Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood

by Varsha Bajaj

  They laugh and yada-yada some more in Hindi.

  I stand there, not sure what to do. Should I talk to him? Before I can decide what to say, he turns to me, “Hey, I’m

  Shaan,” he says. “They’re catching up. Mom used to live next door to Naveen Kumar when they were kids. She always visits Tara Aunty when we’re in town.”

  “I’m Abby. You understand Hindi?” I ask.

  Duh, of course he understands Hindi. Didn’t he just translate?

  “Yes. Yes, I do. And English.” He’s laughing at me. “And you?” “Oh, I speak English. But I don’t speak Hindi.” Genius,

  Abby.

  Shaan’s cell phone buzzes and he reaches into his pocket. He grins as he reads a text. He sweeps his hair off his forehead and types an answer.

  Shiva and his mom are still talking animatedly. I look down at the tray in my hand and decide to continue passing out the water. I peek at Shaan as discreetly as possible. Cute. Definitely cute. He continues to smile as he types. I stare,

  knowing he’s texting and not looking at me. Then he looks up and catches me. Oh Schmit!

  I turn away red-faced but then can’t resist a peek back. He bows. Oh Schmidt again.

  I smile. He’d been looking too. My stomach somersaults. I struggle to focus on my task. For the first time I truly understood Zoey and her crushes.

  “A-bby,” Shiva calls, and I hastily finish handing out the rest of the water. “We go inside.”

  “Holy crap!” Shaan blurts out when he steps into the house and earns a look from his mother.

  “I know, right?” I say.

  Grandma Tara is thrilled to see Shaan’s mother. “You have met our special guest, Abby. Her mother and Naveen went to university together in America.”

  “Is this your first trip?” Shaan’s mom wants to know. “Yes,” I reply. “And what about you?”

  “We visit every other year,” Shaan says. “We live in Dallas, but my grandparents live in Mumbai.”

  He lives in Texas? My stomach somersaults again.

  Shiva rushes off to make chai and Shaan and I wander toward the wall of Dad’s pictures.

  “So have you met Rani yet?” Shaan whispers in a conspiratorial tone and points to a picture of Dad with this completely dazzling woman.

  “Who’s she?” I ask.

  “Get outta here!” Shaan exclaims loud enough to grab Grandma Tara’s and his mom’s attention.

  “Rani was Naveen Kumar’s heroine in Kismet.”

  Seeing the blank look on my face he elaborates, “Kismet was only his biggest hit ever. They are the hottest couple of Bollywood.”

  Grandma Tara purses her lips at the mention of Rani.

  I struggle to control my conflicting emotions. Shock, disappointment, interest. What did I expect? Of course Dad had a hot girlfriend! Do the tabloids combine celebrity couples’ names in India too? Are they the Raveen of Bollywood?

  Shaan’s mom tactfully changes the topic, “If you haven’t seen Kismet, you really should. Shaan’s cousins are taking him tomorrow. It’s been running at the Mandir Cinema for five years, hasn’t it?” she asks Grandma Tara.

  Even Grandma Tara agrees that I should go.

  “You have to come with us. We’ll have a great time. We’ll educate you,” says Shaan with the goofiest grin. The grin makes me want to smile all the way to my toes. I wonder if my hair is a mess. Why couldn’t I have known I was going to meet him when I threw on my clothes this morning? I’d been thinking of the temperature and humidity—so unimportant when the cutest boy ever enters the scene.

  Shaan and his mom leave after she takes some pictures

  with Grandma Tara and Shiva for old times’ sake. I take some too. I want a picture of Shaan to show Priya and Zoey.

  Chapter 14

  Lost in translation

  Dad calls Shaan’s mom that evening and they catch up. Yackety-yak. He thanks her for including me in their movie plans. “Abby will love the movie on the big screen. Thanks for inviting her. Maybe you and Shaan would like to join Abby when she comes to my movie set the day after,” he suggests before hanging up.

  My eyes bug out of my head. I’m visiting the set of his movie? Squee! Why didn’t he tell me? With Shaan? That might be more excitement than I could handle. I might spontaneously combust.

  Over dinner, Dad tells me the story of the movie I’m seeing the next day so I’ll understand. It’s in Hindi, of course, and there are no subtitles. “It is a typical Bollywood boy-meet-girl story with action, and song

  and dance thrown in for flavor like bay leaves in curry,” says Dad.

  “Or like blueberries in muffins,” I add and he laughs. “BTW, where did you meet Rani?” I ask.

  He looks at me intently. “On a movie set many years ago.

  We’ve acted in seven movies together.”

  I hope for more. Are they in love? Does he plan to marry her as the old magazine I found in the bedroom claims?

  All he says is, “You’ll meet her when you come to the set tomorrow. I hope you’re not bored—”

  “Bored? You’re joking, right?”

  So I would meet Rani too. This is getting interesting. A movie set, a day with Shaan and Dad, and a surprise ingredient—Rani! Wow!

  Dad laughs with his eyes. “We’re shooting a song. I thought it might be more interesting for you than a dramatic scene. So much of filmmaking is sitting around waiting for the shot to be ready.”

  I called Mom immediately to tell her about the movie plans and the set visit. “Honey, what a glamorous life you’re living. Have a good time.”

  “Mom, it’s so cool. A week ago I’d never met him, and now I’m going to his movie set.”

  Then I tell Mom about the not so cool—the children begging at traffic lights, the homeless sleeping on the streets,

  and the stray dogs and how Shiva and I fed them rotis. “From the number of rotis we have, they’re not all leftovers. Shiva makes a few extra to feed them. We are pals, Shiva and I. Oh, and, Mom, I’ve been playing my violin for everyone. They call it Concert Time and they think I’m the best ever!”

  Mom laughs and says, “Abby, how exciting this trip is for you!” Then we say our good-byes and hang up.

  It is exciting. A small voice whispers, exhausting too! Everything is so different. The feel of the mattress, the kids playing cricket on the streets, the coolness of the floor, the sound of the ocean, the temperature, the sea breeze, the different rupee bills and coins, the sounds of Hinglish, the taste of Thums Up—Indian Coke—the game of carom that Grandma taught me, and the awful fishy smell the wind sometimes brought in from the fishing village a few miles from Dad’s house. It’s all so new, there’s always something to learn and something else to photograph. Then the little voice says, Abby, you wouldn’t want to change a thing. You’re having a blast.

  The next morning, Shiva walks me over to the apartment building where Shaan’s cousin lives. It’s about a block away from Dad’s house. Shaan’s cousin, Jay, greets Shiva and me with an angelic namaste when we enter the sixth floor apartment. He’s in his twenties and his hair is all wild. He’s our chaperone/driver to the movie and will drive us for pizza afterward. He jokes that he’ll tuck us in bed and read us a story too!

  He messes Shaan’s hair and then he reaches over and pinches my cheek as if I’m five! Really? I’m lobster red.

  Shaan’s mom and Shiva both wave good-bye to us with huge grins as we step into the elevator. I guess that this is how non-movie star, middle-class people lived.

  We ride down to the first-floor garage.

  Jay walks over to an awaiting motorcycle and says, “Abby, you ride with me.”

  I look at the motorbike and think, Seriously? You told Shaan’s mother you were driving us—like in a car. This has to be a joke. Mom will kill me if she ever finds out.

  The string quartet plays a da-da-da tune, warning me of danger. “And what about Shaan?” I ask.

  Seemingly out of nowhere another bike thunders.<
br />
  “This is my friend, Ravi. You ride with him,” Jay says to Shaan.

  “Really? Cool!” says Shaan, jumping onto the bike and putting on his helmet.

  Jay hands me a helmet and guns the bike. Its loud, animal echo in the garage makes me jump. “Get on.”

  What is going on? I swear only minutes ago Jay was a candidate for parents’ pet of the year with all his hand-folded namastes.

  The whole scene reminds me of a thriller in which a gun-toting international spy lurks out from behind a concrete pillar and start chasing us at any minute. I peek over my shoulder. Before I can censor the words, they spill out of my mouth. “Is it safe?”

  Jay puts on his helmet. “Mwah! Ha! Ha! C’mon, kiddo, of course it’s safe.” He guns the bike’s throttle again and bends over the chrome handlebars, “Get on, or we’ll be late.”

  I stand there.

  “C’mon, Abby,” Jay yells over the roar of the bike. “Trust your elders. Get on,” he thrusts the helmet at me.

  Elders? Jay is twenty-something and acts like an immature twelve-year-old.

  “I’ve ridden with him before,” says Shaan. “He’s okay.” He doesn’t seem to have my reservations.

  Against my better judgment, I put on the helmet and get on the bike. I don’t want to be the dork.

  We shoot onto the streets of Mumbai like a cannonball.

  Would Dad approve of me going to the movie on a bike with crazy Jay?

  “Hang on!” Jay yells.

  Do I have a choice? Not if I want to live.

  The bike roars on the street alongside the ocean. The wind flaps my scarf across my face. As the wind picks up, Jay’s laugh sounds more maniacal and makes me dig my

  fingernails into his shoulders. Finally I clutch his middle with my arms and hold my breath. The string quartet is so frightened it fumbles notes.

  We weave through the streets of Mumbai. This time I feel exposed on a motorbike rather than safely inside Dad’s car. We snake through rows of cars strangled in traffic. I gape at scooters with entire families on them. I’ve never seen so many people—except maybe after a football game. It seems like the streets of Mumbai are always busy. Cows, dogs, the occasional goat, and humans all share the road with trucks, bikes, motorcycles, rickshaws, and cars. Makeshift shanty shops coexist with bars and restaurants that would fit in New York. Old, derelict buildings stand alongside shiny chrome and steel skyscrapers that house corporate offices and ritzy malls.

  The slums of Mumbai sprawl from its sparkling ocean. The muddy color of poverty is interspersed by the bright blue color of the tarpaulin people use to keep the rain out of their homes.

  We’re always within less than an inch of something. Jay’s driving paralyzes me with fear—even my gasps are silent. We screech to a halt at a traffic light and I hesitantly look up to see that Shaan is next to me. He grins and I begin to melt inside. But then I catch a glimpse of something behind Shaan. There it is again, the poster of shirtless Dad—his abs

  displayed for the world to admire and for his daughter to die of embarrassment.

  I suggested to Dad that he should always have his shirt on since it embarrasses the heck out of me, his thirteen-year-old daughter. He threw his head back and laughed, but Grandma Tara was my ally. She smiled. “Naveen, I agree with Abby.”

  To make matters worse, Jay points at the display of abs and laughs. Shaan mimics tearing his shirt off. My face is so red it could explode.

  The light turns green and we rocket off again. Ready, set, vroom-vroom. Are we competing with someone? Now the road is uphill. Skyscrapers loom around us. The sea sparkles to our right again, the sun’s rays reflecting diamonds on the water. The ocean is never far, always around the corner.

  In spite of myself, I relax a bit. This motorbike tour of Mumbai will be a secret, always. If I tell Mom about it, she would be on the next flight over. And I do not want that.

  Since I’ve been here, Dad has forbidden raw fruits and vegetables. I drink nothing but bottled water. Shiva lights mosquito coils in the house after sunset. As Dad said, I would not fall sick under his watch. No Delhi belly for me! But here I am motorbike thrill riding with a maniac.

  Jay slows down to point to the dome of the Haji Ali mosque in the ocean. “We’re almost there!” he shouts.

  The motorbike purrs like a cat when we slow down and park. I get off on shaking knees and pull off my helmet with trembling hands. Shaan gets off Ravi’s bike, comes over to me, and whispers, “Abby, let’s keep this a secret. If my mom knew, she would kill Jay and me.” He grins. “But let’s take a picture to show our friends.”

  Shaan and I exchange a pinky swear. “Our parents will never know,” I promise.

  Ravi takes a picture of Jay, Shaan, and me with the bikes in the background. Priya and Zoey would never believe this story without evidence.

  “I have seen this movie three times already,” Jay says as we cross the parking lot. “But for you guys, I’ll watch it again.” I can’t even answer because there is shirtless Dad again.

  Larger than life cutouts of Dad stand in front of the theater. Fans clamor to take pictures with the cutouts.

  Jay leans in. “You guys want a picture?” “No!” Shaan and I say together.

  I whisper to Shaan, “I’m going to paint a shirt on him.” He gives me a funny look. “Why? You against fab abs?”

  Oops. Not sure how to respond to that without an explanation. I give a weak fake smile.

  People stand in a line that crisscrosses the theater for tickets. Jay preordered the tickets and we buy something called masala popcorn and walk in. Shaan explains that the

  popcorn is flavored with Indian spice mix. I pop one in my mouth and taste the newness. Hmm! Nice spicy smell.

  The lights dim and ads came on. I have an aisle seat, and Shaan its next to me. Neither of us uses the armrest between us. I’m scared to invade his territory. Is he? We’re so close, one move, and I’d brush his arm.

  The credits roll. Starring Naveen Kumar flashes across the screen and the audience claps enthusiastically. I can feel obvious excitement. I’ve never seen someone I know—let alone my dad—projected larger than life on a gigantic screen. Just the size makes him seem somehow unreal. Yes, I saw the billboards, but this is different. He’s moving, talking, dancing, and I can see every pore on his skin. Weirdville. He’s speaking in Hindi, which I don’t understand, but I can tell from his expressions and the reactions of the audience around me that he’s a good actor.

  Fifteen minutes into the movie, Shaan relaxes, leans over, and claims the armrest. He leans toward me, his face close to mine. I almost jump and spill my popcorn. What is he doing?

  “He’s coming on to her in this scene,” he whispers, his lips less than an inch from my ear.

  Seriously? Why is he explaining this? It’s so obvious even without knowing what they’re saying that a newborn could figure that out.

  But instead of saying anything like that, I whisper, “Do they get together?”

  I shiver and feel goose bumps on the arm that leans against Shaan’s.

  Shaan continues to translate and whisper into my ear while I blush in the dark.

  He explains each nuance in the plot and I play along like I have no idea, even though Dad already told me the story. But Shaan doesn’t need to know that.

  Shaan’s breath is warm against my ear, and he smells of pinewoods and breath mints. The warmth of his breath tickles my stomach. My skin burns where our jeans touch.

  On the screen, Dad woos Rani. In the theater, my translator teaches me the language of flirting. At one point Dad looks straight into the camera and directly at me. I almost say, “Shaan, my dad’s watching!” But I catch myself.

  Nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared me for the first song-and-dance sequence. It’s like the one we watched on International Day. Except it’s not. That was on a computer monitor and this is on a big screen. Every shake of Dad’s hip and every flicker of his eye are magnified. It’s an MTV video bu
t bigger than all of us, and the rhythmic music wants to own our souls. The audience sings along, taps their feet, and roars their approval. Even Jay, who was asleep beside Shaan, wakes up.

  I get into the spirit, clap, and hum along. Shaan’s eyes connect with mine in the dark. Embarrassed, I look away. Shaan gives a Coke burp. We giggle as if it’s the funniest thing ever.

  The string quartet celebrates by joining in and playing the song from the movie.

  Please don’t let the movie end ever, I pray.

  Chapter 1 5

  Holy cow!

  The movie does end. Harsh lights replace the magical, whispering dark. Abruptly Shaan and I move apart. Shaan sticks his hands into his pockets and I tie my purse string into an unnecessary knot. Jay asks us all, “Who’s hungry for pizza?” We walked over to a pizza place across the street. I didn’t expect to see Pizza Hut or McDonalds or KFC in India, but here they are.

  Jay orders chicken tikka pizzas and we settle into a booth and dig in. Yup, the pizza has chicken tikka as a topping instead of pepperoni. And it is yummy!

  Shaan said, “Hey, Jay, doesn’t mandir mean temple in Hindi?”

  “Yes, it does. I’d never thought about the theater being called Mandir Cinema.”

  “Well, in that temple, Naveen Kumar is god!” Shaan declares with his mouth full.

  “And Rani is the goddess, isn’t she?” Jay and his friend drool over Rani.

  My thoughts drift away.

  Before I went to middle school and decided I didn’t need a father, I often wished that my dad would come and whisk my mom and me away. Not on a horse or anything, but drive up in a car. I know it was a silly crazy Parent Trap notion. Happy neat endings only happen in Disney movies. I scold myself, Grow up, Abby.

  But it was such a perfect daydream that I couldn’t help myself. Dad would come over and meet Mom, and they would fall for each other all over again. Maybe they would whisper in the dark like Shaan and I did at the movies. Mom isn’t dating anyone so that isn’t a problem. Why did Dad have to be dating this horrible, beautiful Rani creature? Bollywood’s Brangelina! Hrumph!