by Diksha Basu
‘Mini, this is where Raghu works?’
‘No, no darling,’ was all she offered while huffing and puffing up the stairs.
That’s it. I was being swept into some kind of prostitution ring. I was going to be locked in a room and raped and beaten and then sold to some pimp wearing lots of gold rings, and I would never see my family again. I just knew it. I should never have come to Bollywood. A young girl opened the door and ushered us in. She looked calm enough, though, and quietly gave us water and offered us tea. Mini, despite having just consumed two large cups of coffee, accepted.
A few moments later, a man – in a purple and blue shiny synthetic shirt tucked into brown synthetic pants, white shoes, perfectly coiffed hair on his head and his chest, sunglasses perched on his head, and a cigarette in his mouth – walked out of one of the rooms. I assumed it was Raghu Singh. Especially since, consistently, his chest hair looked like the swirling seas he was immersed in. Without removing his sunglasses, he smugly mumbled that we should ‘keep seating’. I hadn’t exactly been attempting to stand. He looked at me for a while, grinned at Mini, pulled up a chair that kept him raised at least a foot above us, sat back, legs splayed, crotch at perfect eye level, and said, ‘Me Karan.’ And me Jane, I thought.
‘I am Raghu’s main producer. We are wanting to discuss music video with you.’
Before I could respond, Mini piped in, ‘Yes, yes. We are very excited.’
Karan proceeded to wheel his chair over to a few inches away from my face and told me proudly that the video was going to be shot in Australia over seven days. The pay would be decent, the locales exotic and the music video the biggest hit imaginable. Even in broken English, this producer man sure did paint a pretty picture. If it weren’t for his bloodshot eyes that were conversing fluently with my chest, I would have been tempted to be tempted.
He then said, ‘But, this is being a big opportunity. You are understanding? Not just any person can be a part of this. Aishwarya Rai’s ex-secretary’s niece wants the role. So you see? Very important. But your body is nice.’ He bobbed his head appreciatively. A few months ago, this scenario would have infuriated and upset me, but now, wiser and courted by Jay, I was invincible. I nodded innocently and said I understood what an opportunity of a lifetime it was. He smiled confidently.
The conversation continued thus and I asked him the concept of the shoot. Before he could answer, Mini interrupted, ‘Arrey, arrey. She talks too much. So sorry, Karan-ji.’
Karan looked at me lecherously and said, ‘No, no. Curiosity is good. Dekho, story is simple. Man, woman. Happy is happy. Sad is sad.’ Understood. But what would I actually have to do? What would I have to wear? Karan, of course, had all the answers without actually having any.
‘What is the problem?’ The question was directed more to Mini than to me. And then he said, ‘This is nothing vulgar. It will be sexy only. I myself am not liking vulgar. Only sexy.’
‘Okay, but what about costumes?’ I pushed.
‘I am telling you, no? Nothing vulgar. And if you are wearing a bikini, we will cover up the bottom.’
I believe my bottom was offended. I asked if I could speak to Raghu, and Karan just laughed and sighed and informed me that he would be in Australia, obviously, and that I could speak to him there. He then said with absolute certainty, ‘You have your passport? Or you will drop off your passport by this evening? We will make all arrangement. We leave day after tomorrow.’
Did he actually expect me to hand my passport over to him by that evening? The man was sitting there, nibbling at his cuticles, looking self-important, and I realized that, yes, he did think so. I used the only excuse that appeared to work in India and said that I would discuss it with my father and call him back in two hours.
Mini and I left Karan’s place and I turned to have a good laugh with her about the meeting, but found her saying to me with complete sincerity, ‘That was amazing. He really liked you, Naiya! I knew we would be a good team. So you want to call up your father now or should we get the passport first?’
‘Mini, I thought I made it clear to you that this isn’t the type of thing I want to get involved with.’
‘Silly darling. You heard what he said. This is a big opportunity. And Australia! Just think!’
I missed Jay. I missed his laugh, his smile, his intelligence, and …well … his obsession with me. I told Mini I needed to get back to Bandra and would call her in a few hours. She assumed it was because I needed to get my passport in order. I didn’t disagree and hailed a rickshaw. This city was exhausting.
Karan called me a few hours later and said that we should talk directly and leave Mini out of the equation. ‘We will both save money that way, no?’ he asked, laughing and added, ‘That money we can use for fun times in Australia.’ Then he asked me when I could drop my passport off. I tried to be polite and said that I had a few reservations. He patiently came up with a few vague answers and then finally, exasperated, said, ‘I thought you are from New York. Why are you not liberal thinking?’ And that was the last I heard from Karan.
Later that night, on the treadmill, I started to get annoyed and so I ran. I ran faster and longer than I had ever run in the past and for that at least, I was willing to be grateful to Karan. I came out of the gym exhausted and seeing spots in front of my eyes, and decided that sending Jay a flirty text message to confirm our dinner date wouldn’t kill anyone. I did exactly that and then headed to Zaza’s for a drink. Also, after running the amount I had, my legs looked amazing, and it would be a shame not to show them off.
Naiya Kapur is turning into a quite the fashionista. on Wednesday x
Finally, it was time for dinner with Jay. He picked me up at eight in his black shiny Skoda with no driver and took me to a cute, reasonably priced Italian restaurant in Bandra. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, and I was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. On our way in, I caught our reflection in the restaurant door. We looked perfect together.
Before we entered, though, I thought I saw Jess in the distance. She seemed engrossed in conversation with a fat, balding man. It looked a bit one-sided, with Jess staring at an imaginary spot on the ground that she kept rubbing with her toe while the man talked aggressively into her ear. I wondered who that was. He didn’t look like the type she usually hung out with. But it was dark and she was a good hundred yards away, so I couldn’t really tell. Besides, I didn’t particularly want her to see me on a date with Jay, so I snuck into the restaurant without calling out to her.
Jay was one of those men everyone loved. You know the kind: all men want to be them and all the women want to be with them. And I was with him. Even the waiter couldn’t keep his eyes off Jay, and Jay was just perfectly sweet and wonderful with all the staff. We drank some Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand and laughed a lot. We chatted about life and travel and religion and yoga and holistic approaches to living. I pretended I was spiritual and he told me about the teachings of Sri Aurobindo. We steered clear of discussing movies and relationships, but I could feel myself falling for him. I felt the Red Carpet slipping further and further away as I looked into his dreamy eyes and day-old stubble. We shared a sickeningly sweet pavlova with raspberry coulis, and the sugar and the wine and his dimples made Bombay perfect again. For the first time in months, I felt like I was living my life instead of waiting for it to begin. He paid for the dinner by handing the card over without looking at the bill, and right then, I think, I fell in love.
I once went on a date with a guy in NYC who scrutinized the bill for a good five minutes before calling the waiter over to complain that he had been charged $2.99 extra for a diet coke that we hadn’t had. He then looked at me proudly and said, ‘Phew. Glad I caught that. That makes your share $14.75. Oh wait, no, you had the salad, I didn’t. So you owe … $18.27.’ Despite his quick algebra skills, there was no second date.
But with Jay, there was none of that. Chivalry was alive and kicking. There were no awkward silences. He dropped me
home. We made plans for a Sunday brunch. We didn’t sleep together and I slept like a baby.
And then we had brunch. And again we laughed a lot. I could feel something in me changing and becoming more hopeful. New romances always make the world seem bright. At brunch, Jay mentioned work again. He said, ‘I cannot wait for you to meet Sameer. You know how he only does one movie a year? The last one, with Aamir, was huge and this one is going to be even bigger. I just know it. And he’s going to launch a new face whose life is going to change. It just has to be you.’
‘You really think it could be me?’
‘Baby, I’ve read the script and it’s like it was written for you. Seriously. This one is yours.’
I was thrilled and smiled stupidly. I had complete trust in Jay. He was perfect to have by my side. He didn’t seem to have any ulterior motives. He was determined to not let the public find out about us. I understood that he’d been scorched by the press several times already and didn’t want his personal life to be splashed across the tabloids. I respected him for that.
Plus, he said he didn’t want closeted homosexual producers to find out about it through paparazzi shots. I asked him why the closeted homosexuals mattered if he wasn’t one and he answered me with a vague, ‘Just’.
So, that was it. With him holding the key to my love life and career, I fell into bed with him, and more brunches happened, more dinners, more laughter, more conversations; and next thing I knew, Bombay felt like home. We didn’t ever talk about us or define us, but I reminded myself that mature adults didn’t need to talk about their status. That was simply a silly teenage insecurity. Real adults didn’t waste time defining relationships; they had relationships. Jay was allowing me entry into that beautiful world that I had always imagined being a part of.
About three weeks after we first fell into bed, on a Wednesday evening, I realized I’d been sitting and flipping through TV channels for about two hours. Just as I was thinking about how I really needed to get up and go to the gym, I was saved by the bell. Jay was calling after having been missing for the last four days. I tried to sound casual and busy. Fortunately, one of the channels was airing a fabulous reality show where pre-pubescent girls gyrated furiously to songs like ‘Dhoom taana’ while their mothers looked on proudly; so I really was quite focused.
I quickly muted the channel, made sure my voice sounded deep and seductive, allowed the phone to ring four times, and then answered, ‘Hello?’
‘Hey sexy penguin, kidhar? I miss you!’
I was a little confused because I looked nothing like a penguin and I had left him two text messages and a missed call to which I had received no response, but I replied, ‘Oh you know, usual. Hectic, hectic. But enough about me … how have you been?’
‘Fucked, man. I hate this industry. The audience is so full of shit. It doesn’t understand a thing, and the producers are just as bad. Seriously … it’s like working with a group of damn monkeys. I don’t understand how Vikram gets to run his own production house. Uneducated idiot. Listen, baby, I miss you.’
‘Didn’t you say that Vikram is the only one with a brain?’
‘What? No, I didn’t. He’s a fool. An uneducated fool. It’s people like him who make me really just want to quit it all and steal you away to Italy and our own vineyard. Anyway, what are you wearing?’
‘Just jeans and a T-shirt … why? Are you picturing me?’ I asked sexily as I settled back onto the mattress.
‘No, listen, I’ve got a thing tonight. A party. This designer I used to model for … Sayali Chandran … is launching a new line. In Worli. Silly designer who wants to get close to the industry, so always invites everyone. Half the people in there don’t know their head from their ass, but what can I do? I mean, Tarun Jaisingh is supposed to inaugurate it. Tarun bloody Jaisingh, the fucking hypocrite. Sad, really. But, Sayali has used me as a muse for part of the collection and that’s pretty well designed; so I do want to go but, baby, I can’t do it without you. Come, na, please?’
‘I don’t know … I had promised Jess and Dino that I would have dinner with them. Dino is going to Milan tomorrow and I really want to spend some time with him.’
‘Baby, you can’t do that to me. You know I would drop everything for you. Come on, you see Dino every day. I need you by my side. I hate these press-type events. And I miss you.’
‘I know, Jay, but …’
‘Oh, and Sameer will be there. You can finally meet him.’
‘You know what? I want to see you too. Will you pick me up, then?’
‘Thank you so much. No, can’t pick you up. Have a meeting at Worli. Car will get you in an hour. See you there. Thanks, penguin.’
‘Wait, what? So I have to get there alone? And what do I wear?’
‘Not alone, I’ll be there. Waiting. And wear anything. You always look good. It won’t be formal or anything.’
What I would have given to have access to my clothes in NYC right then. I had magnanimously handed them over to friends when I left, and just the thought of Nal stretching out my gorgeous, practically new, grey halter top from Armani was enough to make me nauseous. It wasn’t one of those typical halters either. It was perfectly fitted with horizontal panels (à la Herve Leger) and criss-crossed in the front, across the chest, before going behind the neck. It was gorgeous and went with everything but I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to wear it in India, and Nal eyed it so often that I thought I’d be generous. I don’t know why I bothered. It wasn’t like her size 6 frame was going to fit in there. And, despite her claims, I knew that she didn’t actually go to the gym and she wasn’t even trying to give up carbs. Nothing good ever comes out of generosity.
I had never attended one of these do’s before, and I had always wanted to. I loved pretty people. Jay, Tarun Jaisingh, Sameer – any one of these men could turn me into the star I was destined to be. It could be my night to reclaim my career.
I took a quick shower and by the time I came out, I was already sweaty. I opened my closet door and stared, still irritated. I went for my easy, reliable jeggings and black shirt, with big chandelier earrings and red ballet shoes with kitten heels. Not too formal, not too casual. Just right for an evening of mingling with the celebs. Some eyeliner, bronzer, lip gloss, and two spritzes of my favourite perfume later, I was feeling great and in Jay’s car, ready to take on the party.
As I pulled into the Worli compound where the party was being held, I noticed a swarm of people outside a heavily guarded gate with bright lights. There were people – many with cameras – scampering over the fence to get a look in. I was terrified. I couldn’t possibly walk in there alone. I didn’t belong to that world. Not yet anyway. I made the driver stop the car about fifty yards away from the entrance and positioned myself in a place where I could see the entrance but nobody could see me. Fancy cars dropped off fancy people while I crouched in the back seat and frantically tried to reach him on his cell. No answer. Two more minutes, more fancy cars, more fancy people and more camera flashes later, I called him again. Still no answer. I sent him a frantic
WHR R U? I am at launch and don’t want to walk in without u.
Six minutes passed, during which I stared at my phone and lamented my decision not to bring my hip flask, before he finally texted back.
So sry. Caught up in meeting. Name on guest list. See you in there.
See you in there? I was supposed to walk in alone. In – past this swarm of photographers and starers and lights and security – to a room full of people who didn’t know me. I battled my desire to turn back, go home and see which girl had won the dancing competition, and summoned up all my courage to step out of the car and towards the terrifying lights. As I walked towards the red carpet, I saw that the entrance was surprisingly easy to get to based on social caste alone. Although there was a mass of people hovering around it and even perched on the fence protecting it, the entrance itself was brightly, unflatteringly lit, fairly empty, and had a rather cold vibe to it. The starers and
the photographers seemed perfectly aware that their place was on the outside, and despite the jostling and pushing amongst them, nobody was pushing the social barriers. Except me. I felt like I should be on the outside, looking in. I walked on towards the large men in suits with ear pieces into which they barked authoritatively every so often. In front of me was a tall couple, the woman in a gorgeous, clingy off-white backless gown with a … back necklace. Backlace? The dress hit her lower back at a dangerously low place, but looked amazing. Her back had a golden tan and a light shimmer of glitter. The man on her arm was in a stunning deep blue suit. I was fully aware of my jeggings and black shirt combo that had seemed so appropriate just an hour ago. I was also fully aware that the same photographers who were flashing their cameras wildly at the tall couple were now simply watching me walk past with their lenses lowered. I took a deep breath, approached one of the large men with ear pieces and whispered meekly, ‘I’m on the list … Naiya.’ The ear-pieced man looked me up and down before bothering to look the guest list up and down, and then indifferently said, ‘No, ma’am, you’re not. Are you with the press? Press has a different entrance.’
‘No, not with the press. I’m supposed to be here. At the launch. Could you check again, please? Naiya.’
‘No, sorry, ma’am. You aren’t here.’ Was the night going to turn into an identity crisis?
‘Okay, um … well, could you check Jay Gupta? Is he on the list? I’m with him. Well, his friend. His date. His plus one. His … you know.’
By this point, another equally tall and breathtaking couple had emerged behind me and was listening to my attempts at getting into the party. I felt smaller than ever. I glanced at them and recognized the man immediately. It was Rajeev Singh. The hot new ‘actor’ who was known more for his wild antics at local bars than performances in movies. Emilia claimed she was sleeping with him. He had moved here from London (more likely Wales, but London sounded sexier), and all I had known him to do was endorse different protein drinks and workout regimens, but he also went around giving interviews on how to make it big in Bollywood. On his arm was some nondescript yet beautiful woman wearing a blue calf-length dress that left very little to the imagination. It had a plunging neckline that rivalled the backline of the woman who had gone ahead of me. It was undoubtedly being held up by dozens of pieces of double-sided tape. There was no way she was wearing underwear with that dress. She was wearing a string of pearls nestled seductively in her cleavage and her make-up was flawless. Rajeev was wearing significantly more make-up than her.
