by Samit Basu
Day Thirteen: Uzma gets on the phone and makes appointments. She travels all over south and central Mumbai, squired by an enthusiastic army of new friends, and as she passes the city stares and sighs in appreciation. She gets several offers, mostly second or third leads in star-studded “musical romantic action comedy thrillers”. Or leads in clearly third-rate movies with leery co-stars and directors.
Saheli expects Uzma to take one of these offers, and is surprised when in the evening she finds Uzma, having spent a certain amount of time thinking intensely, has decided that she doesn’t want any role that she hasn’t earned. She has not come to Bollywood to be an Item Girl; she wants to be an Actress. Uzma wants to work in Meaningful Cinema, Edgy Multiplex Films — at least until she gets to play the lead opposite Shahrukh Khan. And while she has enjoyed the attention and casual offers, she knows she wants to work with Serious Artists. Therefore Uzma has decided to use her contacts to find auditions, not eye-candy roles. Her first port of call: a new, cutting-edge company named Daku Samba, currently auditioning for the female lead in an Indian reworking of The Tempest, a magic-realist noir piece set during the Mumbai floods of 2005.
Day Fourteen:
“Wake up, love. We’re done.”
Saheli shakes herself awake. Uzma towers above her, looking amused.
“How was it?”
The whole lobby leans forward as Uzma’s face clouds over.
“Terrible.”
“You’re not a very good actress. You’re clearly lying.”
Uzma smiles, the sun bursts out of the clouds, and all the other actresses are stunned to find they’re actually happy for this girl.
The Daku Samba door opens, and Anurag Kashyap, Dark Lord of new-age Bollywood, steps out. Uzma’s competitors gasp, quiver in excitement and slip into poses that would fit into Kashyap films, their faces flitting through Moody, Angsty, Tormented, Post-Coital and Wearily Amused, their eyes moist and intense. Kashyap looks at them, shudders imperceptibly and turns to Uzma.
“Well done,” he says. “I’m really looking forward to working with you.”
Uzma and Saheli float out of the building into the streets of Juhu on a pink cloud of excitement.
As they step out, auto-rickshaws queue up for the privilege of taking the new Queen of Bollywood wherever she wants to go.
Saheli’s phone rings. She takes the call, and as she listens the smile slowly fades from her face. When she disconnects and turns to Uzma, she looks worried.
“Your great-aunt called from Lucknow,” she says. “The police were over, looking for you.”
“That’s weird,” Uzma says. “It happened when I was there as well.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They probably check on foreigners all the time. When I was there, a couple of policemen took me to the station one day and asked me all sorts of stuff.”
“What are you saying? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Mostly because I forgot all about it. There was no trouble, they were very sweet. They just asked me whether anything out of the ordinary had happened to me. One of them said they needed to run some physical tests on me, but I told them I’d rather not, I was completely knackered, and my great-aunt would be worried if I wasn’t home soon. The inspector in charge told me not to worry, they’d make up the test results — they were looking for some terrorist who was on my flight from London, but I clearly wasn’t their man. Then he dropped me home on this old noisy bike. He was really fit.”
“Well, they’re looking for you again. Your great-aunt told my mother she gave them a big scolding and told them you’d gone back to England.”
“They’re lucky she didn’t shoot them — there’s an ancient gun in the house. Par-nani’s a crazy old bird, and she’s not scared of anyone. And she’s hated the police since the 1940s. Should I be worried?”
“I don’t know. Is there anything you’ve done that you want to tell me about?”
Uzma’s phone rings. Smiling an apology at Saheli, she takes the call.
“Uzma Abidi?” a young male voice asks.
“Yeah? Who is this?”
“My name is Aman Sen. I’ve heard you’re facing certain difficulties. I believe I have a solution.”
Saheli and the auto driver wait patiently for several minutes as Uzma alternates between the words “Oh?”, “Really?”, “Yeah?” and “Brilliant!” When Uzma hangs up, she’s grinning widely. Silencing with an elegant palm the auto driver’s attempts at introducing himself and his soon-to-take-off career as a stunt driver, Uzma turns to Saheli.
“There’s a place in Versova. Yari Road. Slightly crazy owner just called. Says he’s inherited a big house and doesn’t know what to do with it, so he’s letting people stay there. He’s heard I’m a brilliant actress and wants to help me out, so he’s all right with me paying whatever I can afford.”
“Sounds like a mass murderer to me,” Saheli says.
“Shut up. Yari Road’s a good place to live, right?”
“Most of the entertainment industry stays there. You’ll be neck-deep in parties.”
The auto sputters forth, weaving snake-like through traffic. Uzma leans back in the seat and looks at the garish stickers of actresses on the auto’s sides.
“Do you think there’ll be some of me one day?”
“Uzma, I need to ask you something.”
“Yes, sorry. Have I done anything illegal? No. It’s just been a really great trip so far. I’ve been really lucky.”
“You were lucky in college. You were popular in college. But these last two weeks — there’s something I’m not getting here. I keep trying to figure it out. Sure, you’re hot. But I’ve lived in this city all my life, and I’ve known you for four years, and something just doesn’t fit. No one has the kind of luck you’ve been having so far.”
“No one you know, you mean. Maybe I’m just… right, I sound like a complete bitch saying this, but maybe I just have a destiny here, yeah? Maybe this was where I was meant to be. Look, I know what you’re saying. It’s been weird. Not just in Mumbai. People in Lucknow kept trying to invite me into their houses and feed me. It’s just been wonderful. You know — you ever have the feeling that you’re part of something bigger?”
“Yes, but it never means anything. What are you talking about?”
Uzma stirs uncomfortably. “See, on the flight from London to Delhi — it’s about thirteen hours, you know, you’ve been on it — I had this dream. A really long dream, because I pretty much slept through the entire flight — don’t remember a thing after getting on that plane.”
“So you slept on the plane. Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, that was really when things got a bit odd. It was this really bizarre dream. I was at a big awards show — like the Oscars, but more Bollywood, you know, lots of dancers and glitter — and I was getting prize after prize after prize, and everyone who was anyone was there and they all loved me and we all went to this smashing party afterwards. And they told me I was the best actress ever and everyone would come see all my films and they would make the world perfect.”
“So you had a good dream. But how is this relevant?”
“I don’t know. But then I landed in India, and ever since I got here people have just been incredibly good to me. Maybe I’m just — meant for this. Maybe everything’s just going to fall into place for once. Maybe this is what happens to some people. You don’t know, right? I know it sounds really stupid and vain, and I’ve been trying not to think about it. But I have this strange feeling that everyone’s going to love me and everything’s going to be all right.”
“Well, I’m happy for you. I suppose this is what it feels like for people when they find out what they’re meant for. I wish I knew what I was meant for.”
“I can’t believe I just told you all this. You must hate me now. I sound like such an ultimate cow.”
“No,” Saheli says. “I don’t hate you. I don’t even feel jealous of you, and I really sh
ould. It’s all very strange. I think you’re right. You’re going to be a big star.”
As the auto whines towards Versova, towards Uzma’s next conquest, Saheli looks at her former classmate, now staring out at the sea as the wind caresses her hair, and feels a burst of sadness. That sense of loss every first agent, every first small-time director, every childhood friend, every parent knows. The knowledge that your part in the story is done, that something larger than you is taking place but there’s no real room for you in it any more. The slow realisation that you were part of something once, but it’s gone now, it’s slipped out of your fingers. The star has moved on, and it’s time to take a bow and make your exit as gracefully as you can.
CHAPTER THREE
Uzma stretches out on her old, creaky four-poster bed and looks out of her window. The sun is setting outside, and her room is bathed in amber light, tiger-striped on her wall through the palm trees just outside her window. The sharp, pungent smell of the sea drifts in; a gentle breeze tinkles through her wind-chime. The breeze is warm and salty but her room stays pleasantly cool. The first thing Uzma noticed about her new home was how pleasant it was for Mumbai, almost as cool as the air-conditioned five-star hotels she has been drifting in and out of for her meetings with the tycoons of Bollywood.
Today is her first day in her Yari Road home. It’s an old, somewhat fusty four-storey building — a very strange house for Versova, where most old buildings have been torn down and replaced by large multi-storied housing complexes with gates and guards and fancy names. Uzma has a whole floor to herself: her new landlord has warned her that she might have to share her floor with another tenant, but there’s plenty of room — there are three large bedrooms on this level alone. And there hasn’t been any talk of rent. To add to this cocktail of delight, her landlord has not shown any definite signs of being a pervert or a werewolf. Only a certain excessive brightness in his eyes and an air of barely concealed amusement at everything around him prevent him from seeming completely ordinary.
Aman Sen is an unremarkable-looking man in his early twenties, medium everything. Most of the men Uzma has had conversations with since arriving in Mumbai have been extremely impressive in one way or another: ambitious, well-groomed, fast-living, ultra-sharp entertainment types in various shades of attractive. There’s certainly nothing unattractive about Aman, it must be said, but he’s the person whose name everyone at a glamorous Mumbai party forgets within two seconds of hearing it. Following the recently delivered commandments of Saheli’s father, Uzma has Not Been Too Friendly with this Spouse-less Landowner, thus cunningly avoiding a Compromising Situation, but she had Aman pegged as eccentric but harmless within two minutes of meeting him. Compared to the sharks she has been swimming with, he is but a goldfish.
Aman shares the first floor of the house with Tia, an effervescent, curvaceous and altogether adorable Bengali woman in her early thirties who swept Uzma up in a huge hug the second they met and has now decided, to Uzma’s slight worry, to be her best friend and constant companion. Tia and the other two inhabitants of the house, whom Uzma has not met yet, have only known Aman for two weeks, but already Tia and he are very close — unless Tia walks around in tiny shorts in front of everyone she knows. Uzma is on the second floor, and on the third are the two mysterious entities described to Uzma as the Scientist and Young Bob.
Tia has taken charge of the house: she runs the kitchen, the errands and most of the conversation. The house was probably not built for renting out. There’s only one kitchen, a vast hall-like room on the ground floor that has seen cooking on a mass scale once, but now lies mostly unused. The rest of the ground floor is divided between a dining room and a huge and draughty living room where a few very modern sofas, a foosball table and a very large flatscreen TV stand uncomfortably, like jugglers at a funeral.
This is the first time since her arrival in India that Uzma has been alone in a large room for any length of time, and now that she has space to breathe she is surprised to find how much she misses her family. Something about Tia reminds her of her eldest brother Yusuf’s wife. Probably the loud and tuneless singing that Uzma can hear drifting upstairs as Tia attacks yet another room somewhere in the house, armed with a duster, a mop, a bucket and a smile.
Uzma’s phone is on silent. She has decided not to go out tonight, to spend time with her new housemates. But her housemates don’t seem to be particularly social: Aman disappeared into his room hours ago and hasn’t emerged yet, and something tells her that the Scientist and Young Bob might not be the most delightful company. Uzma potters around her room for a while, wishing she was better at spending time by herself, when she sees Tia coming down the stairs from the third floor.
“I thought you were downstairs,” Uzma calls. “Who’s singing?”
“What singing?”
Uzma listens again and finds, to her surprise, that there is indeed no singing.
Tia shrugs. “It’s Mumbai, Uzma. There’s always some noise somewhere. You bored? Come with me.”
They head to the living room and plonk themselves down on the sofas, and Tia tells Uzma the story of her life, of her childhood in Assam and her marriage, at the tender age of twenty, to a tea estate manager from Darjeeling. It hadn’t been a very happy marriage: her husband had been handsome but weak-willed, and her in-laws fierce and medieval.
Evening turns slowly into night as Tia speaks lovingly of the green hills near Guwahati and the swift grey waters of the ever-shifting Brahmaputra River, and Uzma listens in wonder, trying very hard to not reveal to Tia that she doesn’t really know where Assam is. As she watches Tia’s eyes shine, sees her laugh uproariously over the smallest things, she realises that no matter how awful Tia’s family had been, for her to abandon that life and come to Mumbai, to live in a house full of strangers younger than her, is a far more difficult journey than any Uzma herself will ever have to make.
“It’s not so bad,” Tia says. “I’m really happy with this house. Aman’s a sweetheart — you’ll love him when he gets a bit more comfortable around you — the other two are hilarious, and I have to say I really like you. I’m glad I came to Mumbai.”
“You should have come years ago, then.”
“I could have — but I couldn’t leave my son, could I?”
“You have a son?”
“Yes. Three years old now. You’ll love him when you meet him.”
“You must miss him terribly.”
Tia’s smile vanishes completely. “I’m with him, always,” she says, rising from the sofa, not meeting Uzma’s eyes. “I’ll never leave him. Dinner?”
Dinner turns out to be a grilled lobster, sitting red and voluptuous in the kitchen, and Uzma is delighted. “Did you make this? When? How?”
“I’m very efficient,” Tia says. “You’ll see.”
They sit in the dining room in happy silence and devour the lobster. Aman doesn’t make an appearance, but as the mighty crustacean’s last white, succulent meaty bits are on the verge of vanishing there’s a shuffling noise at the door.
“Uzma, meet Balaji Bataodekar, also known as Bob,” Tia says as a plump, dark, Elvis-haired boy, not more than fifteen, enters the room warily. He sticks out a pudgy hand, which Uzma shakes with due solemnity. Bob, however, is here on matters far more important than meeting glamorous women from distant lands.
“Can I have some?” he asks, looking meaningfully at the lobster.
Tia glances at him, then at Uzma, and says, “Of course, darling. But not too much, no? It heats up your stomach. There’s lots of ice-cream in the fridge.”
“I’m sick of ice-cream,” Bob says, scooping up the remaining fragments of lobster and shovelling them into his mouth. “Sick of nimbu-pani, sick of mint. I want vada-pav, mutton kolhapuri and pizza. With lots of jalapenos. That’s what I want.”
There’s a huge muffled boom from upstairs.
“The Scientist at work,” Bob says.
“Aman told me the soundproofing was finished,” Tia
says.
“It is,” Bob says, and sniggers.
“Can I meet him?” Uzma asks. “Sorry, I’ve been up really late the last few nights and I’m terribly awake. Can we go up?”
“You should definitely meet him,” Bob says.
“I’d rather not,” Tia says, covering a forced yawn with a delicate hand. “He hates being disturbed when he’s working. I think we should all go to sleep.”
Uzma recognises refusals when she sees them, and doesn’t push the matter.
An hour later, Uzma is nowhere near sleep; her body has become accustomed to heading out for the second party at around this hour. The coolness that enveloped the house has vanished: it’s a hot and muggy night, and aspiring queens of Bollywood do not enjoy sweating under creaky fans. The only sounds to be heard in the house are dull clangs from the third floor. Uzma decides it is time to be social again.
After swiftly and silently climbing the stairs, Uzma finds the third floor’s layout is the same as hers. The door of the room directly above hers is open. She sees Bob stretched out on his bed, asleep, his hands clasping his considerable belly. He appears to be in some discomfort; his face is clenched and he’s sweating profusely. Not finding anything in this sight to engage her extensively, Uzma turns and walks down the narrow corridor by the stairs to the door behind which lie the Scientist and his Vulcan-like clangs. She knocks, quietly at first, and then loudly, and then, unused to rejection, starts banging on the door, even before she remembers the room has been soundproofed.
After a few minutes, the door opens and Tia comes out, adjusting her clothes.
“What’s wrong?” Tia asks.
“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come up and hang out with the guys if they were awake. Am I — sorry, I think I’ll just go back to bed. Good night.”
