Spice and Smoke

by Suleikha Snyder

  “No drugs,” Viki said, automatically. Now he acknowledged the empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. “No drinking. I am done with that bullshit.”

  Sam was expecting it, but still it stung. “No Jaidev,” he countered, finding a tiny measure of satisfaction in how Vikram looked wounded. “My life is off-limits to you now. So no asking, no remembering. My son is my business only.”

  Minutes ticked by, and a pulse jumped in Viki’s cheek. For a short time it seemed as though he’d call off their little truce. He’d loved Jai, Sam knew. It was cruel to ask this. But it was necessary. The life the three of them had led together—with Sunita’s occasional presence—didn’t exist anymore. Vikram had walked away from it. No way in Hell was he getting anywhere near Jaidev now, so they could play coconspirator and chart his goddamn sobriety. “Well?” he prompted. “Is it cool or not?”

  Viki exhaled a long-suffering sigh—no doubt he had a bloody arsenal of them, all labeled with his name—and then he extended his hand. Like they were old chums. “Yeah. Haan, Sam. It’s cool.”

  He clasped Vikram’s fingers tightly. They weren’t cool at all. They were like licks of fire. “Then we are friends,” he lied. “Dosti shuru.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  They slipped into the roles of Polite Viki and Polite Sam as though they’d signed a contract. It was strange but not strange all at once.

  “Priya Roy is coming in on Friday for an item number. They need me, Avinash and Harsh for the shoot. It’s bullshit, man. I think we’re just going to stand around in the background looking tough while she shakes her hips.”

  Vikram frowned, peering down at the script pages as if the scene in question would suddenly materialize there. “Why does a historical drama need an item number?”

  Sam shrugged. “Yaar, don’t ask me. Ask Joshi. He’s nuts, you know?”

  “Yaar,” Sam had said so casually. As if they were buddies. The back of Viki’s neck prickled, and his hands balled into fists, crumpling his lines. They were trying to be civil. For the sake of their costars and the crew. But he hadn’t been friends-only with Sam in so long that it was an alien concept. Kuch ajib. Kuch alag. Something so far beyond normalcy. Sam wasn’t his “yaar”. He was his “pyar”. His love, his lover, his salvation and his destruction.

  Joshi wasn’t the only one who was nuts. This whole sorry production was a paagal-khana, an insane asylum. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair and letting his script flutter to the floor. Sam mistook the gesture, or at least the reason behind it, scooting forward across the bed. “Arre, tension maat karna, Viki. We’ve only got a few weeks left. It’ll be over soon.”

  The shoot was not the source of his tension. Before he could give voice to this, Sam’s hands were on his back, working the knots that had gathered between his shoulder blades. Bahenchod. This wasn’t “civil”. This was intimate. But Viki couldn’t help the way he leaned into the massage, how his head fell forward and he groaned as Sam rubbed at the tightness with his thumbs.

  That little noise made Sam go still, curse softly. The filthy word was hot against the curve of Viki’s ear, making him instantly hard. Then Sam chased it with, “Come here,” and that was all it took. They were in each other’s arms. Sam was pushing him flat on the mattress; their limbs tangled, mouths crashed together in the fiercest of kisses.

  Sam tasted like smoke and mangoes, bitter and sweet, and Vikram tried to surge up, to take control of the kiss, of this moment, but Sam had him pinned. To buck him loose would be to hurt him…and that…that was something Viki could not bear. So he gave in, he succumbed, dutifully raised his arms when Sam wanted to rid him of his shirt and didn’t resist when he tugged his belt through the loops and shoved down his trousers. Something was driving Sam, something wild and angry. Perhaps this was just another version of his hate for those last weeks of their relationship. Perhaps he was mad at himself for initiating things yet again. Viki tried to read his eyes, but Sam averted his gaze, reaching into the night table for condoms and lubricant and setting them within reach.

  “Let me,” Sam whispered. “I want to…” The request was broken by his gasps, by how he reached down and gripped himself through his jeans to keep from coming too fast. But Viki still knew what he was asking. Sam, always content to be taken, wanted to lead, to drive into him as though he was in control. His thighs parted in invitation; his knees bent to say, “Yes.”

  With such permission granted, Sam’s fury seemed to calm, and he stretched atop Viki, settling between his legs and kissing him at a much more sedate pace…pressing his mouth delicately to Vikram’s cheek, his jaw, his pulse. The tenderness was almost worse than rage, certainly more puzzling. Nahin, he wanted to say. Tehro, he wanted to plead.

  “What do you want from me, Sam?” he questioned instead. The heat between them was as it always was. But Vikram knew there was something different at play. He felt it in his gut, in his bones.

  “I don’t want anything,” Sam insisted, his breath warm against Viki’s neck. “I don’t want anything but this. Sirf yeh. Sirf tum. Just you.”

  Sam had never wanted just him. It was him-and-hash or him-and-Johnnie or him-and-cocaine. Now Vikram did push at him, fingers curling around his shoulders, demanding space. But Sam held fast, the rough denim of his jeans chafing Viki’s bare skin. They struggled, like they were being directed by the fight master, until it wasn’t a struggle anymore and Viki gave in. He would always give in. Maybe it wasn’t just Sam who was the addict. He buried one hand in Sam’s fine, too-straight hair, sending the other to attack Sam’s zipper. “Bastard,” he said. “Now,” he pleaded.

  Sam undid his jeans the rest of the way, kicking them aside and reaching for protection so he could sheath himself. His slicked-up fingers were cold as they prepared Viki…cold and then unbearably warm and gentle—again that mysterious kindness that he couldn’t understand. But soon enough it didn’t matter, because Vikram wasn’t capable of understanding anything except how his hips rose off the bed, how Sam pushed inside him, and how Sam was so damn beautiful with his features painted by pleasure. Viki’s knees should’ve ached from the strain, from how Sam pushed them back against the mattress, but he felt no pain. Just rightness. Just completion.

  Their voices were a mingled chorus of groans, English insults and Hindi endearments. When Sam thrust into him one last time, before the hot rush of climax washed over them both, all he said was, “Bas.” Enough.

  And it was. Because, within minutes, Sam was leaving him to go wash…making it clear that company was not welcome. As though they’d done something that was not worth lingering over.

  Viki untangled himself from the bedding. He tried to focus his mind on anything but the sense of loss as he cleaned himself with a corner of the sheets. Dialogues. His upcoming filming dates. When none of that worked, he turned to yoga. He practiced his breathing, folding his legs into the lotus position and clutching his knees as if they were life preservers. It was ludicrous to think he could attain any peace now, when his heart was still racing and he ached in a thousand places. But it was all he had.

  He filtered out his hurt and his confusion; he listened instead for the drone of mosquitoes, the slice of the ceiling fan cutting through the humid air. He heard the water beating punishment down on Sam’s skin. He heard raised voices through the walls. Avi and Trishna were fighting about something. He could not make out the exact wording, but the tone…hai Bhagwan, it was familiar. He and Sam had argued that way. Sam and Sunita had argued that way. Sam likely argued that way with everyone. Vikram was almost glad that he’d run off to the bath. That he was not privy to this echo, to Viki sitting on the bed with his fists clenched as he wondered what he’d got himself into. This, not some silly item number, was madness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Avi and Trishna were not arguing so much as they were expressing themselves very, very loudly. As two people with passionate tempers, they’d had some really powerful back-and-forths over the years, invigorating spats that inva
riably landed them in bed. Those around them couldn’t really tell the difference between such exchanges and the ones of a truly bickering couple. Avi would have been happy to give a lecture course on the how-to, were he not occupied talking his dearest wife down off a metaphorical ledge. “You see, it’s simple,” he would say. “If you hear no vases and glasses shattering, it’s perfectly safe.”

  The only thing shattering in their rooms this week was Trish’s heart. For all the steel and cellophane tape she’d wrapped around it, it was still fragile. “How can Harsh leave me?” she demanded, gesturing with her hairbrush. “Just now, when it is all working out? It’s not fair!”

  “He didn’t leave you. He has to dub for another film, and he’ll be back any day now,” Avinash reminded her. “You know this. You’re a professional. So why all the dramatics? Come on, Trishna. Calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!”

  It wasn’t often that he was the rational one. Ninety percent of their life together had involved Trishna scraping him off the ceiling after some crisis or another. She was the one with all the answers, with all the keys, with all the control. Except, it seemed, when it came to Harsh Mathur. Prolonged exposure to Harsh Mathur was turning her into a madwoman.

  “Darling,” he simpered, in that teasing way that was designed to get under her skin and distract her. “Are you afraid he is going to dump you for some other girl he meets between Bihar and Bombay? Because that will not happen. You only get dumped for men. And even then, it’s by me. And not really dumping, because I’m still with you.”

  “Shut up, Avi. That is not funny, and that is not what I’m afraid of. What if this isn’t real?” she demanded. “What if he comes back deciding we can’t do this? What if we are all fooling ourselves and the magic goes away once we leave here?” She was the one who had waved the proverbial wand. Now she was doubting the magic?

  “Not a chance.” Thank God for Michael, who knew precisely when to keep quiet and when to speak up. Sprawled in a chair by the windows, wearing a faded pair of jeans and one of Avi’s NYU T-shirts, he was the most beautiful thing in the room. “Harsh is out of his mind in love with you. He has been for years, even if you didn’t know of it. He’s not going to develop amnesia just because he’s in Mumbai. Harsh par bharosa karo, bhabi. Believe in Harsh. He will come back to you and only you.”

  “What happens in Bihar does not only stay in Bihar,” Avi added, companionably drawing Trish into his arms. He would always love her, always want her…but, more than that, he would always want her to be as happy as Harsh made her. And as happy as Michael Gill made him. “We’ve changed here, Trishna. For the better. I won’t leave any of it behind, and I will never let anyone leave you behind.”

  She clung to him for only a precious instant, and then brushed his cheek with her lips. “Thanks, big shot,” she whispered. “You’re the second best man I know.”

  “Third!” Michael corrected from his seat. “I’ll have you know I’m quite the catch.” Quite the catch who was a terrible catch. “Ow!” Trishna’s hairbrush bounced off his shoulder and clattered to the floor.

  Avi looked at the two people he loved most in the world and knew that no matter where they ended up—Patna, Mumbai, Kolkata, London or Timbuktu—as long as they were together, it would be home.

  “What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Sam? Teen hafte and no calls? My hair is going goddamn grey over here!” Sunny’s voice burst forth from the mic on his mobile with such force that it was like she was standing beside him. She was the only person he knew who had as much vinegar in her veins as he did, and it was that tejwalli personality that had earned her a spot hosting a Bollywood talk show. So, going grey after three weeks…it was practically a professional tragedy! He had half a mind to ring her back and suggest her producers go after a hair dye sponsorship: “Sunny Days, Bollywood Nights brought to you by Godrej.”

  “…and you are an idiot. A poor excuse for a father. Jaidev is more grown up than you are, you sorry haram zaada.”

  Her message went on, insulting his penis size and his dear, departed parents, until the system cut her off. Sam stared at the now-silent cell phone like it was going to spring to life anew, with more criticisms from his ex. His ex. Such stupid, inaccurate terminology. Vikram was his ex. Vikram was the one he’d been building a family with. Vikram was the one who could break his heart. Who could take everything from him. But in the eyes of the world, it was a five-minute marriage to Sunita that mattered.

  When the phone didn’t dance again, Sam allowed himself to walk away from it. He moved to the window, peering out the ornate grill to the gardens below. He could just make out two shapes on the lawn, barely obscured by a row of rosebushes. It did not take a genius to guess that Avi and Michael Gill were meeting like a pair of star-crossed bewakoofs. It was particularly stupid because they didn’t need to. Their rooms were open to them. Their obvious love story protected by the shield of Avinash’s marriage to Trishna and Harsh Mathur’s unimpeachable integrity. Nobody ever questioned Trish’s influence. Nobody ever looked at Harsh and thought, “Yeah, this guy’s going to fuck up.” They were lucky bastards, all of them. They hadn’t a care in the world beyond stealing about and making love in dark corners. They had no habits to kick, no demons to battle.

  As though he’d willed it upon himself, the urge for a drink was sudden, sharp. He felt it gnaw at his gut, burn the back of his throat. But Sam drew a deep breath, reminding himself that he didn’t need Johnnie or Jack. Nahin, the only thing he needed was the temporary high of being with Vikram. He’d finish this film, finish their fling, and go be a better father and a better man.

  Teen hafte? Bas, forget it. Three weeks was nothing in the face of a lifetime of regrets.

  The dancing girl sways her hips sinuously to the strange English words and the techno beat that won’t be invented for at least another century. “You say you want a revolution,” she mouths with blood-red lips, citing how they all wish to change the world. She moves from Varun to Chandu to Alok and back again, warning them that they can count her out if they talk about destruction. She again comes to Alok and stops…as he turns away from her, staring off into the distance…where something, someone, more tantalizing than this sensual goddess awaits.

  A techno-bhangra Beatles cover? Hai Bhagwan. Good God. Viki sent up a silent prayer of thanks to his failure of a secretary for booking him the role of Shankar instead of one of the revolutionaries. He couldn’t imagine taking part in such a ludicrous number. As he backed away from the insane and period inappropriate display—which was, sadly, unsurprising for one of Joshi’s films—he was careful not to trip on any of the coils and cables that snaked across the floor.

  Fortunately, the big item number was almost done. They’d filmed the bulk of the song already, only a few close-ups remained. Just as the script had dictated, Sam, Avinash and Harsh were dhoti-clad and shirtless. There were at least twenty extras…girls in colorful batik print saris, hiked to their knees in village style. The crowning jewel of them all was Priya Roy. If Trishna was Bollywood’s first lady, Priya was its goodwill ambassador. Sweet, kind, endlessly accommodating and never the center of any drama. She’d been welcomed back to the industry after a few years off, and her beauty and talent had only grown in the interim. He remembered her being baby-faced, curvy. In those early days, she would have been the ingénue, not the item girl. The woman before them now was leaner, somehow harder, but her eyes held the same gentle laughter.

  A rustle of movement behind him told him he was no longer alone in his observations. “Do you think she’s more beautiful than me?” Trishna asked, her tone not jealous but instead genuinely curious.

  Viki still knew better than to give his opinion. “I like boys, Trish. Do you really think I am qualified to answer that?”

  “Nice one. Shabbash!” She laughed, effortlessly twisting her heavy hair into a ponytail. Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, looking impossibly young, she could almost pass for a production assistant. E
xcept that her grey eyes were distinctive. She could never hide without sunglasses. From how she blatantly stared at Harsh, it was clear that hiding was no longer on her list of things to do. Harsh had returned two days before, and it was a miracle the entire hotel hadn’t heard their reunion. So much thumping and so many vocal theatrics…it was practically its own musical number. And now…now she looked at him as if she wished for an encore. Vikram envied that openness. He craved it.

  “It’s crazy, but it’s beautiful, na?” Trishna murmured…and though she was speaking of the song, he had to agree on a whole different level.

  “Yeah. It’s definitely crazy and beautiful.”

  They weren’t the only ones watching the filming. On the other side of the room were Michael Gill and Rahul Anand. Truth be told, Michael was more beautiful than Trish and Priya combined. He was the kind of man whose very existence made the case for public nudity being legalized. He was good and kind and easygoing. Viki would have counted himself lucky to have gotten serious with such a man…except that his tastes ran more to the short, wiry, headache-inducing type. Rahul Anand was somewhere in between. Typical good-looking desi boy; curly dark hair, smart smile. His father was an acclaimed director, and he’d started out acting but quickly moved behind the camera himself. In fact, if Viki remembered correctly, Rahul’s first and only film had been Priya’s first, too. They’d been launched together, to moderate box office success.