by Varsha Bajaj
Twice that evening I go into Dad’s study, but I can’t find the words and we’re interrupted. I try, but I feel like something within me shuts down. My mind races. I barely eat dinner. And then a thought flits through.
Maybe the photographer would take the picture and the story to the papers and they will refuse to print the stuff after all.
It could happen. Maybe they’d call Dad first to check the facts.
I latch onto that thought.
Shaan calls later in the evening. “What did your dad say?” “I didn’t tell him,” I whisper. “Shaan, I don’t know how
to tell him.”
He’s silent.
I call Mom. It’s Thanksgiving morning in Houston. She must have left for work early. I leave a crazy message telling her how I’ve ruined it all. When I hang up, I wish I didn’t leave the message.
I call Priya and Zoey but neither of them answers.
I toss and turn all night. My thoughts are like knives, piercing and painful. I finally nod off around four in the morning so I ended up sleeping late.
Chapter 25
Today’s headlines
When I wake up the house is quiet except for the sounds from the kitchen and the faint murmur of running water from Grandma Tara’s bathroom.
Maybe the story didn’t make the newspapers after all.
Maybe the story…I chant, willing it to be true. I tiptoe downstairs, hoping against hope.
Every morning, all the newspapers are delivered to the house. Today, the magazines and newspapers scattered all over the coffee table look like bloody, inflamed wounds you don’t want to see.
I pick one up and drop it as though it’s burned my fingers.
Meet Superstar Naveen Kumar’s Secret Daughter [insert horrible picture of me]
Where’s Mrs. Naveen?
I scan the rest of the papers like an addict.
It’s a Girl! And She’s Thirteen! In the accompanying cartoon, a stork drops a teenage me on Dad’s doorstep.
Naveen’s Love Child. Made In USA. Born In the USA. Hidden In USA?
Has the Queen Met Her Stepdaughter To Be? with a grainy picture of Rani and me on the set.
No! They dragged Rani into the mess too.
Daughter In the Closet.
Abby In the Box. A cartoon of me jumping out of a box, startling Dad.
And then some get uglier. Naveen’s Wild Youth Results in Teen. Naveen Kumar’s Battle for Custody.
Whoa! Custody? Now that’s a thought that never entered my mind. Would he? My life is with Mom in Houston. For a few minutes, the idea of Mom and Dad fighting over me paralyzes me with fear. Then sanity returns. It’s garbage. Poison. Hot off the press.
Could my flight please be now?
The newspapers mock me. I sit on the couch and close my eyes to shut them out but instead they transform into Oompa Loompas and stomp around.
The phone rings. It’s Mom. She’s beside herself. “Abby, what happened? What did you ruin?”
I spill it all. I tell her about how I lost my cool when the photographer goaded me. I had stupidly wanted to protect Dad. I read her the headlines—even the custody one.
Mom is speechless. When she finds the words, she says, “Oh, Abby, honey, this is awful. How has your dad reacted to all this?”
“I couldn’t tell him last night. He’s not home right now.
The premiere is in a few hours.”
“Abby, it’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go alone to a foreign country. What was I thinking?”
“Mom, stop,” I interrupt. “If I’d only kept my lips sealed like you and Dad told me, none of this would’ve happened.”
“Abby, if you weren’t coming home in a few hours, I would take the next flight to Mumbai. I promise. What was that custody headline you just read to me?”
Then before I can say anything she says, “Naveen has never mentioned that word. It’s the ugly newspapers.”
I sigh in relief. After I hang up, I just stare like a zombie.
Where is Dad? Where is everybody?
Shiva comes running in. “Abby, he’s home.”
When Dad walks in, I notice he hasn’t shaved. His eyes look disappointed and his shoulders droop.
“Did you see all this ugliness?’ he says, waving at the newspapers. “Abby, I am so sorry.”
He shouldn’t blame himself. He could yell and tell me I was an idiot.
Wait. Then I realize. None of the newspapers have named a source. He didn’t know I’m responsible for the leak. For a minute, I’m tempted. Can I just keep silent?
No!
I can’t. I did have to live with myself.
What if the truth emerges after I leave and I hadn’t owned up? That would make the situation even worse.
My mouth is dry. Then the stubborn lump melts and mercifully turns into words. Through my constricted throat, I manage to say, “I’m so sorry, Dad.”
I take a few blubbery, gaspy breaths and launch into my confession. “Yesterday, I accidentally told one of the photographers to leave my dad alone.”
Dad looks confused.
I take a breath and continue. “I was mad at him and the way the photographers bother and stalk you all the time.”
I can’t look at his face. “The photographer kept yelling ‘Miss! Miss!’ in my face and wouldn’t stop following me, so I snapped. He pounced on my words, realized I slipped up, and then took pictures of me.”
Realization dawns on my father’s face. I can tell he’s at a loss for words. His eyes cloud over, and he clenches and unclenches his fist.
“Can you do something?” I ask, angry. “Sue them?”
Dad looks weary. “It’s not worth it. I should have protected you more.”
He probably regrets the day he invited me to Mumbai.
Grandma Tara stands outside the door. Her eyes tell me she heard it all.
Shiva thinks the world can’t be trusted anymore. All anybody wants is money he says and spits into the big rubber plant. He earns a look from Grandma Tara who doesn’t think the world has become so materialistic and unethical that Shiva should spit in the house.
“I’m sorry too, Grandma Tara,” I tell her. “I’ve ruined everyone’s plans. I know Dad was looking forward to talking about the first film he’s produced.”
Grandma Tara holds my hand. “This is not how I wanted this day to be. The premiere is in the evening. Then there is the big celebration dinner party and your flight leaves at two in the morning.”
I wish I could board that plane this minute and literally fly away from the disaster I’ve created.
The phone continues to shrill. Riiiiiing.
Riiiiiiiiing.
Drilling into my brain. Making me cringe every time.
Dad stays holed up in his office, surrounded by his team.
I slink in.
I cower seeing Dad read his email. “The damn rags jumped on the story,” he says, pacing the room.
Thomas and the gang are silent.
“Nobody cares that I put my blood, sweat, and time into this movie,” he says, his jaw clenched. Then he punches the wall with his fist.
If it had been drywall at home, he would have left a big gaping hole. But this is a concrete Mumbai wall. The sound of flesh pounding concrete sears into my brain. I bet it hurt.
I steal out of the room, terrified.
I mope around for hours doing nothing. Later, Shaan comes over to say good-bye. He looks at the newspaper-strewn table and sighs. “Abby, it will all work out.”
I nod. Easy for him to say. I don’t know how it can.
Shaan says, “Abby, we can’t walk over and see each other tomorrow. We’ll both be on planes, heading home. When will we meet again?”
I want to yell out and tell the world how unfair all this is. Shaan’s look says I can’t bear this either. We at least need a kiss. Okay, maybe I’m reading into his look a little too much.
But a first kiss and a good-bye kiss in one? Too tragic.
corner needs some love. He begins to dust and shine each leaf with a damp cloth. Seriously.
I think I might sneak Shaan to my room and walk toward the staircase but Grandma Tara reminds me that we entertain guests in the living room, before she goes to her own room to rest.
Shaan and I return to the living room, and Shaan unfolds a map from his pocket. He traces the distance between Houston and Dallas. I trace along, so our fingers could touch.
As a last ditch attempt I ask Shiva for a Coke for Shaan.
Shiva gives me an angelic smile and asks Bina to get a one and he continues to swipe the next rubber leaf.
Can a person feel hostility toward a leaf?
With Shiva as a guardian, dragons and moats would be unnecessary.
From the kitchen there is the loudest clanging of pots plunging to the floor. Shiva swears and runs to look.
I jump up to rush after Shiva, but Shaan holds my wrist firm. He pulls me behind the gleaming rubber plant. We look at each other. Our bodies are close, and just like that, he kisses me. Blink of an eye. The pressure of firm but soft Shaan lips.
There’s no mistaking it; this is my first official kiss. Shiva is back.
We quickly part.
Shiva looks at us suspiciously and swears at Bina’s clumsiness.
Salima arrives to help Grandma Tara and me get ready for the premiere. “Abby, there will be photographers wanting to get a shot of you after all those headlines.”
The red carpet is at five o’clock, followed by the movie screening. The after-party is at nine. Shiva says it will go on until dawn. My flight leaves at two, but I have to get to the airport much earlier.
Shaan and I hug. It’s time for good-byes. “Go get ’em, Abby!”
After he leaves, I notice a handmade card on the table with my name on it. It’s a picture of us outside the Mandir Cinema with Dad’s huge poster in the background.
It reads, Abby, I still have to teach you to play cricket, and your Hindi seriously stinks. So let’s meet soon. Will miss you until then. Shaan.
I read it a few more times and clutch it close. I wish I don’t have to go to the premiere so I can retreat to my room and relive all my moments with Shaan.
I wish I had his confidence. I knew I would physically live through this mess, but would my relationship with Dad survive?
Chapter 26
Red carpet, white lies
Dad gestures at the newspapers. “Despite this mess the show must go on!”
Grandma Tara nods in agreement.
Salima supervises Dad’s hair and makeup staff as they get Grandma Tara and me ready. The makeup woman gushes over my “young, innocent” skin until I blush. She shampoos and styles my hair. Then she does my makeup. At the end, each one of my features pops. The makeup is so subtle it’s barely there. It’s magic! Finally, I slip on my dress, sandals, and Grandma Tara’s earrings. Another one of the moments I will remember forever. At each stage, I ask Salima to take pictures so I can share them with Mom and my friends at home.
I feel like Princess Abby descending the stairs. Grandma Tara is speechless. She extends both her arms and gives me
a hug. Then she mutters something about warding off the evil eye.
Dad looks beyond handsome in a suit. “Great dress, Abby!” he says and I beam. Just for a minute, he seems less distant. He’s been quiet and preoccupied since this morning’s headlines.
I sit in the back of the car, sandwiched between Dad and Grandma Tara. Thomas sits up front and Shiva drives as usual. We’re on our way to the red carpet premiere.
I’m beyond nervous—I’m petrified. Everyone is quiet in the car, gearing up for the craziness. I can tell Dad is tense from the way he drums his fingers on his thigh.
When I chose the cream-colored dress with the poppies bursting at the hemline, I’d imagined the premiere being a walk in the park. I’d be a spectator but with the perks of being an insider. So much for that.
Unfortunately, now I’m the focus of attention. Dad called the newspaper headlines lurid. I looked it up, and apparently loud, sensational attention was certainly coming my way.
Thomas turns and says, “Even negative publicity is still publicity. Let’s pray it doesn’t hurt the film.”
Dad gives Thomas a cold, furious look. If I were Thomas, I would have visibly shriveled up. I never want to be at the receiving end of that look from Dad. My string quartet plays a horror film sound track.
Grandma Tara shakes her head and tsks.
Shiva stops at the next traffic light. “No traffic at the Haji Ali junction, we reach in fifteen minutes.”
“Call the theater staff, Thomas. Let them know,” says Dad.
Grandma Tara adjusts her sari again, even though it looks perfect.
My hand feels disconnected from my brain as I mechanically brush my hair. I touch Grandma’s earrings.
“At last. My own home production,” says Dad as the car inches to a stop.
Throngs of fans are cordoned off from the red carpet by the police. I’ve never seen so many people screaming except on TV and the reality is as different as seeing the Niagara Falls in a picture and hearing it gush and roar in front of you. The frantic energy of the crowd startles me. They lean against the barricades, straining to touch Dad, his car, even his shadow. People are perched on top of trees and buildings to get a glimpse of him. I shrink into the seat.
Dad rolls down the window and waves. A fresh swell of shrieks. Naveen! Naveen!
He opens the door and steps onto the red carpet. I hear a barrage of clicks. He leans in and gives me his arm. For an instant I can’t move. Is ducking behind the seat and telling Shiva to drive me away as fast as he can to the airport an option?
“Abby,” Dad’s voice is warm.
Grandma Tara’s hand presses the small of my back to urge me on.
I take Dad’s hand and step onto the carpet. The cameras explode. The flashing lights blind and I fight the urge to shield my eyes. If it weren’t for Dad’s arm, I would’ve buckled. The spotlight feels like a harsh naked bulb that swings and blinds during police interrogations in movies.
“Smile, Abby,” Dad reminds me like a ventriloquist without letting his lips move.
He holds on to me as he helps Grandma Tara out of the car. The three of us cross the red carpet together. It’s only a few feet but it feels longer than the track at school on a hundred-degree Texas summer day.
“Naveen, introduce us to your daughter!” “Why have you been hiding her?” “Where is her mother?”
“Do you have other children we don’t know about?”
Jeez! Are you kidding me? Do you think he has kids strewn around?
I want to snap back but I know better now, and I can feel Dad’s hand tightening on my arm, reminding me to keep them from get under my skin.
“Abby! Abby!”
Dad does not respond to any of these questions.
No one asks a single question about his film—just as he feared. So much for Dad wanting the focus to be on his film and his work rather than on his personal life.
My heart sinks. I want to scream at these morons.
Blinding camera lights continue to flash. Dad smiles and so does Grandma Tara. I change my deer in the headlights look to a phony smile.
Then I see two girls around my age carrying a homemade poster as high as their arms would allow.
We heart Abby! Welcome to India.
I want to thank them. They don’t care how long I’ve been in Dad’s life.
Then one reporter out of the hordes yells out, “Naveen, your new film is different. Tell us why you made it.”
I wanted to hug the one sane man among the crazies.
Dad pauses. “It is different. I produced the film I always wanted to make and I hope you all like it. I’m proud of it. I would love to talk to you after you’ve seen the movie,” he says and shakes the
reporter’s hand.
Seizing the chance, someone asks, “Has Rani met Abby?”
Dad turns away, his jaw clenched. Almost at the end of the red carpet, we hear yells. “Rani’s here!” echoes the crowd, and the frenzy takes over one more time. The cameras turn on her. Dad continues to talk to the one reporter. I watch Rani.
Rani is at her glamorous best with flawless makeup and hair. Nothing like the dressed-down Rani who I shared ice cream with. Today she is Rani, the screen goddess. Her peacock-blue silk sari is like a second skin. How can you wear six yards of fabric and still show so much skin? I should do a research paper on that topic. Anyway, she manages to wear a sari and make it look like she needs more clothes. Maybe a sweatshirt to cover her up. Ha!
She’s the focus of all the attention. She glides along the carpet, answers questions with a giggle, and greets Dad coyly. I watch her and the hundreds of scrambling reporters. Then someone asks her about me and I freeze. The practiced professional, Rani smiles and says, “Abby and I love spending time together.”
Other celebrities arrive. Each time there’s a wave of recognition and shrieks. OMG. I just absorb it all and feel giddy.
A sea of people greets us inside the theater too. There are other members of the cast and crew and they all want to meet Naveen Kumar’s daughter.
Rani takes me aside. “Abby, are you okay?” she whispers, referring of course to the leaking of the story.
My eyes shimmer in response.
“Naveen told me about the photographer. I’m sorry.” She squeezes my hand.
Then someone whisks Rani away. Cast and crew continue to mingle. I smile for picture after picture with Dad and countless others until my mouth hurt. Salima comes and finally leads Grandma Tara and me to our seats.
Then the lights dim. The movie starts and the audience of invited guests enthusiastically claps and whistles.
I should have asked Dad to invite Shaan. Was he thinking of me? I wish he were here whispering in my ear. That’s a reason to not learn Hindi. Shaan could translate for me forever.
The possibility of not seeing Shaan again makes me sick to my stomach. Why do I have to meet the perfect boy only to have him live in a different city?
