Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood

by Varsha Bajaj

  “I want to buy an Indian outfit for Priya’s birthday party.

  Maybe I could wear it for the photo shoot too?”

  Dad laughs. “As many as you want, beta. I’ll have Salima take you. Or maybe Rani, if she has the time.”

  My stomach flip-flops. Shopping with Rani? Seriously? “Grandma Tara would love to take you but I don’t think

  she is up to it,” Dad adds. “Though she has recovered much faster since you’ve been here.”

  Can a meal last for three hours? Yes. If you have a lifetime of things to talk about. He wants to hear all about me getting stitches in my arm in kindergarten and the blueberry pie at Slice of Muse, my grandparents, my violin, and my friends. He tells me about his years in Dallas. The conversation is spectacular but I miss Mom and wish she were at this table with us.

  “Abby, I wish I had stayed in touch with your mom. I do. But I moved to Delhi with a new job and then films happened to me. I was thrown into the deep end of the pool. Fame is not easy to deal with. And before I knew it, years had flown by. I did think about trying to contact her but I thought she was probably married and had a husband, kids, job…”

  He trails off. What would have happened if Dad had picked up the phone and called her? How would my life have been different?

  I guess we’ll never know.

  His voice takes me out of my thoughts. “You and Shiva are becoming friends he tells me.”

  “We are. Did you know Shiva makes rotis and we feed the dogs in our neighborhood?”

  Dad takes a sip of his coffee and signals for the check. “One day we will do more. We’ll build a place to help animals and call it Abby’s Place.”

  Is it another promise of tomorrow?

  On the way out, we stop at the gift shop. Wow! The choices. I wasn’t going to buy anything; but, finally, on Dad’s insistence I choose presents for everyone back home—mugs, table mats, scarves, pottery, and a kurta—a tunic shirt—for Grandpa. I leave the gift shop with more bags than I can carry. While driving home, Dad stops the car on Marine Drive.

  He motions out the window. “These lights are called the

  Queen’s Necklace, Abby. I loved coming here with my father when I was little.”

  The lights look like diamonds on a choker, encircling the pitch-black ocean. I hug the thought that he’s shared them with me.

  Chapter 17

  Dhak dhak dhin

  What do you wear when you visit a movie studio and there’s a cute boy involved? I have no idea. I try on several outfits. Jeans with blue-striped T-shirt, jeans with a tank and crocheted vest, capris with the striped T-shirt, white Bermudas with black top, two skirts, and a sundress. Or almost the entire contents of my suitcase.

  What look am I going for? Casual, cute, or sophisticated? I don’t know. Am I trying to impress Shaan? Am I trying to make Dad proud? Could one outfit do both? I need a stylist or at least a good fashion magazine to copy from. Finally, I chose the skinny jeans with the red tank and swirly crocheted vest.

  Dad left a few hours ago. He has to do some publicity shots and asked us to come around eleven. “So you don’t get bored waiting around,” he’d said.

  I don’t know why he’s so worried about us being bored.

  We’re going to be on a movie set!

  Shiva drives Shaan and me to Film Studios. “I love song shooting,” he’d declared that morning as he rushed around finishing up all his morning duties.

  Shaan whispers, “I hope you weren’t too freaked by our rickshaw-bike chase. I should’ve known better.”

  Shiva looks back at us suspiciously.

  “No, no. I mean, I didn’t have time to think about it,” I whisper. “Jay’s okay—a bit crazy at times,” Shaan says.

  I roll my eyes, not entirely sure of Jay’s sanity.

  Shaan points to a poster of shirtless Dad and snickers. “Hey, weren’t you going to paint shirts on him?”

  A woman in the car next to us pokes half her body out her window and takes a picture of the poster.

  Shame on her! I turn as red as a summer strawberry.

  Shaan finds it hysterical. He grabs my camera and takes a picture too. “To show your friends,” he laughs.

  “Shut up!”

  Our car slows at the gates to the studio. There is a small group of people at the entrance hoping to catch a glimpse of the stars entering the compound.

  “Our car is obviously a disappointment. No film stars here.” Shaan shrugs his shoulders at the crowd and silently mouths sorry.

  I don’t know what I expected but the set is a stunner. The production team has recreated the interior of a nightclub. I’ve never been inside a nightclub, but that’s how they look on TV and in the movies—dark, smoky, cave-like, forbidden.

  Shaan and I stand with our mouths gaping. Loud music echoes and literally shakes the set. A zillion people scurry around. Huge lights are pushed and rolled into place. White reflector screens are being positioned and argued about. The catering staff scampers around loading snacks and water on long tables. Production crew members yell out in Hinglish to one another across the set. It’s as busy as ants at a picnic.

  The nightclub set is like a stage. In a theater, beyond the stage, is the audience. On a movie set, there are wires, blazing lights, and the crew. Outside the stage lies the junky reality of rafters and exposed two-by-fours, ropes, hammers, and nails. A dozen dancers with dramatically kohled eyes are already in place. The energy bounces off the crew like magnets. I have goose bumps.

  A woman shouts orders in a booming, naturally forceful voice. She obviously doesn’t need a bullhorn. Comfortably plump but not overweight, she wears a long white tunic over harem pants. She has tied her blue dupatta efficiently around her waist. Her hair is yanked back into a no-nonsense braid.

  She has a leather strap of bells around her right foot and she keeps a beat. “Ek, do, teen, char,” she chants.

  “One, two, three, four,” Shaan translates.

  “Dhak, dhak, dhin, dhin.” She sings along with the song that fills the room. The music is loud enough to drive every other thought from my mind. The dancers wear satin skirts that sit lower than any low-rise jeans I’ve ever worn. Their shirts ended just below their boobs so their sculpted midriffs are bare.

  Dancing with the Stars meets Arabian Nights in Bollywood.

  “Stop the music, yaar! All of you,” says the dance director, making a sweeping movement toward the dancers. “Move those bellies. Move them as if they have a life of their own and are separate from you. Have you seen a belly dancer move? Let’s try it again. We don’t have all day. One, Two, Three, Four.”

  As the dancers move, their bellies disconnect and become hula-hoops.

  Watching the dancers contort their hips makes me giggle helplessly. Shaan pinches me. “Abby, stop! They’ll throw us out.”

  “I know,” I manage to sputter, “But I can’t—” Another wave of giggles drowns me. Sometimes once I start, I can’t stop. Honestly!

  Shaan stifles a smile as he looks at me. “Abby! Shut up!”

  The dance director gives me a withering look that takes me straight back to second grade.

  I stop giggling. I whisper to Shaan, “She reminds me of my second-grade teacher, Miss Glen. She would glare at me when I sharpened my pencils too long.”

  Shaan says, “Okay, since we don’t know her name, let’s name her Miss Glen for the day.”

  I let out a quick giggle before Miss Glen can see me.

  Dad walks onto the set minutes after Shaan and I find a corner tucked away in the shadows near the fan. He looks around for me and calls, “Abby, where are you?”

  I leap up and Shaan follows.

  “Hi, you two! Today’s song has Rani and me. In the first shot, I woo Rani, who is participating in a dance off at her local nightclub.”

  “Then you both sing the song with different backdrops to show different times and the relationship developing,” finishes Shaan with a grin.

  “You know Bollywood mov
ies!” Dad smiles. “Do you like the song?”

  Shaan hums Dhak, dhak, dhin, dhin to the music. Dad laughs. “That’s it! It’s catchy.”

  “It’s like an earworm,” says Shaan. “I have to sing it.” Dad and Shaan hum together. I want to join in but I’m

  too conscious of making a fool of myself. The string quartet jumps in and plays dhak dhak dhin.

  Miss Glen calls out to Dad, “Naveen, yaar, Rani’s not here yet but why don’t we try the sequence of steps?”

  “I’ll be right there,” Dad calls back. “Abby, Salima is around, so let her know if you need anything. Remember to drink bottled water only,” he says, pointing his index finger at me.

  “I’ll remember,” I say.

  “He sounds like a parent,” Shaan says, looking at me with a strange expression. “Like my mom.”

  Can a heart sing while it’s sinking? He’s my dad and he cares about my well-being. I’m thrilled. But after my talk with Dad last night, I’m terrified that our secret will be revealed too soon. I like my anonymity. I’m sure Shaan would never spill the beans but if he noticed Dad’s parental tone, maybe someone else would too. I have to warn Dad to watch his behavior. I’m on his side and now we were a team.

  “He’s repeating my mom’s instructions,” I lie.

  “So tell me,” Shaan says, “how exactly do you know Naveen Kumar?”

  My heart definitely stops singing. Thankfully, I don’t have to answer the question because someone cranks the volume up on the music, which distracts Shaan. Dad’s taken his place with the dancers and they rehearse. Dhak, dhak, dhin, dhin.

  Dad has an energy and rhythm that is amazing. I guess I should’ve known that from the video and the movie I’ve seen, but in person is different. Where and when did he learn to dance like that? Dad leads the group as they strut and boogie to the booming music.

  Shaan and I watch. Miss Glen joins Dad on stage. They discuss and mark spots with chalk then turn and twirl and count steps.

  Shaan leans in. “So, do you want your Hindi lesson for the day?”

  “Yes, yes, I do.” I grin. “What does yaar mean? I hear it all the time.”

  “Oh, it means friend. It’s slang like ‘man.’ Abby, yaar, you got that?”

  “Shaan, yaar, what’s the next word?” I laugh.

  “So dhak, dhak is the sound of the heart beating. Kind of like saying, my heart beats boom, boom.” Shaan taps his hand on his heart to mimic a beating heart.

  “And what’s dhin, dhin? The sound of the beating drum?” “You got it,” Shaan answers.

  We sing the opening bars together. Shaan makes exaggerated gestures and generally clowns around. His sense of humor is infectious and I’m cracking up the whole time. I hate the thought of not seeing him when I go home.

  Just then, Rani glides in.

  “Did you know Rani means queen?” Shaan whispers.

  I didn’t know that. She definitely looks regal. It’s my first glimpse of her. Jeez, her name fits her like a glove. She wears a fitted, cleavage-revealing top with mirrors sewn on it. It has strings tied across the back as if the tailor had run out of fabric and this was the only way he could think of to hold the fabric together. It shows a generous hunk of midriff. Her red skirt swings to the floor. Her face is slathered in makeup for the camera. She doesn’t need it. She’s obviously beautiful. A woman shuffles behind her with a bottle of water. A man holds an umbrella over her to prevent the cruel sun from damaging Rani’s flawless skin on the two-minute walk from her trailer. Another woman holds her skirt so the train-

  like hem won’t touch the floor.

  OMG.

  “What a diva!” I whisper to Shaan. “Serious hottie alert,” he whispers back.

  She saunters up to Dad and Miss Glen and air kisses them both. Dad calls Shaan and me over and introduces us. Rani air kisses me and says, “I’m looking forward to getting to know you, sweetie.”

  I politely say, “Thank you. Same here.”

  I wondered if she knows I’m Naveen Kumar’s daughter.

  How close are they?

  “Okay, back to work,” Miss Glen says, taking charge. “We

  are behind schedule, yaar. I want to wrap this song in four days. Turn up the music. Everyone in place. Let’s rehearse the opening moves.”

  No time for niceties with her. She’s the real Miss Glen’s twin separated at birth and raised halfway around the world. Rani stands facing the wall at the back of the stage and sways. She thrusts her hip out and places her hand on it. The crisscross pattern of the strings weaves against her back. She lazily stretches her arms over her head and knocks her hip out some more. More than a dozen glass bracelets adorn each of her arms. She looks over her shoulder and snakes her

  hips to the music.

  Wowza! Shaan and I gulp like goldfish for air. Grandpa Spencer would’ve said holy guacamole!

  Dad then leaps behind her, kind of like he how he leaped off the screen on International Day a lifetime ago. He runs his fingers s-l-o-w-l-y down Rani’s back and traces along the zigzag strings, then he flips her around and they gaze into each other’s eyes.

  Yech! Double yech! Barf bag, please.

  “Let’s try that again!” says Miss Glen. “Naveen, slow down the finger action, flip Rani around faster, and Rani, give him a smoldering look after. Burn him, yaar!”

  I close my eyes in utter embarrassment and die a premature teenage death. I groan. “Oh Schmit!”

  Shaan grins ear to ear. Annoyed because he’s enjoying this and because I’m not, I do the mature thing and kick him. Hard.

  “Why would you do that?” Shaan hops around and rubs his shin.

  “This is too embarrassing!”

  “Why? It’s a song for crying out loud. Like a music video.

  It’s a Naveen Kumar movie. You saw one the other day.”

  “I know,” I say. “But it’s different watching them in person.”

  “I don’t get it. Why are you all embarrassed?”

  I stare at him and try to move my facial muscles into a poker face. C’mon, Abby, you’ve done this before. My poker face is my triumph. First, I relax all facial muscles, even the ones that on the sides of my eyes. I make sure my eyebrows aren’t lifted, scrunched, or arched. Oh, and my eyes, they should be blank but not in a duh-I-don’t-get-it way but in a non-committal, oh-that’s-interesting way.

  My face won’t listen to my brain. I want to scream and ask him, how would he like to watch his Dad romance some sizzling hot actress like Rani all afternoon? Of course, I can’t.

  Chapter 18

  Bollywood Shuffle

  “You’re crazy, you know. Of course I’m not embarrassed,” I lie.

  “Whatever, calm down. Forget I said anything.” Shaan kicks the floor and walks over to the food table to get a packet of potato chips. “You want some?”

  I decline. All I could think of is that I do not want to spill the beans. Seriously, what is wrong with me? I lost it over a song and dance! It’s not as if someone is torturing me to extract my secrets.

  After that, we’re quiet. Awkward.

  When the dancers have repeated the same movement fifty-three times, Miss Glen calls for a break. Rani needs to have her skirt adjusted. The director thinks the floor length doesn’t look attractive and is hampering her dance

  movements. He probably wants to see more leg! The costume designer assures them the alterations will take fifteen minutes. Rani walks back to her gigantic trailer cave. Dad comes over to us. “You okay, Abby?” he asks.

  “I’m fine!” I manage.

  “Where and how did you learn to dance like that, Mr. K.?” Shaan asks and offers his packet of chips.

  Dad takes a couple. He points to Miss Glen. “Once I knew I wanted to act in films, I went to her for dance lessons. I learned from the best. Till then I had no idea that hip joints were separate parts of your body like bellies,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “My costume is ready. I have to change. See you later,” he calls as he wal
ked away.

  Shaan is searching in his chip bag. He takes out two huge chips and places them between his lips to form duck lips.

  “Abby,” his voice is muffled, “want to dance?”

  How do you stay annoyed at someone with chip lips? I laugh. He changed the mood with his silliness.

  “C’mon, yaar!” Shaan the duck offers his hand.

  I seize two chips from the bag and join Shaan. We both talk through our duck lips. Shaan grins, losing his chips, and points to something behind me. I turned to see Dad walking from his trailer wearing an electric blue shirt and black pants. A costume for sure.

  The molded satin of Dad’s shirt highlights his stomach

  muscles. The first three buttons are undone and—is that a medallion on a chain around his neck? He looks totally ready to be on Dancing with the Stars.

  I burst into laughter. Dad grins wryly. “Glad you find it funny, Abby.”

  “Wow! Look at those abs.” Shaan smiles. Why this fascination with a set of muscles? Miss Glen’s voice booms, “Places.”

  All the backup dancers run into place. Rani returns. Her skirt now swings around her knees. She sashays back to her spot against the wall. Dad walks over and they are talking and laughing. So, she’s gorgeous and funny?

  Ms. Glen yells out, “One, two, three, ek, do, teen.”

  The music blares. They’ve rehearsed enough by this time that Dad, Rani, and all the dancers get the sequence.

  The director yells cut, and Miss Glen shouts, “Good job!” That piece of the song would last for a minute or less on the screen, but it’s taken hours to shoot. Wow, at this rate the entire song could take a week. Now I understand why the director and the choreographer stressed that the song have

  to be done in four days. They better hurry up.

  After the shot, Dad retires to his trailer for a meeting. Shaan and I sit around forever watching the crew get ready for the next shot. They roll out the nightclub set and roll in the next one. It has the Taj Mahal as a backdrop.

  Shaan decides we can kill time with a Hindi lesson. “I can’t be your translator forever, you know, Abby. But here’s another lesson. Mera naam Abby Spencer hai means my name is Abby Spencer.”