Spice and Secrets

by Suleikha Snyder

Priya shivered, hugging herself close and stroking her bare arms to bring the blood back to her skin. It had seemed like a good idea to come down to South Bombay…to get away from the part of the city that was so tied up with Bolly bullshit, to escape her flat and the tightness of the walls and pretend to be a visitor for a little while. But with the vastness of the waters ahead of her, all she could see was her past, present and future laid out like a map.

  “Eesh!” she huffed, turning back inland toward the road and the lot where her car and driver waited. Her mobile was buzzing, angry at being ignored. She knew it was probably Rahul. Or Kabir. Or that talk show host, Sunny Khanna, who had rung her every day for the last two weeks. She was relentless, determined for Priya to sit on her hot seat and answer all her questions.

  It was a risk Priya couldn’t take. She’d taken a dozen too many already, just to come back to work. But doing televised interviews was unwise if she wanted to keep Shona safe. Too many personal questions meant too many chances to accidentally give something away.

  Once she was safely seated in the car and headed away from Marine Drive, Priya finally let herself check her SMS. Sure enough, there were two from that Khanna woman and one from Rahul.

  I miss you. Come practice lines with me.

  For a film they weren’t scheduled to begin shooting for another eight weeks? No way. And it was funny to her how he’d suddenly developed the habit of text messaging her. If only he had done the same in Bihar. If only he hadn’t come to her room that night. She wouldn’t be tormented by the fresh memories of his touch. Everything she had hidden away, locked tight for Shona’s sake, would not be so close to the surface.

  Priya answered Sunny instead, gingerly typing out on the touch screen that perhaps they could meet for a coffee. Maybe if she spoke to her one-on-one, she could put this business of a guest spot out of Ms. Khanna’s mind. That, at least, was a better proposition than seeing Rahul alone.

  Because Rahul didn’t smell like hope. No, his scent was dangerous. Intoxicating. Paagalpan and chaos.

  All blush-gold skin and thick-lashed dark eyes, Priya Roy really did look like a rose. The pale pink salwar she wore only the made the description more apt. She was a bud on the verge of blooming. As fresh as the dew on a petal. Etcetera, etcetera. All those bloody metaphors they used in the Bollywood gossip rags Sunita kept subscriptions to. If she were the jealous type, she would’ve hated Priya on sight on principle, particularly as the girl had strung her along for weeks. But when they finally got around to meeting, all she felt was an instant kinship. It didn’t make sense. She held champion grudges—one only had to ask Sam for proof—but the moment Priya sat down across from her at the cozy outdoor table, any ill will she’d harbored vanished.

  “What do you want from me, Sunny-ji?” the younger woman wasted no time in asking her, folding her hands one over the other on the tabletop. “Why am I such a demanded guest? Main kaun hu? I’m no one in the grand scheme.”

  It was the kind of humility that could not be faked…not that faux sincerity that so many stars wore like fur coats and false eyelashes. Sunita couldn’t remember if she’d ever been so earnest, so pure. Who was it that had said, “Modesty in an actor is as fake as passion in a call girl”? Nowhere was that bit of philosophy more appropriate than Mumbai. Most everyone in Bollywood was selling an image, making money off of their smile or their swagger. But Priya was genuine. “That is why you’re so demanded,” she concluded aloud. “Because my audience will look at you and see your innocence.”

  Priya burst out laughing. Even that had a floral feel, as though someone was raining marigolds onto a crowd of onlookers. “I haven’t been innocent in a very long time, Sunny-ji. In fact, it is the last thing anyone wants from me now. Item girls don’t need to be sweet.”

  “And yet you are. It doesn’t matter how much you paint your lips and shadow your eyes, they all still look at you and see that cho chweet heroine from Hain Apna Dil To Awara. They want that Priya on their arm, and the item girl in their beds.”

  The public virgin and private whore…one of India’s favorite dichotomies. The very same society that leveled obscenity lawsuits against actresses for “vulgar” song sequences went home and wanked to blue films in the privacy of their bedrooms. Sunita had witnessed the hypocrisy more times than she cared to count, and nearly been a victim of it a thousand more.

  She sighed, gesturing for the waitress to come over and take their coffee orders. Only after they were done with the formalities did she turn the topic back to the show. “Your jodi with Rahul Anand was all the rage once.” It didn’t escape her that Priya’s rosy cheeks went white at the reminder. “People like to be reminded of romance. Of ‘what was’. They like a good story. And you coming back and working with Rahul…it’s a perfect filmi moment, na? That’s all we want: to spin a tale for them. One with a nice happy-ever-after. One that can only make Khoon a more must-see project. It’s just publicity, Priya. Plain and simple.”

  Priya’s gaze seemed to move past her, off into the distance. “In this business, nothing’s simple. There is always a price, always a complication,” she pointed out softly. “So, tell me, Ms. Khanna. What will my price be?”

  It was a rhetorical question, because the price she expected to pay was written all over her face. Sunny could read it like the front page of the Times of India. Just sitting next to Rahul on the sofa and playing the roles of old costars reunited was going to cost her. “Woh tumhari dil bahut dukhaya, na? He really broke your heart.”

  “But he did not break my spirit.” Priya sat up straighter, smiling sweetly at the waitress when she brought their drinks and then turning that same sugary grin on Sunita. If it was a bit sharp at the edges, it only made her more stunning to look at. “No worries, Sunny-ji. I will do your show. I’ll give your audience their story.”

  “Good. Because your story is just beginning, and you are the writer.” Sunita didn’t know where the sudden ferociousness was coming from, why there was a dampness in her eyes and a knot at the back of her throat. Somewhere on the fringes of her mind was the memory of Sam tying a mangalsutra around her neck and anointing her hair with sindoor while Jai kicked relentlessly in her belly…his tiny foot making the crimson silk of her wedding sari ripple. For months after, she’d wondered if her son, levelheaded even in the womb, had been trying to warn her of the mistake she was making. “Don’t let this industry run you off again, Priya. Don’t let them shame you or scare you or beat you. It is a man’s game, but hum aurat hain; we are women. We are strong enough to play it.”

  “I know.” The warmth of Priya’s hand curling around hers jolted Sunita from the center of her impassioned speech and impractical visions. “I didn’t come back from Kolkata to just play, Sunny-ji,” she said, leaning across the table as if imparting some great secret. “This time, I’m going to win.”

  It was a fine sentiment, albeit hopelessly naïve. The Rose of Bengal thought she had a fine coating of thorns, and Sunita didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was futile…to explain how playing was as good as they could hope for, because the game was fixed. Instead, she simply offered up a return squeeze of support and neatly began outlining her ideas for the show.

  In the grand scheme, it was the cameras that made both of them who they were: not delicate flowers in a garden, but rather bright stars in Mumbai’s night sky. That stars were prone to burning out and falling from the heavens…well, that was something Sunita could not think about.

  Chapter Twelve

  The line rang on and on, busy or being ignored. She was used to both. Nina tapped her blood-red nails on the desk like she was playing the tabla, a rhythmic slapping reminiscent of what she had done to Ashraf only hours ago as he worked for his role in the next Anandaloka romantic comedy. It would be simple to claim that men were easily led, easily controlled, but she’d learned the exact opposite in Mumbai: that only deception got a woman what she wanted. That what she wanted was the controlling interest in the company and control of its
most sought-after producer was obvious. Everyone knew it. No one thought she would have it.

  She would prove them wrong. One by one.

  But, first, she had to deal with Rahul—and that sickeningly sweet little girl who hadn’t had the sense to stay in Kolkata.

  Prakash’s voicemail finally clicked on, his self-important, officious directive letting her—and other mere mortals—know a message could be left. Nina affected her most saccharine tone. “Listen, Milan. It’s Nina. Rahul was just telling me that he wants to sit in on your shoot for Na-Insaafi. You know he’s invested in your item girl, na? But so shy! He won’t say so. Give him a ring, haan, okay? And then…” She giggled suggestively. “Then, you can give me a ring also.”

  The bass thumped like a heartbeat. A woman’s voice crooned in a bedroom whisper, “Aag lag gayi meri dil main, my heart’s on fire, my heart’s on fire.”

  Only her arms and her throat were bare, but it was as though Priya stood there naked. The delicate deep orange chiffon of her sari draping across her belly hid nothing, teased everything, and he remembered the precise taste of her skin there. The soft reverence of sandalwood and a sweet tang of cinnamon.

  The “generous” invitation from Milan Prakash to come watch the item shoot for Na-Insaafi had actually been a cruel gag. Probably a form of torture thought up by Nina. That was what Rahul concluded as he tucked himself behind the velvet curtain that hugged the cabaret-style stage, helpless to do anything but watch her. Hot lights pinned her from every angle; barely visible beads of sweat dotted her face. The makeup girls would powder them away in the next break. For now, it was a roll…and she was breathtaking.

  No one would say there were fifty eyes upon her, crew and extras and a few principals; nahin, Priya was alone with the music. The sheer sari clung to her every curve, and she moved like an apsara. Beguiling. Maddening. Her eyes and hands beckoned. Her body swayed in an erotic mimicry. It wasn’t a dance that had been choreographed for her, it was a seduction.

  He swallowed, torn between turning away, storming across the stage and ruining the shot, and simply continuing to watch.

  “Don’t look as though you’re waiting for the music to stop,” Farzana Hassan, the lead choreographer, had advised her—apparently too used to actresses who practically counted the beats aloud on film. “Take yourself away. Someplace lovely.” It was not a bad suggestion, and as the lights pounded down upon her like midday sun and the cameraman with the hand-held crouched just out of her sight line, Priya vanished.

  She took herself to Cox’s Bazar, one of the most beautiful places on earth, where she’d danced with Shona on the beach. They’d whirled like tops and fallen into the sand in a pile of limbs and laughter. It was easy to recall the blue waters, the warmth and the joy. With Shona, dancing wasn’t for show or for money, it was just khushi. Just happiness. Unbidden, a new element encroached on the memory. As if he’d bulled his way into it. Rahul, barefoot in the surf, watching them with possessive pride. His gaze was hotter than the lights. Searing through her sari. Promising her a night of countless wonders long after their daughter was asleep.

  Priya barely suppressed the shiver that didn’t belong anywhere in the dance sequence. She forced herself back to the stage; the crew’s eyes were safer, more trustworthy, than such bewakoofi, na? But then the back of her neck prickled. As she cut her glance seductively toward the curtain she realized that she was not gazing off at a fictional lover. Someone was there.

  Nahin, not only someone. Rahul. She felt him. Part of her would always know he was near…for she’d carried part of him inside her for nine months and loved her, desperately, for these past five and a half years. It was totally paagal, but his soul had such weight she knew her senses weren’t wrong. He hadn’t just invaded her fantasy, he’d presented himself in her reality as well.

  The last minute of the song stretched into eternity. Priya struggled against turning it into the very torture trap Farzana had warned her about. Aage dekho. Look forward. Keep going, she told herself. When Milan’s AD finally called “Cut!” it was like he’d chopped a puppet’s strings. Her arms fell limply to her sides and her knees began to tremble. Her knees. Her thighs. The pit of her stomach. All of her was on fire, not just her heart. And when Rahul stalked across the stage and barked for everyone to clear the room, Priya feared they would both go up in smoke.

  “Tehro!” she cried out to the people already starting to disperse. As if the great Chief Minister of All had spoken. “Stop. Humlog jayenge. We’ll go. You all can stay.” She moved past Rahul, not daring to look at him and not stopping to see if he followed. She hopped off the rounded stage and toward the studio side exit. It led off set, into the building’s network of hallways.

  What nerve he had, coming here…acting as if he had any right to control those working on a film he had no involvement with. Just like with KK, Rahul Anand had simply assumed he could get his way. He’d taken what he thought he was owed. She pressed a palm to her stomach, suddenly ill.

  There was no use pretending: he’d take Shona from her if it came to that. “Nahin,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

  “Yes,” Rahul said from behind her—just behind her. So close she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. “Just say yes to me, Priya. As you did on The Raj.” His hands hovered above her arms. His chest was mere centimeters from her back. And she could feel him like he was inside her skin. “My heart’s on fire,” he sang against the curve of her ear, lips nearly tugging on her earlobe. He was the only man she knew who could combine sex and sarcasm in just a few bits of song.

  “So go find some ice water.” She took a deep, steadying breath and shut her eyes. It was a mistake, closing herself to the brick walls and doorways, because, at once, she was back on the beach, just the two of them now, alone and sun-warmed…and he was dipping his head and pressing his lips to her wild pulse.

  “No need for water when I have amrita,” he murmured, licking the hollow of her throat. He was touching her with nothing but his mouth. His wicked, arrogant mouth. Tasting more than just the nectar of immortality, he helped himself to the flavor of her need.

  “Rahul, stop it.” She’d made herself vulnerable for the cameras, taken down her defenses, put down all the weapons she carried to protect herself from this…and he was not going to let the opportunity slide. This, too, he would take as if it was already his. “Please.”

  “Please,” he mimicked her, but with what seemed like genuine emotion behind the echo. His voice was low and husky, sending ripples down her spine. “Please, Priya. You were so goddamn beautiful in there. Apsara ki jaise. Like a goddess.” He was feathering light, brutal, kisses along her jaw and his last, most damning, words were spoken into a caress all too close to her lips: “Let me worship you.”

  She couldn’t. For Shona, and for a dozen other reasons. “Na. I can’t, Rahul, I can’t.” Priya nearly wept with the effort of pulling away from him and hurrying down toward the dressing rooms without a glance backwards.

  She couldn’t be worshipped. It would not matter if he called it “heaven” or if he called it “Swargha”—a goddess’s fall from that great height was too far.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hours later, days later, he could still feel her. The sweetness of her neck, her throat, her jaw…the tantalizing corner of her mouth, so close to the lips she’d denied him. Rahul was tormented by that tiny stretch of millimeters, and he awoke in bed, hard and panting, just from the idea of dying in that gulf. He’d subsisted on a memory for years, and then a brief, blissful bite for a few months. Now…now he wanted everything. Now, he couldn’t go on without everything.

  “Rahul, yaar, you look like shit warmed over,” Sam told him succinctly over cappuccinos at the Chai-Coffi in Versova.

  “Mate, you’ve got to do something. Either chuck this bloody plan of yours or turn it up to eleven,” advised Shaw, helping himself to the whiskey Rahul kept in his office desk drawer.

  Rahul told each of them to bugger off�
��with only Sam eager to take the suggestion—and devoted himself to giving one last round of edits to Ravi and Rajat’s script revisions before sending them off to KK. But, still, there was Priya. On every page. In every scene. Speaking Ishika’s words and dancing her dances. Rejecting him. Running away.

  I can’t, Rahul, I can’t.

  Why? Why couldn’t she? Why was she so determined to put distance between them? Hadn’t the kilometers between Kolkata and Mumbai been enough? Hadn’t the passage of years been far too long? The questions ate at Rahul like acid and, even after he’d finished with a full slate of business meetings, all he wanted was the answers.

  Meet me, he messaged her, knowing that the odds were against her answering. For weeks now, she’d been studiously ignoring every SMS he sent her. Please, Priya. We need to talk. Hours ticked by in maddening silence. Until finally, finally, the gods smiled upon him and she wrote him back. Okay. 7 o’clock. China House.

  He felt like a schoolboy again, all sweating palms and endless nerves, as he made the drive east to Santacruz. He pulled into the Grand Hyatt glad for the early hour and slim odds of running into anyone with an agenda or a pitch. Priya was waiting for him in the private lounge, clutching a glass of white wine like a life preserver. She looked all of the nineteen she’d been when he met her: uncaring of style, of seeing or being seen, she’d come with her hair in a horsetail and wearing workout clothes. Even in sweats and a tank top, she was gorgeous.

  She wasted no time on “hello” or “how are you?” Her face as pale as the wine, she only snapped, “What is it? Why do we need to talk, Rahul?”

  “Because not talking is killing me.” It was hopelessly clichéd dialogue, but perfect and true nonetheless. “Because I need to see you. To feel you. Main tumhara bin ji nahin saktha, Priya. I can’t keep living without you.”

  “Don’t be dramatic.” She set down her glass, folding her hands together in a tight knot. “Yeh koi film nahin hain. This is not one of your movies. There’s no need to play to the audience, na?”