by Diksha Basu
‘I am so sick of these damn book parties, man. People are ghastly. I was made for fancier things. Maybe I’ll go digital. What do you think about starting a blog to track the lives of the rich and fabulous?’
‘You mean like paparazzi?
‘Ei, shut up. Don’t call me paparazzi, okay? I might not be rich and fabulous, but hanging around such people doesn’t make me paparazzi.’
Ritesh continued his defensive rant and I nodded vaguely but was focusing on Jess and what she and Ritesh were obviously hiding from me.
Ritesh said, ‘Although, I suppose there’s something to be said for the book scene. I hear you’re about to fall into bed with our very own model from yesteryear. Tell me more exciting gossip about Jay! I assume he’s changed since I knew him.’
That’s all I needed to stop obsessing about Jess. I dreamily told Ritesh about Jay and his craziness and his sexy photograph. He snapped me out of my reverie saying, ‘So you think he’ll cast you? I loved, loved, loved the book. Is he going to change the title to Brighton to Tanjore? Although, I have to say, I really doubt that the movie will ever happen.’
Why couldn’t everyone else also conveniently forget why I had met Jay in the first place?
I replied, ‘He’s probably taking his time with it because he’s such a perfectionist. He’s a really talented guy. Reads a lot.’
‘Ha! The amount of E he does, it’s a wonder he can do anything other than rub himself against things.’
‘E? He does a lot of E?’ I asked.
‘Oh darling. E, ketamine, blow, acid, girls, boys … he does a lot of everything,’ Ritesh replied, exasperation creeping into his voice.
‘Oh please. You’re just being Bollywood Babu.’
By the time I got ready for bed that night, Mini had added me on Facebook with a message saying, ‘Loved meeting you. We’ll make a great team’.
Despite meeting Mini, I just could not understand how stars who didn’t have family connections in Bollywood made it. Since the day I arrived in Bombay, I felt as though I’d been up against a brick wall. The daily grind of doing absolutely nothing was exhausting and was starting to drive me mad.
Meeting Mini was nice. Maybe she would help get me some leads, but I didn’t know what to do on my own. I was still waiting for a Sameer Bhatia introduction and felt like a spectator in my own life. I thought about taking Hindi lessons but my Hindi was adequate to converse with rickshaw drivers and shopkeepers, so I figured it would be enough. Most girls in Bollywood didn’t speak Hindi anyway. In fact, I’d been led to believe that speaking proper Hindi would work against me. I thought about taking dance lessons but I had spent enough time dancing around my bedroom and had perfected all the Bollywood jhatkas. I read a lot but you can only read for so many hours a day. I spent a lot of time in front of the mirror practising my dramatic filmi faces and reactions. I clutched at my chest and screamed ‘nahiiiiin’ while getting dressed every morning. I thought about auditioning for ads, but that just seemed depressing. Besides, I was sure that I was destined for stardom and didn’t want to be ‘that Maha Bazaar girl’ when I started winning my Filmfares. I no longer enjoyed watching movies because all I could think about was how I should be in them. I had heard theatre actors in Manhattan say they couldn’t enjoy movies because they were too busy dissecting the performances. Bullshit. They were just bitter they weren’t in them.
I didn’t like movies for another reason those days. I felt they had messed up my emotions. The previous week, for instance, I had gone to South Bombay with Ritesh and Jess to have dinner and watch a play at the NCPA. On paper, I had a lovely evening. The play was decent, the dinner delicious, the company entertaining and the weather pleasant. We hopped into a taxi to get back to Bandra. Sounds pretty ideal. But it wasn’t. I felt as though I ought to be feeling certain things. The bright lights, the smooth roads, the shiny cars, the tall buildings, the attractive hoardings, the glimpses of the beautiful people in passing cars, the sea, the glitz, the glamour … it felt like an upbeat movie montage. I imagined myself through a camera lens, with pulsating music. I was supposed to feel ambition, love, excitement, energy, happiness, potential, and a whole host of other positives – some of the things I thought I felt during that drunken drive to Rimola. But, strangely, I felt an overwhelming loneliness instead.
Where was I? How did I start being sad in South Bombay? Right – the ample time on my hands. I had to be more productive, so I decided to go shopping and find sexier clothes, and then hit the gym and get in the best shape possible. No more eyeliner or fake-coughing to reveal a hint of abs. I wanted real abs. Janet Jackson style.
I hadn’t expected shopping to be particularly difficult. I love wandering through shops looking for finds and there seemed to be loads of little boutiques scattered all over, so I was confident that I would easily find some more Bombay-style clothes. And maybe some trendier stuff than my FabIndia and Cottons collection. Turned out, it wasn’t so easy. The boutiques in Bandra are not the same as the ones in Soho, and after spending two hours walking around in the sun with not a single item of clothing purchased, I gave up and headed to the gym. In any case, I consoled myself, it would make more sense to shop after I got my body in top model shape.
My gym had a little outdoor cardio place so you could get sweaty faster than you would in an air-conditioned room. I went straight to the treadmills outside, got drenched in sweat in nine minutes flat, felt brilliant, and left the gym. I was in a pretty decent mood while heading home. Endorphins, I tell you, glorious little things.
As I climbed up the flight of stairs to our apartment, sitting in front of my door – on the dirty ground with paan-stained walls all around him, smoking a cigarette and looking as handsome as ever – was Jay. My ingenious idea of getting super-sweaty suddenly didn’t seem quite such a stroke of genius. He looked up and smiled; smiled as if a godly ex-model sitting on the ground in my dirty, badly maintained building was the most normal thing in the world. And in that moment, something overcame me that I can’t find the words to describe. In his smile, in those moments, I even forgot that my T-shirt was clinging to my back, my hair was frizzy and messy, and sweat had gathered on my upper lip. That moment was one of those few in my life that I will always look back on and remember vividly; but I will never be sure it ever really happened. It is a moment that I will give anything to relive in the future. Doesn’t have to be in Bandra, doesn’t have to include Jay – none of those details matter. It is the electricity of that moment that I know I’ll spend the rest of my life looking to recreate. Of all the shots that comprise my life in a movie format, this is the one that should win an Oscar.
The moment lasted … well, just a moment. Jay got up and brushed off his jeans and, as he bent down to pick up his messenger bag, I caught a glimpse of the elastic of his boxers and the smooth brown skin, and nearly fainted. I unlocked my door and we went into my apartment. No words had been exchanged till now. He sat down and leaned back, one arm behind his head … you know how when men do that when they’re wearing well-fitted T-shirts and you can see just a little bit of underarm hair against their muscular arms? I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds that erotic.
My elation was interrupted by Jess emerging from her room in her gym clothes. She stopped, obviously shocked. Jay took over, nonchalant as can be.
‘Hello you. I thought I’d wait for your lovely roommate outside the door. Going to the gym? No need to. You look amazing.’
I smiled. So did Jess, reluctantly.
‘Thank you, Jay. Nice seeing you. What are you doing here?’
‘Paying little Miss Naiya a visit. Have a good workout.’
He didn’t leave room for her to respond. She arched an eyebrow questioningly at me and left. Jay and I resumed our silence … which I broke. I had to. I know these long romantic silences are always supposed to ‘say much more than words’, but I like words. Silence is awkward. It always feels like a forced prelude to something dramatic and I don’t like putting that m
uch responsibility on the words or actions that follow. Plus, he had that glint in his eyes that said he wanted to kiss me and I did not want any kissing to take place because of how sweaty I was and because I felt I ought not to kiss Jay – sweaty or not, now or ever.
‘Would you like some coffee? I need to jump into the shower.’
‘No, thanks. I don’t have much time. Don’t shower yet. Just come chat. And shower once I leave.’
‘How long have you been waiting? What if I hadn’t shown up?’ I asked.
‘I was in the area.’
He had that look in his eyes again.
‘So what do you want to chat about?’ I said, in a deep, seductive voice that should have sounded charming, but seemed awkward and accusatory.
‘Hmm … you tell me. How was your day? You went to the gym?’
‘Just went.’
‘I like you sweaty. You look nice.’
I think I blushed. Which is difficult to do when you’re as dark as I am.
‘Thanks. Yeah, I really need to shower.’
‘Don’t be silly. Hey, by the way, I told Sameer about you. He’s very excited about meeting you.’
‘Really? Thank you so much. Should I call him? Maybe go to his office?’
‘Chill. You’ll meet him with me soon. It has to be at the right time. So, are you seeing anyone here? How’s Bombay been treating you?’
I chose to vaguely answer only the latter and mumbled something about loving Bombay. I don’t think he was listening to a word because he followed with, ‘I had a nice lunch with you the other day. You’re so chill. So different from my ex. Psycho bitch nearly destroyed me.’
‘Really? So are you seeing someone?’
Why? Why did I ask that? Why, after I had successfully managed to dodge questions about my own love life, had I brought up his?
He just smiled that melt-an-iceberg smile of his and shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. I’m wide open.’
We chatted a bit more. Again, it was easy and it was lovely; the way a lot of conversations with him were at the beginning.
‘Why do you want to get into acting?’ Jay asked.
‘I don’t know. I just like being other people, I guess.’
‘Hmm. You don’t like being you?’
‘What? No, no. It isn’t that. I like being me but it’s fun being others for a little while, don’t you think? Why did you get into modelling?’
‘To make money. I wasn’t as lucky as you.’
‘Oh, well …’
‘Chill. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Besides, we already talked about all this. It’s cool. It really made me who I am.’
‘Yeah. It’s great.’
‘And, anyway, I’m glad you shifted here. In fact, there’s this thing I’m starting work on that I can imagine you in. I’ve thought that since the day I saw you.’
This was it! We were finally going to discuss From London to Lucknow.
‘Really? I would love to hear more about it. Is there a script ready? Are you going to have auditions?’ I raced to find out as much as I could.
‘Yeah, maybe. I’ll let you know more soon. Listen, this has all been pretty fucked up. I can get a bit carried away sometimes. It’s stupid. It’s embarrassing. But I’ve always been this really intense guy. Can we start again? Dinner? I don’t cook and all, but here’s what I can offer you: I’ll come to Bandra, pick you up, take you to a nice restaurant. You know “nice” only, not “fancy-shmancy”? So you don’t have to feel like I spent a lot of money to try and make you go to bed with me. In fact, don’t even try to sleep with me. Just a nice dinner in Bandra. We’ll eat, we’ll chat, I’ll drop you home. Bas. Any chance you’ll say yes?’
‘Are you asking me on a date?’
‘Oh god, no. Stop trying to turn it into a date. You really need to stop being obsessed with me. It’s awkward.’
I was giggling. Full-blown giggling.
‘Is that a yes?’
I nodded.
Stardom, here I come.
Naiya Kapur is swimming in the swirling seas. on Thursday x
Mini called me again a few days later.
‘Hi, babe, what are you up to? Did you go to the gym today?’
Being called ‘babe’ and ‘hon’, and being questioned about my personal life by random strangers were taking some getting used to. I exaggerated slightly and told Mini that I went to the gym for at least an hour or two every day, and did yogalates.
‘Hi, Mini. Yes, kick-boxed up a storm today! My arms are exhausted but it feels great,’ I said, playing with the silk string at the waist of my pyjamas.
‘Lovely. Okay, we’ve got a great meeting for you today. We’re going to meet Raghu Singh’s team. You know Raghu, right? The hottest Punjabi singer there is?’
‘Yeah, of course. (Note to self: Google Raghu Singh.) Who’s his team?’
‘Chill, baby. You trust me, right? So, just put on something a bit sexy and meet me at the Yaari Road Barista in an hour.’
‘Okay, sure. What is this for?’
‘Oh ho. You and your questions! I swear! You better learn when to stop talking. Just put on something sexy and come.’
I put down my phone, turned on my computer and Googled Raghu Singh. Images first. Maybe he’d be handsome enough to dilute my obsessive Happily Ever After dream. Oh dear god! Handsome? If handsome came in a bright orange optical-illusion-creating shirt unbuttoned three-fourths of the way. And, oh my, it was hard to miss the heavy gold chain across the bare hairy chest. Was this Punjab’s answer to Puff Daddy? Forcing myself to not judge a playback singer by his shirt, I read on.
Wikipedia listed him as a ‘brilliant composer, producer, singer, and multi-instrumentalist performer who is at the forefront of Indian music. Raghu is one of the few Indian musicians to be making a mark internationally. Raghu is deeply immersed in the swirling seas of global music.’ The swirling seas? I would venture a guess that his Wikipedia page was being updated by Raghu himself.
I decided to go to the meeting anyway. I wanted Mini to like me and I kind of did trust her. Besides, who knew what the meeting was going to be about? Maybe Raghu Singh was on his way to becoming a film director and had signed Shah Rukh as his lead male and was searching for a lead female. Wait, he was making that international mark so maybe, just maybe, it involved Johnny Depp.
I settled for skinny jeans and a purple tank top from Bebe. I couldn’t help but think that I looked a little slutty, but if Raghu’s Google images were anything to go by, that look would be just perfect.
About an hour later, I met Mini at the Barista and, wow, she was even bigger, sorry, curvier, than I remembered. And that afternoon her lipstick and eye shadow matched her bright pink kurta. We ordered coffee and settled into a corner to discuss Raghu Singh and the upcoming meeting. Or so I thought. Mini agreed that I looked okay but maybe I should have considered showing some leg. I nodded appreciatively and tried to convey with my eyes that I thought she was sage and brilliant.
‘You know, I started off as a model,’ declared Mini.
‘Did you? That’s terrific. Why did you stop modelling?’
‘Just.’
Awkward pause. Was I supposed to do the whole ‘you’re so gorgeous’ routine? But wasn’t that what pretty girls always said to their less attractive friends? Wasn’t it the hot ones who tagged pictures of themselves in a bikini next to the ones with the paunches and the unibrows and then titled it, ‘me with the most gorgeous girl in the world!’?
Fortunately, Mini picked up again. ‘Do you have a boyfriend? I used to be married.’
‘Yeah? No, no boyfriend here. So, listen, does Raghu …’
‘Yeah, I was married for three years. We were having an affair for six years before that.’
‘An affair?’ I asked. Maybe she was more interesting that I had given her credit for.
‘Yeah. We were toh going around since college only.’
‘Oh. Right. That’s a long time.’
‘
Yeah. Then he left me for some floozy in his office.’
Oh, that kind of affair.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Men are bastards, no? They really should be hanged.’
‘Right! … Good coffee here. How’s your cappuccino?’ I tried not to notice the unappetizing, pink lip marks encircling the rim of Mini’s cup.
‘All men.’
I realized the conversation didn’t require my presence, so I shut my mouth, drank my coffee and allowed her to speak. Maybe I could use her for inspiration the day I got offered a role in Fatal Attraction 2.
About three-quarters of an hour, two coffees, and more frightening male-bashing later, Mini snapped back into attention and casually dropped her rant about wanting to yank the fingernails off every man on earth and said, ‘Okay, we should go meet Raghu.’ Clearly, I had been called an hour early to be her therapist. The bill arrived and Mini was conveniently occupied in re-applying her bright pink lipstick while I paid for the coffees.
My savings were dwindling fast. I really thought my dollars would go further in India, but Bandra was absurdly expensive. I paid almost as much in rent as I did in NYC, and going out for drinks was phenomenally expensive. Also, men were less willing to buy you drinks in Bombay, I found. I think that’s because most people in Bombay are aspiring something-or-the-others; so wallets tend to be smaller than the talk. On any given night, unless Jay was around, I found myself dropping between $50 to $100. Meals at any decent place started at $15. Given how often I went out, this ate into my savings significantly. I had been thinking about my finances a lot recently and so I was particularly irritated about paying for Mini’s coffee.
We took a rickshaw up to Lokhandwala. Sharing a rickshaw with Mini is not advisable; I was scared I would get sucked into her fat rolls never to be found again. Soon, I found myself in a depressing, drab concrete jungle with absolutely no character. Mini and I climbed up the paan-stained stairs of a seemingly unfinished building with workmen scurrying about.
