by Diksha Basu
‘Oh ho, silly billy. Don’t overreact. We’ll take as many takes as you need to. No need to panic.’
‘But I don’t want to take endless takes. I had the scene perfect.’
‘Baby, we’ll need several takes anyway. And there’s a brilliant editor working on the film. So you just relax, okay? You look pretty and come out when you’re ready. Well, actually, look pretty and come out in twenty minutes flat, please. Chalo. See you out there. You’ll be fine.’
And he was gone and I was still scared. Anu smiled at me. ‘First film?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good opportunity. First film with Sameer Bhatia. You’ll go far.’
‘Thanks. I’m nervous, though.’
‘Don’t be, baby. It is a film. The actor isn’t important. Seher, you, whoever. The others will fix it all. You’ll be fine.’
She was right. So was Sameer. This was film, the magic of cinema. In the end, the rest of them would make me look good. I didn’t need to do much. Except maybe bask in the glow of the release. I smiled. My theatre friends would hate me. I was there, in that trailer, doing exactly what I had been dying to do, and I was thrilled. My chin and my nose were going to be perfect and I was going to be a star!
The first day turned out to be decent. In a way, the more people mentioned Jay, the calmer I began to feel. If nobody was walking on eggshells around me, it was because nobody thought I had anything to do with him. And Anu and Sameer had been right. I didn’t need to do all that much. Memorizing the lines was irrelevant since Sameer would yell ‘cut’ after every thirty seconds. I really only needed to deliver a few words per take.
Anu quickly became my friend and ally, and even convinced me to tell Sameer that I didn’t have a car. He was appalled and immediately arranged for a car to take me to and from the shoots. On the few days that I wasn’t shooting, he let me keep the car to do whatever I wanted. Not that there was too much I did when I wasn’t shooting since I only had a handful of days off and was usually too exhausted to do anything more than lie in bed on those days. My sleeping schedule went for a toss and I could rarely sleep well without the help of a sleeping pill or two.
I needed the sleeping pills. Shooting was lonely. I was working hours that nobody else was. Riteish had left for London, Dino for Milan, and Jess for love. I didn’t mind being alone most of the time – I needed to be alone after a full day or full night of lights, camera, action; but sometimes I really wanted company.
One morning, at the end of an exhausting all-nighter, I was reading a newspaper while my hair extensions were being removed. The entertainment section had a tiny picture of Seher at the international airport. She looked aged and haggard with no make-up and bad clothes, and was clutching a boarding pass and looking scared. The caption said: WHERE’S SEHER OFF TO? HOPEFULLY TO FIND A STYLIST! I stared at that picture endlessly. I was sitting where she should have been.
When I got home that morning, I desperately needed someone – someone who would hold my hand and reassure me that I had done nothing wrong. That things had taken their own course and I had benefited from them, but it wasn’t my fault. And since I had nobody to comfort me, I took two sleeping pills and slept until the next night’s shoot.
But that apart, the shoot went smoothly enough. I felt like I didn’t really get the chance to get into my character, and certainly didn’t feel detached from reality or experience any of the identity issues I had felt when doing my play in New York. About halfway through the shoot, though, I had to do a scene in which my character seduces the leading man in order to get a modelling assignment. I was nervous about shooting that scene – it felt like it was going to hit too close to home. Turned out, it was the opposite.
I was dressed in a slinky silver nightie with my hair puffed out like a gorgeous lion’s mane. The scene was intense and disturbing, but Sameer had to call ‘cut!’ about seven times, and I could tell he was getting exasperated. ‘Naiya! No, no, it’s not working. What are you doing? It looks too artificial. What are you thinking about?’
What was I thinking about? The time I seduced Jay at the music launch. Art imitating life. But apparently I just wasn’t getting it.
Sameer was annoyed. ‘It’s superficial. Think of something real. Think of something you’ve done. Someone you’ve manipulated. Don’t put up this saintly act. It isn’t working for the character. Be true.’
It was scary and weird. What if I didn’t deliver the best possible manipulative seduction scene Sameer had ever seen, and he delved into my life in order to direct me better. I got it perfectly in the very next try. Sameer smiled at me happily and I went home, took my usual two sleeping pills and fell asleep.
It was all worth it, though. At the end of every perfect take, when I would see myself on that little screen, I would smile. Despite the morning slimming of my nose, despite Rajiv, despite it all, this really was the magic of cinema.
As time passed, so did talk of Jay. He faded quickly from people’s thoughts. The movie was taking on a life of its own, as was my career – and there was no room for the dead. This was Bollywood, where, for better or for worse, nothing lasts. Nothing. Not sadness, and certainly not happiness. Everything is in the moment. We all throbbed with excitement and energy as the movie hurtled towards the finish, just in time for a big Diwali weekend release.
Everything I had done in the last couple of years had finally brought me here, to my premiere. I was finally on the brink of breaking into Bollywood. Until the pretty journalist stumped me with her question and left my mind racing as I prepared to be broken by Bollywood.
Naiya Kapur is breaking into Bollywood. on Thursday x
Despite the numerous interviews I had started giving, I had managed to steer clear of mentioning Jay to anybody. Whenever I was asked about my love life, I would talk quickly and strategically about my broken heart from Princeton. It was easy to talk about that. Months had passed without Jay being mentioned to me. A little part of me would occasionally flare up and feel scared that I was going to be implicated, but I was really forcing myself to take Jess’s advice and live purely in the moment. I never thought that the dreaded moment would come – and that too at my very own big, fat Bollywood premiere. I never thought I would be standing here in my sari, looking picture perfect, but being forced to think about everything that had happened since my senior year at Princeton and gasp for air.
Tonight, at my premiere, the cameras flashed at me as I walked in. This was supposed to be it. I was wearing an off-white chiffon sari and a red silk blouse that was backless except for a few daintily tied strings that could come tantalizingly undone with just a few quick pulls.
I had strolled the red carpet, juggled the endless cameras and endless questions, and with my professionally straightened hair and perfectly done make-up, I thought I was invincible – until I was jolted out of my red carpet reverie by a young, pretty-ish disturbingly familiar journalist who shoved a microphone at me, saying, ‘There are rumours that you were very close to Jay Gupta up until quite … well, quite recently. How would you comment on that?’
It was as if someone had punched the air out of me in one swift blow. This couldn’t be happening. Not on my opening night …
‘Naiya? Would you care to comment on that?’
I take a deep breath and say, ‘Jay was one of my first friends in this city. What happened to him was tragic and I hope he’s resting in peace.’
It isn’t that easy.
‘Were you in touch with him in the days leading up to his death?’
‘No. Jay and I had not been in regular touch for some time prior to that. The news of his death came as a huge surprise to me, and my thoughts are with his family.’
‘How close were you two?’
‘Close enough for me to be affected by his death. I’d rather not discuss this topic further on a night like tonight, please.’
‘There are rumours that he killed himself because of his torrential relationship …’
I smile politely
but can’t walk away. How could she be doing this to me on my night? She continues, ‘And then, of course, we all know that Seher has vanished from the scene. What did you think of their half-year-long relationship?’
I suppress a smile. I might be in the clear.
‘I don’t know Seher too well, but from what I do know of her, she’s a wonderful woman and I’m sorry she’s having to go through all this. I do not, however, think I am in a position to comment on their relationship.’
The journalist nods at the cameraman, the red light goes off, she smiles warmly at me and says, ‘Sorry about that. I was just hoping to write about something, anything, other than who wore what, and I had heard through some friends that you and Jay were friends.’
I can’t help but like her. That being said, as much as I might like her, I’m in no mood to take risks with my career tonight by befriending a shrewd journalist. I nod appreciatively and move on.
I’m impressed by myself, and now that I know I am in the clear, I can return to focusing on making this night perfect. Perhaps I should be ashamed. Perhaps I should still be mourning or at least be apologetic, but I don’t want to. The past is irrelevant as soon as the gossip columns decide it is, and today, I’m glad. I’m glad everything is so fleeting.
I finally make it to the main foyer and the drinks. I nearly trip over my sari in excitement when I see a giant cardboard cut-out of me. I look like the quintessential Bollywood heroine in a pink lehnga and soft curls. It’s a perfectly photoshopped still from the movie. My abs look slim and toned, my eyes bright and shiny. My skin is flawless and my hair bouncy. As I stand there staring at my image, my mental movie camera comes back on for just a moment. I’m detached from reality as I watch my dreams unfold in front of my eyes. If I can have giant cut-outs of me looking perfect, I don’t need anything else in the world.
I don’t have a date with me tonight. My father couldn’t make it from America (I don’t think he was particularly keen to try hard to make it from America) and no other man seems worthy of sharing a night like tonight with me. Jess and Kamini are here instead but they’re busy staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. I feel I’ve pulled them out of their domestic bliss to come tonight but I didn’t want the embarrassment of having to return two tickets to Sameer because I had nobody else to invite. I wanted Nal to come from NYC. I sometimes forget how much I like her. And for a while there I was losing my head with jealousy. But I’m happy she’s doing well. James proposed and they’re spending the weekend with James’s grandmother who is threatening to die any minute now, so they couldn’t fly to Bombay for the premiere. She finished shooting her Spike Lee film with Eva Mendes – which I probably could have done more justice to, but again, I’m no longer jealous, so it doesn’t matter. In fact, from the promotional shots I’ve seen, Nal looks stunning. The weight loss suits her. Her movie premieres next month in New York and I’m hoping to make it over for that. I’d love to meet Spike Lee and maybe find out about his next project. But, of course, that depends on how many movies I sign after tonight.
I do the rounds and feel I ought to be lonely tonight with nobody to share in my achievement. I ought to feel guilt, sadness, and an awareness of all that has gone into getting here. But I feel good. I feel content like that little cow. The advantage of being alone is that nobody except me has any control over my emotions and I don’t need to babysit someone else’s emotions. It feels nice. It feels safe. I am my own keeper.
Tonight is my night. I realize that some day I might end up like Seher or Jay or any of those hundreds of thousands of Has Beens and Never Quite Made Its, but who cares about that day when today belongs to you.
Acknowledgements
At HarperCollins, Prema Govindan for continuing to be patient and funny in the face of my countless emails. Also thank you, Karthika V.K.
For friendship, inspiration, and input, in mixed and changing proportions: Rachael Merola, Paramita Das, Jenn Kamara, and Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan.
Saugata Mukherjee, for taking a risk, giving advice, and being a friend. And, of course, for introducing me to the bar at the Sun ’n Sand.
Mikey McCleary – for the music, the motivation and the willingness to turn back from hikes when I get tired.
Thank you to my family:
My grandmother, Mai, for her constant optimism.
My parents – for too many things to list, but mostly for the endless laughter at home.
My brother, Karna – for being there when I need to complain about said parents and for introducing me to the brilliance of Jack Handey.
Baba, I’m afraid Dada and I discovered the actual opening line to the Philip Larkin poem ‘This Be the Verse’ and I’m happy to report that you and Ma didn’t mess us up too much.
OPENING NIGHT
DIKSHA BASU was born in Delhi and grew up in Delhi and upstate New York. She graduated from Cornell University with a double major in economics and French. Diksha lived in Mumbai for four years and is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing at Columbia University, New York City. Opening Night is her first book.
Photograph Karna Basu
First published in India in 2012 by
HarperCollins Publishers India
Copyright © Diksha Basu 2012
ISBN: 978-93-5029-197-9
Epub Edition © June 2012 ISBN: 9789350295144
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Diksha Basu asserts the moral right to be identified
as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under The Copyright Act, 1957. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers India.
Cover design: Amrita Chakravorty
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