Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

“Molly Mahal.” Mr. Attwal looked tremendously excited. “You know, the film star. She is here, isn't she?”

  I stifled a groan. If the news was already out, that meant everybody knew. You couldn't keep these things quiet. The Indian community has a better intelligence network than the CIA. Someone must have seen Molly arriving yesterday and done some detective work.

  “Well, yes,” I admitted. Then regretted it instantly.

  “See?” Mr. Attwal turned triumphantly to his wife. “It is true!”

  “But she's not seeing anybody,” I broke in. “She doesn't feel up to it.”

  “Nonsense.” Mr. Attwal swept me aside with one grand gesture. “I was her biggest fan all those years ago. I thought about becoming a film star myself at one time but I didn't fancy the idea of wearing all that makeup. It's simply not very manly.”

  “Shouldn't you be at the shop doing the Sunday newspapers?” I squeaked. But Mr. Attwal was already bustling his way eagerly into our living room, his wife behind him.

  I rushed after them. Maybe I was wrong. Molly might enjoy meeting some of her fans.

  I was just in time to catch the look of absolute horror on Molly's face. And the abject disappointment on Mr. Attwal's.

  “Oh!” he breathed. “I'd never have recognized you. I mean, pleased to meet you.”

  Molly didn't reply. She snatched at her goldfringed scarf and pulled it half across her face. Her hands were trembling. I realized then that her newfound confidence was as fragile as a butterfly's wing.

  Feeling horribly guilty, I dashed upstairs and bumped into Auntie coming out of the bedroom, her arms full of clothes.

  “She's rearranged all my drawers,” she began indignantly.

  “Ooh, that sounds painful,” Jazz giggled, popping her head out of our room.

  “Who was at the door?” Dad grumbled, wandering out onto the landing in a pair of stripy pajamas. “At eight-twenty a.m.? It's not natural.”

  “Quick!” I whispered with urgency. “It's Mr. Attwal and his wife. They've come to see Molly Mahal.”

  “You mean everyone knows she's here?” inquired Geena from behind Jazz.

  “That's not good,” Jazz added.

  “Oh my God,” Auntie groaned. “I was hoping we could keep it quiet.”

  “Maybe Mr. Attwal hasn't told anyone else,” Dad began hopefully.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Don't answer it,” advised Jazz. “They might go away.”

  “There's someone at your door,” Mr. Attwal roared from the living room. “Shall I let them in?”

  Auntie gritted her teeth. “Amber, go and see who it is,” she instructed. “And the rest of you, get dressed. We're going to be busy this morning.”

  I ran downstairs. As I passed the living room, I took a peek. Molly Mahal and the Attwals were sitting in complete silence. They were staring at her with curious eyes, and she was studiously ignoring them.

  “Hello, beti.” Mrs. Dhaliwal was at the door. Her bucktoothed son was standing next to her, shuffling his feet shyly. “We've just popped round to say hello.”

  “It's eight-twenty-five,” I said. “A.m.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dhaliwal agreed without a shred of embarrassment. She lived in the next street, and her great purpose in life was to get everybody married. She usually carried around a huge file full of the details of prospective marriage partners, although I couldn't see any sign of it this morning. “Where is she then?”

  “Who?” I asked, stalling.

  Mrs. Dhaliwal shook her finger playfully at me. “Molly Mahal, of course.” She peered eagerly over my shoulder. “We're dying to meet her. Aren't we, Sukhvinder?”

  “I'm not sure that's a good idea—” I began.

  Mrs. Dhaliwal took not a bit of notice. She shouldercharged past me into the house, dragging her son along by the wrist. He did at least look a bit embarrassed.

  Cursing under my breath, I rushed along behind them, hoping to warn Molly Mahal. I was too late.

  “Oh my.” Mrs. Dhaliwal came to a full stop in the living room doorway, goggling at Molly Mahal from behind her thick spectacles. “Haven't you changed.”

  “That's exactly what I said,” Mr. Attwal informed her in a loud whisper. “Although she's still beautiful, of course. For her age.”

  I was beginning to feel wretched. Mrs. Dhaliwal plumped herself down on the sofa next to Molly Mahal without taking her eyes off her. Sukhvinder squeezed on too, looking mesmerized. Molly said nothing. She moved across to the other corner of the sofa, drawing her skirt around her.

  “So”—Mrs. Dhaliwal fixed her with an eager, beady stare—“why have you been hiding yourself away all these years?”

  I fled.

  “Auntie!” I burst into Geena's bedroom. Auntie looked round, startled, halfway into her jeans. “You've got to come downstairs.”

  “What's going on?” she demanded.

  “They're staring at her and she hates it.” I was upset—I didn't know why. “And Mrs. Dhaliwal's already started asking rude questions.”

  “Oh no.” Auntie wriggled into her jeans and zipped them up. “She'll be trying to get her married off next.”

  “That might be a good thing,” remarked Geena, coming out of Jazz and Amber's room to see what was going on.

  “Who'd have her?” Jazz whispered. “It'd be worse than trying to find Auntie a husband.”

  Dad joined us on the landing. “Who's arrived now?” he asked crossly.

  “Mrs. Dhaliwal and Sukhvinder,” I replied.

  “Oh no,” Geena said, trying to look disgusted. Sukhvinder has a big thing for her. Geena doesn't like him, but she likes him liking her, if you see what I mean.

  “Don't worry,” I said as we all clattered downstairs. “He's only got eyes for Molly Mahal at the moment.”

  This time Geena genuinely did look disgusted. Especially as Sukhvinder didn't even glance up as we crowded into the living room. The temperature in there had dropped so much, it was below freezing. You could have picked up a knife and sliced the tension.

  “Of course, it's not always easy to find a husband at your age,” Mrs. Dhaliwal was saying helpfully. “You know, our men don't want wives who are a little old to be having children, hmm?”

  I could gladly have hit her. Geena and Jazz gasped. Auntie looked uncomfortable and Dad annoyed. I don't know if they noticed the fleeting look of pain that crossed Molly Mahal's face. But I did.

  “But if we could find you a nice, divorced guy …” Mrs. Dhaliwal tapped her teeth thoughtfully with a manicured fingernail. “Yes. Someone who's already had their children. Now, what kind of men do you like?”

  “Good morning, bhaibh-ji,” Auntie cut in swiftly. I could have kissed her. “Hello, everybody.” She didn't wait for them to reply. “Lovely to see you all. Now let's have tea.” She turned to Molly. “Are you ready? Johnny's going to drop you off at your friend's house right away.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for Auntie. Not something I would say very often, of course.

  “I am?” Dad looked puzzled, then got it. “Oh, yes. So I am.”

  “No tea for us.” Looking disappointed, Mrs. Dhaliwal heaved herself off the sofa. “Come along, Sukhvinder.” She had to repeat herself twice before he could finally tear his gaze away from Molly. “I'll be back,” she threatened, waddling over to the door. “And next time I'll bring my marriage file.”

  “Yes, you must tell us more about the filmi industry sometime,” Mr. Attwal chimed in. He went reluctantly to the living room door, his wife scuttling after him. Dad, Auntie, Geena, Jazz and I escorted them out, forming a barrier so they couldn't get back in.

  “You know,” Mr. Attwal said thoughtfully, “she could still make films if she wanted to.”

  “Oh no.” Mrs. Dhaliwal looked shocked. “She's much too old to play the heroine now.”

  “Of course she is,” Mr. Attwal agreed. “But she could play the hero's mother. Or his sister. You know, minor roles like that.”

&nb
sp; I winced at the loudness of his tone and pulled the door shut behind me.

  As Dad, Auntie, Geena and Jazz edged Mrs. Dhaliwal and the others down the hall toward the front door, I went back into the living room. Molly Mahal sat there, a frozen look on her face.

  “Are you all right?” I blurted out.

  “Yes, why shouldn't I be?” she replied coldly. But her hands were still shaking slightly.

  “Well …,” I began awkwardly. “I suppose it's nice that people want to meet you.” I was going to say after all these years, but stopped myself in time.

  Molly shook her head. “They don't want to meet me,” she said. “They're just desperate to see how awful I look.”

  “That's not true,” I said, very weakly. “Anyway, you look lovely.” I just managed not to add for your age. Every time I opened my mouth, I seemed eager to stick my foot in it.

  Geena popped her head round the door. “Guess who's here,” she groaned. “Uncle Dave, Auntie Rita, Baby and Biji.”

  “You mean—?” I glanced over at Molly.

  Geena nodded and ducked out again.

  “Look, you don't have to see anybody if you don't want to,” I said quickly. “You could always go up to your room.”

  “Really.” Molly looked at me levelly. “I thought meeting your friends and relatives was the price I had to pay for staying here.”

  “No,” I said, shocked. “Not at all.”

  Molly sighed. “Amber,” she said flatly, “there's always a price to pay.” And stayed where she was.

  “Someone will have to talk to her.” Auntie slammed a plate of toast down on the table. “Find out what her plans are. We can't go on like this.”

  I didn't dare reply. Neither did Geena and Jazz. We kept our heads down over our breakfast plates. Auntie was in the mother of all moods, and for once I could not blame her.

  Sunday had been a truly terrible day. Visitors had come and gone until late evening. They'd drunk our tea, eaten all our food and sat and stared at Molly Mahal. Some of them had been too overawed to say anything. Like Mrs. Macey, who hadn't been able to stand it any longer and had crept round in the late morning to find out exactly what was going on. But our relatives had been the most badly behaved of them all.

  “So where is she then?” Uncle Dave had boomed, rubbing his hands together as he stepped into the hall.

  “Shhh!” I said, as did Dad, Auntie, Geena and Jazz.

  “We've heard all about her, you know,” Auntie Rita chattered eagerly, waving her hands around and setting her expensive gold bracelets jangling. “She's supposed to be hideous now. Is she?”

  “I'm not surprised,” sniffed Biji, leaning heavily on her walking stick. “That's what comes of being a filmi actress. The movies are full of immorality.”

  “She's got to be pretty ancient, too,” Baby chimed in. She was playing the good little Indian girl today, wearing a pink and white lengha, but a good deal of tummy and cleavage was on show. “She must be forty at least.”

  “And how are you, Poonam beti ?” Auntie inquired silkily. “You didn't catch a cold yesterday after all? That was lucky.”

  Baby's eyes narrowed and she said no more.

  That set the scene for the rest of the visit. Biji limped into our living room, stared at Molly Mahal and announced, “Well! How the mighty are fallen.” Uncle Davinder couldn't take his eyes off her, and announced in a very audible whisper to Dad that although she wasn't a patch on how she'd looked before, she wasn't bad at all. Meanwhile, all Auntie Rita wanted to know was if Baby had any potential as a Bollywood star.

  “People have told us that she's so beautiful, we ought to let her take a screen test,” she said with a tinkling laugh as Baby simpered beside her. “Of course, we'd never actually allow her to do it.”

  “Of course not,” Biji growled, tapping her stick sharply on the floor. “Actresses have no morals. No family values. No decent, respectable, clean-living girl would want to enter such a profession.”

  Molly looked Baby up and down. “In that case, I think she'd be perfect,” she said coolly.

  I'd had to leave the room so that I could laugh as noiselessly as possible in the kitchen. Geena and Jazz had joined me, gasping for breath. Even Dad and Auntie had struggled not to look amused.

  From that moment on, though, something about Molly Mahal slowly started to change. She didn't hide behind her scarf when new visitors arrived. Instead, she stared them full in the face, daring them to make comments about how much she'd changed. Once they'd looked into those eyes, many of them were too mesmerized to say a word. Or too scared. By the end of the long, tiring day, I had the feeling that she'd faced up to herself, and to the ordeal of all those curious, staring eyes, and she'd won through. Secretly I felt quite proud of her.

  But now, the next morning, we were back at square one. Molly Mahal was still here. We were no further forward in finding out what she was going to do, when she was planning to leave. She was still our responsibility.

  “You heard what Auntie said, Amber.” Geena nudged me. “Someone's got to talk to her.”

  “She didn't mean me,” I said in a low voice. I hoped she didn't because I had no intention of doing it. I'd never been so glad that Monday morning at school was looming ahead of me, science test and all.

  “She'll have to go soon,” said Jazz through a mouthful of toast. “No one could be so thick-skinned as to stay somewhere they're not wanted.”

  “They might if they haven't anywhere else to go,” I said.

  Jazz didn't reply. She looked a little ashamed of herself.

  At this moment, Dad rushed into the kitchen wearing his best pinstriped suit. He had two ties in his hand, one a deep crimson, the other pink with blue chevrons.

  “Which one looks best, do you think?” he asked anxiously, holding the ties up against his white shirt.

  “Dad, what's the matter with you?” Geena asked with amusement. “I thought you usually just put on the first tie you pick up.”

  Dad looked awkward. “I want to look my best for once.”

  “Why?” Jazz asked.

  “Oh, never mind that.” Auntie brandished a butter knife threateningly. “Johnny, we have to talk.”

  “We do?” Dad asked absently, weighing up the ties, one in each hand.

  Auntie sighed loudly. I put down my cereal spoon. This was going to be fun.

  “Of course we do,” said Auntie, looking exasperated. “About—you know.” She rolled her eyes upward. We could hear Molly moving around upstairs.

  Dad looked puzzled. “We have to talk about the ceiling?” he asked.

  “Someone's going to be assaulted with the butter knife very soon,” said Geena in a low voice.

  “Molly Mahal!” Auntie muttered savagely. “What are we going to do ?”

  “Well”—Dad frowned—“nothing, for the moment.”

  “Nothing!” Auntie gasped in horror. Geena and Jazz groaned theatrically. I was staying out of it.

  “What can we do?” Dad pointed out, very reasonably, I thought. “After all, the girls invited her to stay—”

  “That's not quite true,” Geena broke in. She and Jazz eyed me with great bitterness.

  “Well, never mind.” Dad took a piece of toast. “Whatever happened, she's now our guest.”

  “But she can't stay here forever,” said Auntie plaintively.

  “Of course not,” Dad agreed. “But the girls want her to go to the school party, don't they? So I think it's only fair that she stays with us until then, especially as she doesn't seem to have anywhere else to go.”

  Auntie's jaw dropped so far it almost hit the breakfast table. “But—but,” she stammered, “that's four weeks away!”

  “Well, that gives her plenty of time to sort out some other living arrangements, doesn't it?” Dad raised his eyebrows. “We can't just turn her out onto the streets.”

  “No, we can't,” I chimed in. That won me several more killer looks.

  “But the girls haven't even asked h
er about the party yet,” said Auntie in a disgruntled voice. “She might not want to do it.”

  “Well, ask her today,” Dad said calmly, but there was more than a hint of steel in his voice. “Then we can decide where we go from there.”

  I wondered if he'd been reading Kim's Say No and Mean It! I couldn't remember him being this assertive—oh—for months. Since before Mum.

  “And now we've sorted that out”—Dad held up both ties again—“which one do you think? The red or the pink?”

  “The red.”

  No one had heard Molly Mahal come downstairs. She stood in the doorway, wearing another of Auntie's suits, a silver and turquoise one this time, with some rather pretty beaten-silver jewelry and glittery seagreen bangles.

  “It looks better with that suit,” she went on, smiling at Dad. “Very smart.”

  “Why, thank you,” Dad said. He seemed flustered but pleased. He put the red tie on, grabbed his briefcase and went out, looking ten feet tall.

  Auntie sighed. I think she knew she was beaten for the time being. But I was sure she wouldn't be giving up that easily.

  “Frosties?” she said coolly, plonking the box down in front of Molly Mahal.

  “Aren't you making dosas ?” Molly asked, with a delicate frown. “Or puri ?”

  Auntie shook her head. “Feel free to make them yourself,” she replied.

  Molly laughed, a tinkling musical sound. “Oh dear, I don't know how to cook,” she said with incredulous amusement. “My chef and my maids did everything

  for me.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at Auntie. There was a challenge in her eyes.

  Geena and Jazz sat up, waiting for the storm to break. I watched with interest to see if steam would actually come out of Auntie's ears. It looked as though it might.

  “Well,” she began with cutting emphasis, “I'm not your—”

  “Come on, girls,” I broke in brightly. “We'd better be going too.” It was still early, but I was desperate to get away.

  “Wait!” Auntie pleaded. She looked quite distraught at the idea of being left with Molly all day. Once again, I couldn't blame her. They seemed to strike sparks off each other whenever they were in the same room. “Geena hasn't finished her breakfast.”