by Shobhaa De
She loathed “the act.” And everything associated with it. She hated his breath, his favorite cologne, the curly hair in his armpits, the gold chains around his neck, even the moles on his thighs. She dreaded the nights when she could anticipate “the act.” She always knew when he was feeling horny and resorted to little tricks in order to avoid his advances. She’d ask him coquettishly if he would like another drink, knowing a little extra alcohol in his bloodstream would make him sleep like a baby. Or she’d prolong her good nights in the children’s room. Sometimes, she’d even stage a fight with one of the servants. When all else failed she’d fall back on the worldwide excuse women who lack imagination trot out: “Not tonight, darling, I have a headache.”
Suddenly Malini became aware that Rita had been nattering on about her sex life: “Of course, sweetie, it hasn’t been easy being married to Kailashji. You know, he’s a very demanding man in every way—and so much temptation! Arrey, every day he has beautiful women falling at his feet, begging him to let them into his bed. But I told him from day one: ‘Look here, ji. I am your wife. You give me proper respect. I don’t want to know about your lafdas. If you have any affair, just be sensible and don’t let me know or find out. In public, you have to give me the honor I deserve. What you do behind my back does not concern me.’ Believe me, sweetie, it has been so many years now—nineteen, this month—and we are happy. As happy as a film couple can be. I have my friends, my work, my shopping, my kitty parties, my foreign holidays; what more does a woman want? That way Kailashji is very considerate.
“He never questions me about my spending. He allows me to buy whatever I want, whenever I want. I know about his girls. I have felt hurt also, in the past. Once especially when that witch, Babli, had him completely under her spell and he had started spending weekends in Pune with her. But I put a stop to that. I said to Kailashji, ‘Look here, ji. Enough is enough. This woman is using you. Looting you. Better give her up, or I will commit suicide. That will bring disgrace to you. Plus, my soul will haunt you forever.’ He saw my point. Chalo, so he lost a few lakhs and the film he made for her flopped, but at least he came back to me. We women have to be firm. And stand up for our rights. Sometimes men can be foolish. They can get carried away. It is our duty to bring them back on the right path. That is what wives are for.”
Malini silently nodded her agreement.
Rita made the introductions smoothly. Malini was surprised to see how warm and friendly she was toward Aasha Rani. And surprised by Aasha Rani’s attire as well. She was wearing a simple salwar-kameez—white chikan, with an ordinary bandhani dupatta. She looked like a college girl. Hardly any makeup. Her hair pulled back in a casual ponytail. She had good skin, Malini noted. Dark but good. And, of course, nobody could help but notice her bust. What breasts! Malini could see the outline of her bra: a lacy, pretty one, very like her own. Had Akshay given it to her? Of course, it was what went into the bras that made all the difference. Aasha Rani’s breasts were magnificent, firm and proud. Malini clutched her sari pallav more closely around her shoulders. She had to admit Aasha Rani was attractive—in an earthy sort of way. Plus, she was amazingly relaxed. Imagine! The girl has nerves of steel—so cool, so composed—as if she had nothing to do with the mess. An innocent bystander.
Malini pictured her naked and in bed with Akshay, then quickly thrust the image from her mind. She imagined her giving Akshay a blow job with those full, luscious lips. She hated performing fellatio herself, and Akshay had realized this quickly. He’d given up asking these days because he knew the answer—a hasty and dismissive, “Chhee!” Maybe that was what attracted him to this woman, Malini figured. Maybe this girl even swallowed it all. Ugh! She nearly threw up just thinking about it.
Aasha Rani touched Rita’s feet, settled down comfortably on a settee and waited expectantly. Malini was beginning to feel uncomfortable, but Rita expertly took over the proceedings and got the summit under way. “Tell me, darling,” she said sweetly to Aasha Rani, “what is all this nonsense with Akshayji? It’s not nice. Very naughty.” Aasha Rani regarded her coolly. “Is it? Why?”
“Arrey! What do you mean, ‘Why’? Baba, he is another woman’s husband. You can’t destroy someone’s marriage like this. It is not done, darling,” Rita screeched, quite taken aback. Aasha Rani, looking far from penitent, stared at Malini and said, “I’m not the one who’s breaking up her marriage. She has broken it herself.”
“Now look here, Aasha Rani. This is not the correct attitude. We have called you to settle this matter. You must be reasonable.”
“Why don’t you call Akshay and tell him to stop seeing me? Why are you after my blood?”
“Because we women should sort out matters between ourselves. We should not involve men. Poor Akshayji—bechare—what can he do if women like you throw themselves at him? He is only a man.”
Malini, who had been silently listening to all this, suddenly spoke up. Her carefully controlled facade broke without warning, and in a voice that was shrill with rage and hysteria she screamed, “Look here, you bloody kutti, we all know your type—stealing our men, wrecking our homes. Do you have no conscience? It makes me sick to hear all your stupid love talk on the tapes. Shameless slut!”
Aasha Rani didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched as Malini caught her breath, her face contorted and ugly. Then she said softly, “Let me show you your face, Malini. Just look at the hatred in your eyes. Is this how you greet your husband when he comes home every night? And you wonder why he comes to me?”
“Bitch! Haramzaadi! Whore! You are teaching me about my husband? How dare you? I didn’t expect you to be so shameless. So unrepentant. It’s your background, of course. How can a rundi have morals? She will sleep with anyone who pays her. Akshay may screw you in the makeup room or the gutter, but it is my bed he comes to at night!”
“So? What does that prove?”
“It proves that he is my man. My husband. He may sleep with dozens of prostitutes like you. But I am the one he respects, whose home he regards as his own.”
Aasha Rani smiled. “Well, in that case, why are we all here? You should feel very happy, very satisfied. I didn’t want to meet you. And I don’t want to change places with you either. If you can’t manage your marriage, ask yourself where you went wrong.”
Malini screeched, “You can stick your bloody philosophy and lecture-baazi up your ass. Just give my husband back to me!”
Aasha Rani picked up her bag. “He is not a toy I have bought in the marketplace that I can ‘give him back.’ I have not taken him in the first place. It is up to you to hold him or lose him.”
Malini screamed, “Sex! That is all you have—Sex! That is what women like you use. Cheap bitches—part your legs and let any man in. Sex, sex, sex, dirty, filthy sex! Perverts! You must be a pervert. What do you do to him—hah? Suck his cock? Or suffocate him with your breasts? He will get tired of you, like he has of all the others. Eventually a man needs his wife and children. You will see. But my curse is upon you. You will never be happy. You will never marry. You will die as you are, without sindhoor in your maang. And then you will remember this day and regret it. But it will be too late!”
Aasha Rani got up and walked toward the mother-of-pearl door. Something told her to whirl around just in time, and the copper vase Malini had hurled at her whizzed past. Recovering herself admirably she said, “OK, Ritaji. Give my regards to Kailashji. And dear, dear Maliniji, instead of being the bhabhiji of the entire industry, try being the wife of just one man. And yes, do suck his cock sometimes—he loves it.”
After Aasha Rani’s exit, Rita and Malini sat around for a long time, their composure shaken. “Never make the mistake of allowing the industry to pity you. That is the end. Don’t plead with the other woman—attack her instead. Don’t reduce yourself to a victim—make her one.” Rita’s instructions kept coming, but Malini was barely listening. “Men are all the same—animals,” she repeated bitterly, “and we women, such fools.”
AKSHAY MUMBLED SOMETHING and left the kitchen table to brood in his study. Malini followed him out with her eyes. Would she never be rid of that bitch? she thought bitterly. If looks could kill Akshay would have needed his stunt double at this point. Sex maniac, her eyes said. Bastard, obsessed with the bloody “act.” He was incapable of understanding her sensitive and artistic nature. He mocked her religion, he scoffed at her music and he loathed her. For what? For giving up her career? For docilely agreeing to his every whim and providing him with a home he could be proud of? For sacrificing, yes, sacrificing everything to be Mrs. Arora? What did he see in that sleazy slut for whom parting her legs was a reflex action? “O Lord, give me peace,” she said, and went to her puja room. A lilting bhajan would have eased the burden of her frustration. But Malini believed in denial. Repressing her anger, turning aggression inward. So that instead of dissipating, the rot set in within.
Closeted in his study, Akshay poured out a stiff measure of Scotch and knocked it back neat. He felt his mind clear. Perhaps it was more sensible not to have called Aasha Rani. Bloody woman was so possessive. Got to be embarrassing sometimes. And she wasn’t content to keep things private. No—she’d have them doing made-for-each-other interviews for every filmi rag in the business if she were allowed to. He was getting a bit tired of her insisting on coming to the studios, where he was shooting, with a dabba of hot Southie khaana, at the stroke of one. Like a bloody devoted Bhartiya Nari. He had noticed the unit hands avert their faces and hide their smiles. She always seemed to react to things disproportionately. Especially where he was concerned. Swinging from hysteria one minute—at having found him in the arms of a nubile starlet—to dog-eyed devotion the next. A bit weird. Like he was her obsession. Like she was trying to prove a point. It was like being pushed into a pit of quicksand. The deeper you got in, the worse it got. If only he could talk to Ajay. Aasha Rani was suffocating him. If she was to be believed, she had never been too keen on her career. But he was. Akshay liked the heady sense of power, loved the way the crowds adulated him. And loved the cash. Abruptly, he made up his mind: He had to extricate himself from Aasha Rani’s clutches, before her manic, destructive love pitched him over the edge. To oblivion.
Akshay poured himself some more Scotch and drank deeply. Very deliberately he picked up the phone receiver and dialed. The film industry was a ruthless place. A bit like a jungle. And the laws that applied were the same. The survival of the fittest. The victor and the victim. Poor, stupid bitch, he thought as he heard the phone ring at the other end.
Shethji
DISCARDED LOVER BOY SEEKS REVENGE,SAID THE CAPTION under a flattering, soft-focus photograph of Aasha Rani in Showbiz magazine. Amused, Aasha Rani read on:
Akshay (Rambo) Arora has started his ‘Screw Aasha Rani’ campaign with a vengeance. First stop: Nitesh (Big Banner) Mehra’s office, where Rambo staged a dharna demanding that Aasha Rani be dropped from his forthcoming film, or else! Industry wallahs know all about the Nitesh–Aasha Rani lafda, but that’s an old story now. Rambo wants to rake up fresh dirt. This has to do with the Puritan Princess’s pukey past—porno. It seems the luscious Aasha Rani can be lascivious too…for a price, naturally. In her kadka, hard-up days, she was forced to act nanga-panga in those sexy sambar films shot in sleazy Madras hotels. Akshay claims some of them were Nitesh’s babies. He is threatening to circulate them widely unless…bechari Aasha Rani. How will she explain her sizzling bachpana to the new bachcha in her life?”
Aasha Rani’s amusement had faded by the time she got to the end of the article. Her first reflex was to reach for the phone and call Akshay. Cheap, bloody bastard. Her hand remained on the phone, while her mind raced—no, that wasn’t the answer. He was probably waiting for her to make precisely this mistake. God! Oh God! Suddenly, she felt desperately alone, and sick. So. Her big romance with Akshay was off as suddenly as it was on. Why was he doing this to her? His secretary must have told him that she wasn’t as viable a commodity as she used to be. God! Was her star rating beginning to slip? Amma had warned her. Kishenbhai had warned her. Maybe this was just a part of Malini’s smear campaign. Or Linda’s. Or Ritaji’s. Was there no one she could trust? And that porno session? Dammit! She was just a child at that time. It wasn’t her idea. She just did what she was told. She obeyed Amma. Besides, nobody had asked her whether or not she wanted to do those sickening films, and nobody had listened when she’d cried herself hoarse and protested. Her mind flew back, back.
Amma had taken her aside to the bathroom and pinched her arm savagely. “Don’t be stupid. These films will not be shown in the theaters. Nobody will know you have done them. There is a lot of money involved. I have committed on your behalf. We can’t let all these people down.” Aasha Rani had whimpered, “Amma, please don’t; I’m so scared. That horrible man. How can I take off my clothes in front of all these strangers?” Amma had released her pincerlike grip on Aasha Rani’s arm and said patiently, “Think of it like going to the doctor’s. Don’t you allow him to examine you? Haven’t so many doctors seen your body? Examined it? These people are the same. They see bodies all the time. It doesn’t make any difference. Besides, that man won’t really do anything. I mean, it is all acting. You just pretend and follow the director’s orders. Close your eyes and think of other things. Think of your poor sister and your amma struggling to make you a big star. Do you know Sudha hasn’t paid her fees? Her dance teacher was also asking for money. We need a pressure cooker; come on, there’s a sweet girl. Wipe your face. Remember, nobody can do anything to you while Amma is in the room. Not actually.”
Aasha Rani had gone into the tacky room, which had been cleared of furniture. An ugly, synthetic fur rug had been spread on the floor. Four extremely bright, harsh lights were focused on it. The cameraman had positioned himself by the door. The director was sitting on a stool, fanning himself and chewing paan. An aluminum tray full of cold drinks sat in one corner. “Ready?” the director had asked, looking at Amma, not her. “We have to finish in two hours and then rush the tapes to the lab.” She saw the “hero” with a towel around his middle. He had looked like an impoverished coconut seller picked up from Marina Beach. Ugly, ravaged, with filthy teeth, and hair in his nostrils. He scratched himself incessantly and had looked bored. Someone handed him a funny-looking cigarette. “Innu voru dam addi.” He had dragged on it deeply and said, “OK, I’m ready.” Amma went and sat on a rickety chair. The director had gestured to Aasha Rani—“Lie down there and remove your clothes.” The cameraman had asked, “Do you want shots of her undressing also?” “Why not?” the director had replied. “OK, lights,
silence. Camera working,” said the scruffy assistant. Aasha Rani had unbuttoned her blouse. “Seekram, fast, fast action, please” the director had urged.
She had hesitated when all her buttons were opened. “Brassiere, brassiere,” the director had said, “quickly, open quickly!” Aasha Rani had looked at Amma. She had gesticulated with her hand, indicating how the bra was to be unhooked. Aasha Rani had shut her eyes and reached for the clasp. “Wah!” she had heard the director say. After that, she hadn’t really registered anything. She had only responded to the directions. Along with her eyes, she’d also shut her mind.
THESHOWBIZSNIPPET had upset Aasha Rani more than she cared to admit. She left the studios early—unable to concentrate—and now, lying in her massive pink bed, still clad in the garish disco costume she had worn for the shooting, she thought of Amma.
If only she had been around. She would have shooed the gaggle of domestics who had gathered on the landing to whisper about Aasha Rani’s “state.” She would have ordered hot kaapi and told her that Akshay was a swine—hadn’t she told her so all along? In fact, Amma’s exile from Bombay had been decreed by Akshay. Akshay, who, Amma had announced, was nothing but a loser. A sniveling, weak womanizer. Who cheated on his wife. And on his mistress.
Bastard, Aasha Rani thought, reaching for the bottle of Black Dog that she kept handy for Akshay. I’ll show the guy. She remembered suddenly that Akshay had said something about a mahurat party at the Rooftop Club. She hadn’t figured on the list of invitees: the producer was a relative of Malini’s. But she would go, nevertheless. Bloody bhabhiji. She looked at the crass costume she was dressed in. Chalega. A bit tarty, but revealing. Served the purpose. Bhabhiji would look like a bank clerk in comparison. She rummaged through her bag for the car keys and walked to where her metallic silver Toyota stood. “Driver, chalo.”
