Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  “Homework,” Geena began.

  “Oh, never mind that,” I said impatiently. “We've got other fish to fry.”

  “I've never known what that means,” Jazz complained as I led the way into the living room.

  “Just sit down.” I went over to the mahogany sideboard under the window and slid the glass doors open. There were heaps of videotapes and DVDs crammed inside. “I'm sure Dad recorded one of Molly Mahal's films off B4U a few months ago.”

  “Ooh, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai !” Jazz pounced on one of the DVDs as they spilled out of the cupboard. “Let's watch this, we haven't seen it for ages.”

  “No, this is it.” I had found a videotape labeled

  AMIR LADKA, GARIB LADKA —rich boy, poor boy (1982) in Dad's neat script.

  “Nineteen eighty-two?” Jazz said, disgusted, as Geena switched the TV on. “How old is this woman?”

  Geena worked it out. “She must be in her forties by now.”

  Jazz looked dubious. “Well, I hope she hasn't let herself go.”

  “Let's see what she looked like back then,” I remarked, sliding the tape into the video machine.

  The one thing everyone thinks they know about Bollywood films is that they're outrageous, melodramatic, over the top and unrealistic compared to Hollywood movies. So you think films about hobbits, boy wizards and flying superheroes are realistic? Bollywood films are just different. The heroes are usually good guys, the heroines are usually good girls, everyone loves their mums and the baddies get killed or arrested at the end, after various songs have been sung and dances danced. Things have changed a bit over the years, though. Now some of the films try to be a bit more hard-hitting and realistic, even if the hero and heroine still dance round a tree singing a love song.

  However, Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka was still stuck firmly in the old Bollywood groove. It was about a rich, snobbish boy called Raju who doesn't really want to marry the rich, snobbish girl Tina (Molly Mahal) his parents have chosen for him. On his way to meet her for the first time, he gets mugged and, after a series of hilarious misunderstandings, which include losing his memory, ends up as Tina's family's servant. Nobody realizes who he is, but Raju and Tina fall in love.

  “Remind me why Molly Mahal didn't make many films,” Jazz said. We were watching the happy couple singing and dancing their way through a lush garden filled with fountains and roses.

  “She had an affair with a married man and kind of got blacklisted, I suppose,” I said.

  “Oh.” Jazz stared intently at the screen. “I thought it might have been because she's rubbish.”

  Geena and I couldn't argue. Molly Mahal was very beautiful. She was slender and tall. Her hair was black and lustrous, rippling down to her waist, her eyes were wide, like cat's eyes, and toffee-colored. She could dance. She could mime the playback songs beautifully. But she wasn't a great actress.

  “Maybe comedy's just not her thing,” I remarked. We were watching a particularly excruciating “comic” scene between Tina and the family's bossy cook, who didn't think she should be dating Raju. It ended with the cook chasing Raju round the kitchen with a frying pan while Tina screamed hysterically.

  “No,” said Jazz. “I think it's acting that's not her thing.”

  We heard the front door open. Then a crash and a curse.

  “Mind our trainers, Dad,” I called. “We left them in front of the door.”

  Seconds later Dad limped into the living room. “You girls should put your things away when you get home,” he began sternly; then his eyes lit up. “What's this? It's Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka, isn't it?”

  We nodded unenthusiastically.

  “Molly Mahal,” Dad said dreamily, sinking onto the sofa. “She was my favorite actress when I was a teenager.”

  “Why?” Jazz asked in disbelief.

  “I think we can guess,” remarked Geena, as Molly shimmied onto the screen in a long, sparkling gold and green skirt with a thigh-high side-split and a tight choli that showcased her large bosom.

  Dad blushed, took off his glasses and examined them closely.

  “It's all right, Dad,” Jazz said kindly. “We didn't think it was because she's a good actress.”

  We watched as Molly Mahal began doing a dance number with lots of shaking around and jiggling of various bits.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Your mum didn't like her either. Said she couldn't act her way out of a paper bag.”

  “Mum was absolutely right,” I said.

  “Aren't you three supposed to be doing homework?” Auntie came into the room with Mrs. Macey creeping along mouselike behind her. “Hello, Johnny.”

  Mrs. Macey nodded daringly at Dad. “Hello,” she mumbled.

  “Gloria's going to be joining us for dinner,” Auntie added.

  “Surprise,” I whispered to the others.

  “Oh, not this awful film!” groaned Auntie, her eyes flicking over to the TV. “Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka, isn't it? That Molly whatever her name is couldn't act to save her life.”

  “Dad likes her,” the three of us said together.

  “You know the rules, girls,” Dad said sternly. He reached for the remote control, and, with a supreme effort of will, turned the TV off just as Molly Mahal appeared in a denim miniskirt. “No TV before homework's done.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Geena said with relief. “I thought we were going to have to watch that utter rubbish for the next two and a half hours.”

  “Why were you watching it, anyway?” Auntie wanted to know. She can never leave anything alone, she's far too sharp. “I could have told you it was no good.”

  “Jazz wanted to see it,” I said.

  “Oh!” Jazz said indignantly—but had the wit to keep quiet after that.

  “You can watch the rest later,” Dad said, picking up his newspaper.

  “Don't threaten us, Dad,” I warned him. “And by the way, is it all right if we go to Reading tomorrow?” I thought I might as well slip it in while he was off his guard.

  “Reading?” Auntie was in there at the speed of light. “What do you want to go there for?”

  “I was asking Dad,” I said gently, knowing that she was desperately trying not to interfere so much.

  Auntie struggled with her conscience and then bit down on her lip. I smiled triumphantly.

  “Is that OK, Dad?” I asked. “We're meeting Baby.”

  Auntie snorted, a bit like a pressure cooker letting off steam. “I thought you said Baby was a bubbleheaded bimbo who needed a good slap.”

  “She is,” I agreed. “But that doesn't mean we can't go shopping together.”

  Dad looked at me. I stared back at him with my best wide-eyed innocent stare.

  “OK,” he said. “That's fine, girls.”

  Success!

  “I'll drive you,” Auntie said suddenly.

  “Wh-what?” I stammered.

  “I'll drop you off.” Auntie smiled helpfully, but there was a killer glint in her eyes. She was guessing we were up to something. “Now that I've got a new car, I need some driving practice. Where are you meeting Baby?”

  “McDonald's.” Weakly I said the first thing that came into my head. “But we can get the train.”

  Auntie shook her head. “I wouldn't hear of it,” she said.

  “That's settled then.” Dad opened his newspaper and started reading it, while Geena and Jazz pulled faces at me.

  “Is it time for dinner yet?” Mrs. Macey asked plaintively.

  “McDonald's, you said.” Auntie took a right and headed into Reading town center. “I know where that is.”

  “Yes, but Baby might not have arrived yet,” I said quickly. “We're early.”

  “Not a problem.” Auntie's eyes met mine in the driver's mirror. “I can wait until she arrives.”

  “Oh, you don't have to do that,” I said.

  “I don't mind,” replied Auntie.

  “No, really,” I said.

  “But I want to.”

  “Honestly, you don't h
ave to.”

  “I know. But I'm going to, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

  We glared at each other challengingly.

  Jazz dug her elbow into my ribs. “She knows we're up to something,” she whispered. “This was such a bad idea.”

  I tried to think of ways we could get rid of Auntie. I knew that she was perfectly capable of hanging around for hours to show that we couldn't fool her one bit. But luckily, Fate took a hand.

  We were winding our way slowly through the streets toward the town center when Auntie almost steered the car into a bollard.

  “There's Baby,” she said in tones of utter amazement.

  It was almost too wonderful to be true. Our cousin was wiggling along the pavement about a meter or so away from us. The wiggle might have been due to her high stiletto heels, or because her stretch jeans clung like a second skin. A leather jacket was slung over her shoulders, and she was wearing a white top that dipped and plunged a little too much for ten o'clock on a Saturday morning.

  Geena turned round in the front seat and grinned at Jazz and me. “She must be on her way to McDonald's to meet us,” she said casually.

  Auntie was still speechless. She tried to pull in to the curb, but she was so flustered she stalled the engine. There was a loud chorus of angry beeps from behind us.

  “Oh, shut up!” Auntie muttered, shoving the car into first gear and bumping over onto the curb.

  I wound the window down just as Baby came alongside. “Hello,” I said.

  Baby almost jumped out of both her skins. “Oh!” she gasped, sliding her leather jacket off her shoulder and clutching it to her exposed chest. “H-h-hi.”

  “Hello, beti.” Auntie turned to face me, looking sheepish. “I'll see you three later,” she mumbled. “Shall I come and pick you up?”

  “No, we'll get the train,” I said sternly, daring her to disagree. She didn't.

  Baby was looking puzzled. “Are you going to see Mum?” she asked Auntie. “Because she's not in. She's gone to the gurdwara.”

  I scrambled out of the car as fast as I could. I couldn't trust Baby not to open her big mouth and give the game away. And even if she found out she was our alibi, I still didn't trust her. She'd enjoy making fools of us.

  “No, Auntie's going home.” I stared hard at Baby. “And we're going shopping.”

  Baby stared at me in amazement. Then a sly, knowing smile spread across her pointy little face. “Oh, I get it!”

  “Bye, Auntie,” Geena and Jazz said, climbing out of the car. We all surrounded Baby, silently daring her to say a word.

  “See you later,” Auntie said. “Mind you don't catch a cold, Poonam.” And she drove off.

  Baby was smirking triumphantly in a way that made my hand itch to give her that good slap. She was going to get every bit of pleasure she could out of this situation.

  “You told Auntie you were going shopping with me, didn't you?” she chortled. “You owe me one, now. Boy, you so owe me.”

  We looked depressed. Baby would never let us forget this. She'd twist the knife until it hurt.

  “I bet you're going to meet boys,” she went on with glee.

  “We're not, actually,” I said with dignity.

  “We're not all boy mad,” Geena pointed out, tossing her hair around for the benefit of a good-looking guy loitering outside the Gap.

  “Anyway, why didn't Auntie Rita make you go to the gurdwara with her?” Jazz asked suspiciously.

  Baby suddenly didn't look quite so smug. “I wanted to go shopping instead,” she blustered.

  “On your own?” I said. Auntie Rita and Uncle Dave are just as strict as Auntie. Then it came to me. I grinned. “You told her you were meeting us, didn't you?”

  Baby looked shifty. “Don't be stupid.”

  Jazz, Geena and I started to laugh.

  “So now we're even,” Geena said.

  Red-faced, Baby flounced off down the street without even saying goodbye.

  “That's sorted her out,” I said with satisfaction. “Let's go. Geena, you must stop flinging your head around like that. You'll get whiplash.”

  I had found and printed a street map of Reading off the Internet the evening before. The street where we thought Molly Mahal lived was just about walkable from the town center. We set off, stopping every so often to check the street names.

  “I think we're close by,” I said after twenty-five minutes. We had stopped outside the Star of India. “I recognize this bit. Didn't Uncle Dave bring us to this restaurant a couple of times?”

  “Round the next corner,” Geena said, studying the map. “Then turn left and keep going.”

  The streets were getting dirtier and more depressing as we followed the map toward Rosamund Road. But strangely, the street names were becoming more and more exotic. We passed Jasmine Street, Carolina Street, Anastasia Close and Isabella Grove. Then we turned into Rosamund Road.

  “This is it,” I said. I pulled the copy of Masala Express from my bag and studied the picture. “There's the shop on the corner.”

  Geena and Jazz looked around doubtfully. The street was crammed with terraced houses, the kind where you step off the street straight through the front door. Some had huge satellite dishes fixed to the walls. There was litter blowing up and down the gutters, and rusty old cars double-parked all the way down both pavements.

  I stood there silently, thinking about the glamorous film star in the video last night. It seemed all wrong somehow.

  “Maybe she doesn't live here at all,” Jazz said doubtfully. “Maybe Masala Express got it wrong.”

  “Only one way to find out.” I studied the picture in the magazine. The house we were looking for had a green door and an alleyway down the side.

  It was easy to find. There was the house, looking even dirtier and more battered than it did in the picture. The green door was scuffed and scratched and the piece of cardboard that blocked the broken windowpane was still there. There was a tattered piece of paper taped to the peeling door frame that read, bell out of order, please knock.

  “Go on, Amber,” said Geena. I could tell that she and Jazz were secretly feeling as uneasy as I was. “Knock.”

  Trying to look confident, I seized the letter-box cover and banged it hard. We waited.

  “I can hear someone moving around inside,” Jazz whispered.

  I pressed my face against the dirty frosted glass. I couldn't see anything except a shadow flitting about occasionally.

  “I knew this was a mistake,” Geena muttered.

  “Be quiet,” I said. I bent down, flipped up the letterbox lid and stared in.

  I was looking into a dark, dingy, dirty hallway. Even with the restricted view I had, I could see that the carpet was stained and tattered and the furniture was the kind of stuff that no one wants to buy that you see in junk shops.

  Then I jumped back, almost trapping my nose in the letter box. A woman carrying a suitcase had just rushed out of a room on the right. Without noticing me, she headed down the hall toward the kitchen. Next moment she was out of sight but I could hear the jangling of keys, then the sound of a door being unlocked.

  “She's running away!” I gasped.

  “Who's running away?” Jazz demanded.

  “Is it Molly Mahal?” asked Geena.

  “I don't know,” I said, frustrated. “But she had a suitcase with her.”

  “That's a bit drastic, isn't it?” Jazz sniffed. “We were only going to invite her to a party.”

  “Quick.” I remembered the alley at the side of the house. “We might be able to stop her, whoever she is.”

  We made for the alley. It was quite narrow, so there was a lot of pushing and shoving, which wasted a bit of time. Having the sharpest elbows, I got through first.

  The alley went round the back of a garden that was thick with weeds. At the bottom was a rickety old fence, leaning drunkenly to one side. The woman I'd seen in the house was sitting astride it. She was leaning over, desperately trying to l
ift her suitcase up with her. This was so unexpected that the three of us stared openmouthed.

  Suddenly the woman caught sight of us. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  I squinted at her. The sun was full in our faces and I still couldn't tell if it was Molly Mahal or not.

  “Oh, hello,” I said politely. “I'm Amber Dhillon, and these are my sisters Geena and—”

  “I don't mean that,” the woman snapped. “I mean who are you? Why are you here?”

  “We're looking for Molly Mahal,” Geena said helpfully.

  “Why?” the woman demanded in an incredibly rude voice. “Do you want money?”

  “No,” I said, puzzled.

  “Well, if you're offering—” Jazz began.

  “Shut up,” I said. I shaded my eyes with my hand and looked up at the woman. “Do you want a hand to get down?”

  She ignored me. With slow, painful movements, she unhooked herself from the swaying fence and slid to the ground. She landed heavily, falling sideways on one ankle, and, muttering to herself in Punjabi, stared accusingly at us as if we were to blame.

  Then I saw it. It was just a glimpse, but it was there. Molly Mahal's face stared out at me for a minute, and then it was gone.

  I gasped. I heard Geena's sharp intake of breath beside me. She'd seen it too. But the drawn, gaunt face of the woman, who was still staring angrily at us, the thin figure in the shapeless leggings and dirty fleece, bore hardly any resemblance to the glamorous beauty from the day before.

  “We're looking for Molly Mahal, the Bollywood film star,” Jazz said helpfully. “We thought she lived here.”

  A fleeting look of pain crossed the woman's face. I suppose I should call her Molly from now on, although it was still impossible to believe. I tried to nudge Jazz subtly in the side. At the same moment, Geena stepped firmly on her toe.

  “And what was that for?” Jazz grumbled.

  “It's her,” Geena whispered.

  “Her?” Jazz's jaw dropped several meters as she goggled at the slightly pathetic figure in front of us. “Don't be silly.”

  Molly Mahal's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. Then suddenly, without warning, she closed her eyes and swayed slightly from side to side.

  “She's going to faint!” I gasped. “Quick, Geena!”