Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

Besides us, there were about fifteen other pupils hanging around, many of them looking disgruntled. I guess Mr. Arora had used the term “volunteer” quite loosely. Startlingly, one of them was Kim.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Kim shrugged, turning delicately pink. “I volunteered to help,” she said.

  “You didn't say anything before,” I accused her.

  Kim looked sheepish. I should possibly have probed a bit more, but it didn't occur to me. Not then.

  “Let's make a start,” boomed Mr. Grimwade, glancing at his watch. “I have a meeting with Mr. Morgan in half an hour.”

  “Hello, everyone.” Auntie came through the double doors, looking casually glamorous in a pale blue salwar kameez. She had the look of someone who'd made a huge effort with her appearance but was pretending she hadn't. “I'm not late, am I?”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Grimwade jovially. “And how is the star of our show?”

  Auntie smiled. “I'm fine, thank you.”

  “Er—I meant Miss Mahal,” Mr. Grimwade mumbled.

  “Oh, her.” Auntie's tone was clipped. “She's sitting in our living room, watching one of her own films. As you do.”

  “We thought she might come with you,” Mr. Arora chipped in.

  “Well, she didn't,” Auntie said glacially.

  “Did you ask her?” Mr. Arora wanted to know.

  I glanced at Geena and Jazz. This was getting dangerous.

  “Shall we begin?” Mr. Grimwade cut in impatiently.

  We sat down. It was interesting to see that Mr. Arora and Auntie chose chairs as far away from each other as possible. In fact, Auntie deliberately crossed the room, pushing her way past several other people to sit next to me and Kim.

  “Was that strictly necessary?” I asked.

  “I don't know what you mean, Amber,” Auntie said distantly. “Hello, Kim.”

  “You'll never get your hooks into him if you treat him like that,” Jazz muttered.

  “I strongly object to that phrase,” Auntie snapped. “I don't intend to ‘get my hooks’ into anyone.”

  “Well, you should,” said Jazz stubbornly. “You'll never find anyone as good as Mr. Arora.”

  Auntie glared at her.

  “I call this meeting to order,” said Mr. Grimwade pompously. “Now, I know that Mr. Arora and Miss Dhillon have been coordinating the arrangements for the party up till now”—Auntie and Mr. Arora gave each other a cool glance—“but we can't expect them to do all the work. That's why we're here, to divide up the rest of the tasks. And may I just say how pleased I am to see so many of you. It's marvelous that fund-raising fatigue is not an issue at Coppergate School!”

  He paused as if he was expecting a rousing cheer of agreement. There wasn't one.

  “The headmaster told me I had to come,” said Mr. Hernandez.

  “So I'm going to ask Miss Dhillon and Mr. Arora to give us an update.” Mr. Grimwade swept on regardless. “Then we can see where help is required. Miss Dhillon?”

  Auntie flipped open her handbag and took out a list. “Everything's under control,” she said briskly. “I've made a list of the food we'll require. Samosas, bhajis, pakoras, jelabis, barfi and so on. We're asking the parents to cook food and send it in.” She shot a challenging glance at Mr. Arora. “I believe a letter is going home with the pupils tonight.”

  Mr. Arora nodded, equally coolly. “We're also asking for donations of fairy lights and colored tinsel to decorate the hall,” he added. “And the lower school will be making other decorations, as well as posters to publicize the event.”

  “There go our art classes for the next three weeks,” Jazz grumbled.

  “I've been in touch with Mr. Basra at the local video shop and he's promised us some Bollywood posters,” Auntie went on. “And I was hoping we might get a local DJ to do the music. I've heard Chapati MC is very good.”

  “He is,” said Geena. “He's gorgeous as well,” she whispered in my ear.

  “We could have a performance by a bhangra group,” suggested Miss Patel. “I could ask Amit Sagoo in my class. His dad's a bhangra dancer.”

  “That's a good idea,” Auntie agreed. We all nodded.

  Mr. Arora cleared his throat. I don't know why, but I could sense trouble coming.

  “Can I just say that, though this all sounds excellent, I think we should really be discussing the most important issue.”

  “And what is that?” Auntie inquired icily.

  “Whether we can persuade Molly Mahal to attend the party,” Mr. Arora replied with spirit. “I do feel it would be an amazing coup for us if she agreed to come. It would generate a lot of interest among the Asian community, and we'd probably have a sellout event on our hands.”

  “You've asked her,” Auntie ground out from between gritted teeth. “She said no. I think we should move on.”

  “She said she'd think about it,” Mr. Arora retorted stubbornly. “I'm sure we can persuade her. Maybe we could offer her some kind of incentive to attend.”

  “What is he going to do?” Geena whispered. “Ask her to marry him?”

  “You don't mean pay her?” Mr. Grimwade looked aghast.

  “I agree with Mr. Arora,” said a timid but assertive voice to my left. Everyone turned to stare at Kim, not least me. “I think we should do our best to get her to come.”

  “So do I,” Miss Patel put in. “We'd definitely sell loads more tickets. And I'm dying to meet her myself.” She turned to Mr. Hernandez next to her and whispered, “She's supposed to be hideous now, you know.”

  “Really?” said Mr. Hernandez. “In that case, maybe we should pay her to stay away.”

  Kim flushed. “She's not hideous at all,” she said defensively. “She's very beautiful.”

  “Yes, she is,” said Mr. Arora eagerly.

  Auntie muttered something inaudible.

  “Well, we can't wait much longer,” Mr. Grimwade pointed out. “If she is coming, we'll need to publicize it. The posters will be going up in the next week or two.”

  “Leave it with me,” said Mr. Arora confidently. “I'll do my best to persuade her.”

  “Can you hear that noise?” I murmured in Geena's ear. “It's the sound of Auntie's blood pressure rising.”

  Somehow Auntie managed to keep it together for the rest of the meeting, which, luckily, wasn't very long. She didn't say goodbye to Mr. Arora when we left.

  “Are you all right, Auntie?” I asked as we crossed the playground to the car park. Kim was trailing along behind us, beaming after making her astonishing stand.

  “I'm fine,” Auntie snapped, pointing her keys at the car. “Why on earth wouldn't I be?”

  “Because that's Miss Patel's car you're trying to unlock,” I said. “She's got the same silver Golf as you.”

  Auntie skirted round Miss Patel's car, cursing under her breath.

  “I've never done anything like that before,” Kim babbled gaily. “I hate speaking in public. Do you think I sounded nervous?”

  “What do you want, marks out of ten?” I asked. Then instantly regretted it as Kim's face dropped.

  “We don't have the time to hang around waiting for Madam Mahal to make up her mind,” Auntie muttered grimly under her breath. We all climbed into the car and she threw it into gear. “Why can't they see that?”

  “Wait!” Jazz shrieked as the car moved off. “I'm not in properly yet.”

  Auntie braked with unnecessary vigor, and we all lurched forward. “It's ridiculous. She's said she doesn't want to do it. Why can't they just accept it?”

  “Remind me again why we went to see Molly Mahal,” Geena remarked to me under her breath. “I seem to remember it was going to earn us all sorts of praise from Auntie.”

  “Ha ha ha,” said Jazz savagely. I judged it best to keep quiet. Auntie drove off at speed.

  “And another thing,” she began again, coming to an emergency stop outside the block of flats where Kim lived. “We still don't know when she's going to leave.�
��

  “Er—do you mind if I come home with you?” Kim asked timidly, staying where she was.

  I leaned over the seats to eyeball her. “Are you coming to see Molly?”

  “Well …,” Kim began, shriveling under my probing gaze.

  “Oh, go on,” I said cuttingly. “You might as well be assertive and tell the truth.”

  “Well, I did promise Miss Mahal I'd visit her today,” Kim mumbled.

  “Fair enough,” I said coolly.

  We drove on in simmering silence. All of us were stressed. Auntie seemed to feel that she'd given away something of how she felt about Mr. Arora. Now she'd shut up like a clam. Geena and Jazz were depressed, as I was. Kim looked defiant, which didn't suit her one bit. I was quite sure I would have to have a serious word with her at some point.

  “Who's nicked my parking space?” Auntie demanded irritably as we drew up outside the house. I had a strong suspicion that she would leap out of the car and positively enjoy throttling them to death, whoever they were.

  A white van was parked in “our” space. beena's bouquets—flowers for that special occasion was printed on the side of the van in big bold letters.

  We all peered out of the car windows. A woman in a green sari was at our front door, handing over an enormous bouquet of flowers to Molly Mahal. Even from this distance I could see that the flowers weren't cheap and ordinary. These were sumptuous hothouse blooms, wrapped in palest candy-pink tissue paper.

  Auntie fidgeted in her seat until the florist had driven off, then shot the car into the empty space. Kim was out and up the path first. Molly Mahal was still on the step, her arms filled with flowers, looking oh so very pleased with herself.

  “Aren't they lovely?” Kim breathed.

  I followed her to take a look. Pale pink and white rosebuds, white lilies and blue irises. It was a ravishing bouquet.

  “Who sent it?” asked Auntie from behind me. She sounded a touch strained.

  Molly Mahal produced a tiny cream card with a flourish. “‘Please do consider coming to our party,'” she read out. “‘We'd love you to be the guest of honor! With best wishes, Jai Arora.'”

  I gasped. Partly because of the shock and partly because Geena had just poked me violently in the back. Jazz immediately turned to stare at Auntie with saucer eyes.

  “Mr. Arora!” Kim said with delight. “He must really like you.”

  “Evidently,” said Auntie in a freezing tone, pushing past Molly Mahal and into the house.

  “Could you put them in water for me?” With a dazzling smile, Molly thrust the bouquet into Auntie's arms as she passed. Auntie took the flowers meekly and didn't say a word. She looked quite upset, although she was doing her best to hide it.

  “Well,” said Geena when Molly and Kim had followed Auntie inside. “What do you make of that?”

  “Surely Mr. Arora hasn't got a thing for her. She must be at least fifteen years older than he is.” I watched in disbelief as Molly and Kim went into the living room, chatting and laughing, and closed the door firmly behind them.

  “Kim and I are going to have words, for sure,” I muttered crossly.

  “Oh, never mind Kim,” Jazz said with impatience. “What about Mr. Arora?”

  “Some men like older women,” said Geena knowledgeably.

  “No!” I groaned. “This is all going horribly wrong.”

  “You mean Auntie's going to be miserable, and so, it follows, are we,” said Geena.

  “And whose fault is that?” Jazz demanded. “I told you we should have left Molly Mahal in Reading.”

  “Look”—I was glad of any distraction at that point—“here's Dad.”

  Dad was wandering along the street, briefcase in hand, looking lost. He stopped outside Number Ten, opened the gate and made to walk inside. Then he stopped uncertainly, bent to peer at the number on the gatepost and closed the gate again.

  “What's the matter with him?” asked Geena.

  Dad came closer. Now we could see that his eyes were pink and streaming with tears.

  “Dad!” Geena hurried to meet him. “Are you ill?”

  “Is this our house?” Dad asked, squinting wildly.

  “Yes, this is it,” I replied, taking his arm. “Come along, we'll help you inside.”

  Jazz was staring at him. “You look different, Dad.”

  “Well, duh,” I said. “He doesn't usually walk around crying his eyes out.”

  “No, something else.” Jazz frowned. “Where are your glasses?”

  “In my pocket.” Dad stepped gingerly through the gate. “I'm just trying out my new contact lenses.”

  “They're not doing a lot for you at the moment, Dad.” I steered him out of the flowerbed. “Can you see?”

  “They were fine until just now,” Dad replied. “Then I got some dust in my eyes.”

  “Here.” Jazz gave him a tissue.

  “I hope that's clean,” said Geena severely.

  “I've only blown my nose once today,” Jazz retorted.

  “I didn't know you were getting contact lenses, Dad,” I remarked.

  Dad blinked a few times. He looked sheepish and, strangely, guilty. “I just thought I'd give them a try,” he mumbled, hurrying toward the open front door almost as if he was trying to avoid awkward questions. As he went in, he almost collided with Molly, who had stepped out of the living room.

  “We'd like some tea,” she was calling in an imperious tone to Auntie. Then she stopped and peered up at Dad, who's quite tall and towers over her. “Where are your glasses? Have you got contact lenses?”

  Dad nodded even more sheepishly and began shuffling from foot to foot like a naughty boy.

  “What a good idea,” gushed Molly. “They suit you much better than those boring glasses.” She smiled flirtatiously. “You look years younger.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Dad said, blushing like an idiot.

  “Do join us for tea,” Molly said. She cast an impatient glance down the hall at Auntie, who was standing in the kitchen doorway. “If it ever arrives, that is.”

  “I'll see if it's ready,” said Dad quickly, not too blind to notice the look on Auntie's face.

  Molly flashed him a gorgeous smile and closed the door again. I wondered what on earth she and Kim could be talking about.

  “Johnny,” Auntie began in a dangerous voice, “you're going to have to do something about that woman. And soon, before there's a murder in this very house.”

  “I thought we talked about this last week,” Dad said sternly. “I don't see any point in discussing it again.” He held up a hand as Auntie opened her mouth again. “No. And now”—he blinked rapidly several times, eyes watering again—“I'm going to remove my contact lenses. Excuse me.”

  He fumbled his way out of the kitchen, tripping over Geena's foot on the way.

  “So that's that,” Auntie muttered savagely. She grabbed the kettle and filled it, clanging it loudly against the sink. The three of us winced. “I obviously have no say in the matter at all.”

  “I hope you're looking forward to this weekend, Amber,” Geena breathed lightly in my ear. “It's going to be such fun.”

  Monday morning came round at the pace of a snail. We grabbed it like a lifeline. Predictably, Auntie had been like a demon all weekend. To avert a major incident, Dad had actually taken Molly shopping on Saturday morning to keep them apart. Three phone calls from Mr. Arora pleading the case for the Bollywood party had only added to the tension. Auntie had spent the weekend cooking and baking madly for the party, and we'd been asked to help. Did I say asked ? Make that forced.

  Also very predictably, Geena and Jazz blamed me for Auntie's bad mood. I was in a bad mood myself. Kim was not forthcoming over her secret conversation with Molly Mahal and had all but told me to mind my own business. In an assertive way, of course.

  “Free at last,” Jazz sang joyfully, slinging her schoolbag onto her shoulder. We all turned to wave at Auntie, who was watching us leave, her face pressed wistfully aga
inst the living room window. “I love school. I so love it.”

  “We've got the sponsored walk this Thursday,” I reminded her.

  “I don't care,” Jazz replied. “I'd walk a million miles to get away from Auntie and Molly Mahal at the moment.”

  “Girls!” Mrs. Dhaliwal was waving at us from the other side of the road. Hitching up her sari, she rushed across to us, scorning the zebra crossing, which was only a few meters away. A guy in a BMW screeched to a halt, narrowly avoiding squashing her. He began yelling. Mrs. Dhaliwal ignored him.

  “So how's our film star?” she demanded breathlessly.

  “Fine,” Geena snapped.

  Mrs. Dhaliwal winked. She seemed full of excitement about something or other. “I saw her on Saturday. She was out shopping with your dad.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  Mrs. Dhaliwal winked again, several times. I wondered if she had a nervous twitch. “Well, I won't say any more now,” she said smugly. “Let's just wait and see what happens, shall we?”

  “Yes, let's,” said Geena, looking puzzled.

  “This is just what you need, isn't it, girls?” Mrs. Dhaliwal crowed. “Someone to look after you. A new mum. But”—she put her finger to her lips and shushed herself theatrically—“I'm not going to say another word.”

  Beaming, she bounced off down the street.

  “What the hell was all that about?” Jazz asked.

  Geena was staring at me. Her eyes and mouth were round Os of horror. “She didn't mean—she couldn't mean … Not Molly Mahal?”

  “And Dad ?” I gasped.

  “Excuse me?” Jazz looked at Geena, then me. “Molly Mahal and Dad ? You mean, Dad, our father?”

  “How many dads have you got?” I said. I was cold, icy. Actually shivering. It couldn't be true. It could not be true.

  “But—” Geena began. She stopped, lost for words.

  “Mrs. Dhaliwal thinks Dad's going to marry Molly Mahal?” Jazz shrieked, as it finally kicked in. “Is she mad ?”

  “Possibly,” said Geena in a dazed voice.

  “What do you mean, possibly ?” Jazz wailed. “Dad doesn't want to get married again! He misses Mum too much.”

  “Maybe that's exactly why he wants another wife,” I said.