntering down the street. Nice ass, too.

  Note to self: must not perv on stalker-ish guys. Though I’d always had a thing for cowboys.

  “Mom and her Mills & Boon novels,” I muttered, vowing to steer clear of rugged cowboys and move on to reading about dashing tycoons and charming billionaires instead.

  Maybe I should buy a stack tomorrow and share with Anjali. Reading risqué romance would surely distract her from fattening me up. I could live in hope.

  …

  To: Shari.J@yahoo.com

  From: Amrita.M@hotmail.com

  Subject: Mumbai makeover

  Hey girlfriend,

  You sound like a new woman, embracing all Mumbai has to offer: the food, the people, the clothes. Wish I could see you in that salwar kameez.

  About Auntie, she’s had this vendetta with Anu Rama for as long as I can remember. When I’ve spent time with her she’s called her everything from a thieving slut to the Bombay Bitch but she’s never said much beyond the name-calling. No surprise she agreed to help me pull this stunt.

  Good luck at the party. Bet it’ll be a blast. NOT!

  As for your stipulations regarding payment, Leo says his calendar’s full ’til 2015 but he’ll squeeze you in after that. (Stop watching Titanic endlessly with Anjali. I forgot she’s a fellow Leo aficionado!) The Fifth Avenue apartment might be a toughie but I’ll see what I can do. The Valentino dress and the Manolos? Too easy. Increase your demands next time, why don’t you?

  Why the mojito withdrawal? What happened to the duty-free stash? Our Mojito Mondays are a tradition. In f
act, I’m raising a glass to you as we speak (shh… don’t tell Mom).

  To Mojito Mondays in Mumbai!

  Thinking of you.

  Love you.

  Rita xx

  P.S. I know India is a bit of a culture shock at first, but when in India, do as the Indians do… Eat a few jalebis for me!

  I chuckled at Rita’s email the next evening and tried not to salivate at the thought of a mojito being raised in my direction. Of all the cultures I chose to impersonate, I had to choose an alcohol-free one.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m no lush, but Rita was right about one thing: Mojito Mondays had become a tradition. Men had come and gone, friends had drifted in and out of our circle, but nothing and no one came between us and our mojitos. Until now.

  Slicking a final coat of gloss over my cherry-coated lips, I pouted at the mirror, ran a fingertip along my eyebrows, and stared at my reflection. With my hair in an elaborate bun, enough borrowed gold dripping from my ears, wrists, and fingers to rival Fort Knox, and the emerald salwar kameez skimming my curves, I looked like an authentic Indian. Being here, surrounded by the bamboozling culture, I actually felt my Indian roots reaching out and anchoring me to the soil of my birthplace.

  I descended the stairs, smiling at Anjali’s wide-eyed surprise when she first caught sight of me. “Come here, child. You look positively… positively—”

  “Indian?” I braced when she threw her arms around me and squeezed the air out of my lungs, sniffling into my kameez.

  “Oh my. Stunning.” Her head wobbled from side to side, which had me wondering if she was agreeing or disagreeing.

  “Shouldn’t we get going?” I glanced at my watch, wanting to get this ordeal over and done with. In particular, facing my ridiculous fear that Anu would flay me alive if she discovered my deception. The sooner I met the Rama clan and scared off their son, the happier I’d be.

  “Of course.” Anjali clapped her hands twice, her usual sign to summon Buddy. Amazingly, he always came running, no matter in which part of the house he was hiding from her ladyship. “Let’s wait on the veranda while Buddy starts the car.”