Bollywood Confidential (13 page)

Raveena stopped insisting on a bound script and plot coherency
from Randy.

It was like talking to a brick wall.

An extremely thick brick wall.

Especially when everyone else, even Siddharth, seemed content not to rock the boat.

Speaking of the boat scene…

Mumtaz—the warrior princess—escapes from Shah Jahan's men and commandeers a boat to take her back home. She is halfway down the river when Emperor Shah Jahan leaps out from behind a mast and surprises her.

Mumtaz immediately pulls a scimitar she had somehow hidden inside a skirt that barely grazes her crotch and lunges at the emperor.

The two scuffle from the bow to the aft of the boat until Mumtaz finds herself positioned under Shah Jahan's body. She struggles wildly, but he subdues her by pinning her arms above her head.

Mumtaz spits in his face, which apparently turns the emperor on, and his lips loom closer and closer until it looks as though the two are in for some tongue-twisting.

And then a storm breaks out.

Together the two ride out the horrendous weather conditions until the next morning when daylight breaks and the water is once again still.

It is then they realize that the boat has drifted far upriver and they are lost.

Meanwhile, along the banks of the river, happy villagers celebrate the harvest with song and dance.

This is when the emperor and the warrior-princess begin to fall in love.

Needless to say, the boat scene was not filmed on a real river. A boat was constructed inside the studio, and Randy used jump cuts to go from the studio boat to footage Veer had previously shot of a river miles away in the countryside.

Raveena looked at the dailies and was aghast.

This was the film that was supposed to propel her to stardom?

This was the film that was supposed to do for her what
Devdas
had done for Bollywood actress Aishwariya?

Damn it! Raveena wanted to be in the running for the next Bond girl!

Or at least in the running for
Kama Sutra 2
if director Mira Nair chose to make a sequel.

Veer gave Raveena a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and went out for a cigarette.

After everyone had left, and the kind, gap-toothed
caretaker had begun to turn off the lights, Raveena sat in the dark with her face in her hands.

She had the sinking feeling that in the entire history of Bollywood films that had bombed…
Taj Mahal 3000: Unleashed
was going to break all the records.

Siddharth wandered through the empty studio, running his
hands along the freshly constructed sets.

This had been one of his favorite things to do in the early days. Experiencing firsthand what it took to create that movie magic.

Soon, laborers led by the set designer would begin construction on the Emperor's palace, created from wood, papier mâché and paint.

When Siddharth had asked the set designer why his team didn't make use of CGI (computer-generated imagery), the designer explained that the low-cost manpower in India—the daily rate for a carpenter is a couple hundred rupees (four dollars)—made the cost of hiring a few hundred to build sets cheaper than anything high-tech.

Siddharth ran his hand along the fake prow of the boat and tried to re-create the old movie magic thrill.

Nothing.

And he almost walked right by Raveena without seeing her.

She was sitting in the dark, her chin resting on her hand. Although he couldn't see her expression, he knew she was down.

Why else would she be sitting alone on an empty set in the dark?

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Feeling sorry for myself,” she mumbled without looking up.

“What happened?”

“I saw the dailies.”

Siddharth let the breath escape between his teeth. “I would have advised against that.”

“This is going to be a horrible film,” Raveena said angrily. “I've been watching a lot of Indian movies and most of them are a cut above Randy's. In fact, I was pretty damn impressed with a few. I would love to work with those directors. Hell, I'd rather have starred in Randy's remake of
Runaway Bride
.”

Siddharth winced. “Don't say that.”

Raveena was once again silent.

Siddharth wanted to make her feel better. He felt guilty about his aloofness towards her, but every time he thought of starting up a conversation he'd hear that girl's jeering voice in his head. “And
you're
the heartthrob of India?”

But then he remembered how she'd counseled him in his hour of need. “Listen,” he said, “Daddy has hired one of the best editors in town. And you never know; this film might strike a chord with the audience. Show business is a shot in the dark.”

Raveena looked up hopefully. “The best editor in town?”

“Yes,” Siddharth lied. Truth be told, he'd never heard of the editor Randy would be working with. But he wasn't lying about moviemaking being a gamble. He'd seen some of the worst films resonate with the audience and become super hits.

“You're right,” Raveena said, the heaviness gone from her voice. “What do I know about how Bollywood works? This could be the greatest film ever!”

Siddharth wouldn't go that far.

“I went too far, didn't I?” Raveena asked.

They walked outside. It was almost eight in the evening, and Bombay residents were out in full force. The work day was over and shops were full; the relative coolness brought families out to hit the food stalls.

God, Siddharth loved this city.

Suddenly, he wanted Raveena to feel the same way. Tomorrow was a Muslim holiday, Eid.

“Have you seen much of Bombay?” he asked.

Raveena gave him a rueful smile. “I'm embarrassed to say I haven't. But I'm getting to know the neighborhood of Bandra pretty well.”

“How about a tour?” he suggested. “Tomorrow?”

“Definitely.”

“Pick you up around eleven?”

“Perfect.”

He hailed an auto-rickshaw for her and waited until she got in.

And then he hopped into his Mercedes.

He was having dinner with Bani tonight at Spices, the Asian-themed restaurant at the Marriott in Juhu Beach.

At one time he'd enjoyed Bani's company, but now he found himself getting together with her because he felt obligated, because their families were friendly, and because with Bani, it was always easier to say yes instead of no.

That night Raveena sat down with Uncle Heeru to watch the
number one soap opera in India:

 

Maa Ka Pyaar

A Mother's Love

 

She had read in Page Three that the creator of the soap, Esha Sharma, had a business degree from the University of Michigan and an MBA from Harvard. Both Esha's parents had been Bollywood stars in their heyday, and their Ivy League-educated daughter had tripled the family fortune by starting a production company that produced the top five soaps in the country.

Uncle Heeru was glued to the TV from nine to nine-thirty every Wednesday.

On the television screen, a widowed mother in a white sari dragged her injured son up the steep steps of a temple
and single-handedly threw his body down in front of the statue of Lord Krishna.

The mother beat her chest and sobbed. She berated the god, screamed, sobbed some more, and then demanded that Lord Krishna heal her son. As if to further the point, the mother grabbed her son's head and banged it against the altar several times.

The mother was crying, Uncle Heeru was crying, and suddenly the statue of Lord Krishna began crying.

Raveena had to hand it to Esha; she had tapped into the Indian psyche. No doubt her old professors at Harvard would be proud.

When the phone rang and Uncle Heeru made no move to answer it, glued as he was to the storyline, Raveena went into the hall and answered.

“Chica! How are you?”

“Maza!” Raveena yelled.

“Silence is golden!” Uncle Heeru shouted from the sitting room.

Raveena dropped her voice several notches. This wasn't the eighties, when Raveena's mother would have to scream into the receiver just so Raveena's grandparents could hear her. “I can't believe it's you,” Raveena said happily. “What's going on? How are you?”

“Spill it, chica,” Maza said. “I want to hear about Siddharth. Emails just weren't doing it for me.”

Raveena sat down in the chair by the phone stand and curled the cord around her fingers. “Maza, I feel like such an idiot. I've fallen for a Bollywood hunk. I'm sure it's all lust.”

“And what's wrong with that?”

Raveena could hear her friend taking a drag on her cigarette. “I don't know…it seems so ‘high school' to be falling for a movie star.”

“You're an actress, chica—who else are you going to meet? I say bang him.”

“It takes two to bang. I don't think the guy is into me. He did invite me to go sightseeing tomorrow, though.”

“Sweetie, why would the guy waste his day with you if he wasn't interested?” Jai asked, cutting in.

“Jai?” Raveena laughed. “How are you? Where are you guys? What time is it there?”

“Eleven, honey, and we're at Maza's. I'm trying to coax her into a makeover. She refuses to wear anything but eyeliner.”

Raveena smiled, feeling better than she had in weeks. “God, I miss you guys.”

Maza was back on the line. “How's Bollywood treating you?”

“Well…it's chaotic, haphazard, undisciplined, the director is sort of a prick, and I don't think anyone in the industry even knows that I'm in town.”

“So it's like you're doing an independent film,” Maza said. “Except for the director being a prick—that's more big-budget, right?”

Trust Maza to put it in perspective.

Raveena laughed again. It felt good to laugh. “You hit it on the head, chica. Now, tell me how you and Jai are doing and then hang up. I don't want you getting stuck with a bigass phone bill.”

“Big deal, that's what money is for. Anyway, Jai decided not to leave MAC, I'm way behind on my deadline, as usual, and I've decided to swear off men.”

“Maza! You can't. You know I live vicariously through you.”

“Well, now I'm going to do it through you. Make me proud. It's about time you found a guy of your own. And he's beautiful.”

“How do you know what he looks like?” Raveena asked.

“I looked him up on the Internet. How can a man that stunning even function? He doesn't have any issues, does he? The good-looking ones usually do.”

Raveena thought about Siddharth and his moments of friendliness followed by aloofness. “Umm…”

“Never mind, sweetie,” Jai was back on the line, “help him work through those issues. You know I always advised you not to date Indian guys because of their mama-complex, but Siddharth is too luscious to pass up. You deserve him.”

Her friends rang off soon after, and Raveena decided to call it a night. It was only ten, but she needed to choose her outfit for tomorrow and get her beauty sleep.

Peeking into the sitting room, she saw Uncle Heeru curled up under the coffee table.

It had been a sleepless night.

Raveena was plagued by dreams of Siddharth and her alone in a bed surrounded by filmy mosquito netting in the middle of the jungle. Siddharth was dressed in tight leather pants and was shirtless but wore a necklace of tiger teeth.

Even her dreams were turning into cheesy Bollywood movies.

She was also plagued by a baby fruit bat that flew in through her open window and screeched furiously as it struggled to find a way out.

Raveena leapt out of bed, unsure of whether to run away or attempt to help the bat, when, screeching, it flew up and got tangled in her long loose hair.

Her screams woke Nanda and Nandini, and they came running. Together the girls were able to remove the bat from Raveena's hair and safely set it free outside.

This time when Raveena thanked them, Nanda gave her another small smile.

Uncle Heeru was meditating in front of the picture of Sai Baba and was not to be disturbed.

 

Raveena thought that if all tour guides looked like Siddharth, India's tourism would triple.

He started the tour at the Gateway of India, the most popular landmark in the city.

According to Siddharth, in the days when most visitors came to India by ship and Bombay was the principal port, the sandy monolith of an arch had served as a beacon to India. The monument had been open to visitors since 1924.

Directly across from the Gateway was the plush and majestic Taj Mahal Palace & Tower Hotel, situated on the waterfront, and overlooking the harbor.

Siddharth left his car with the valet at the Taj Hotel. “Let's head over to the Gateway.”

They had taken only a few steps before he was mobbed.

Men, women, children, rich, poor, young, elderly, surrounded them. They didn't want an autograph; they wanted to touch the movie star. Some just gazed, wide-eyed, while others pulled on his shirt and grabbed his arms.

Since it was a holiday, the crowds were out in full force. Raveena thought about throwing herself in front of him as a human shield but ended up grabbing his hand and running with him to the safety of the hotel lobby.

“Wow,” she said teasingly, “you really are a demigod.”

“Would I sound like a spoiled bastard if I said I hate that kind of shit?” he asked.

Raveena looked back outside to where some of his fans still lingered, desperately trying to peer into the hotel. The imposing Sikh guards at the entrance, though, kept them away.

“No, you're not a bastard,” she said. “I think celebrities do occasionally have to sign autographs and pose for pictures—it's only fair to the fans—but what happened outside…that was way over the top.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully. “I know where you can get a nice view of the gateway and the harbor.”

They strolled through the lobby. “I would love to stay here,” Raveena mused. She had never seen such a beautiful hotel lobby. The Moorish influence was everywhere, blending wonderfully with contemporary Indian touches—vaulted ceilings, onyx columns, silk carpets and crystal chandeliers.

The Harbor Bar seemed filled with tourists and wealthy Bombayites, but of course Siddharth was able to get the best table with a spectacular view of the Arabian Sea.

The martini list was extensive, and the bar also featured a selection of excellent cigars. Since it was almost one p.m., and she didn't know if she'd get another chance to spend the whole day with Siddharth, Raveena thought to hell with it and ordered a dirty martini. Siddharth settled for a beer brewed in India—called Taj Mahal, natch.

There were a few interested glances cast their way, but thankfully they were left alone.

Siddharth leaned close and whispered, “See the tall man puffing on a cigar behind me?” Raveena stole a quick look and nodded. “That's the Maharajah of Lalpur.”

Raveena stole another look. She noticed the Maharajah's long hands, high cheekbones and heavy-lidded eyes. The massive ruby on his finger was magnificent. “He's single,” Siddharth added.

She raised an eyebrow. “Is he…?”

“He's not gay. He's lazy. In an interview he said he doesn't have the energy to sustain a relationship.”

The Maharajah caught Raveena staring and gave her a slow, sexy smile. Next to him, Siddharth looked like a boy.

Raveena shook her head. She was turning into as big a snob as Uncle Heeru. The Maharajah was probably a royal asshole.

“The Maharajah turned a majority of his land into a wildlife preserve. He's on the committee to save the Bengal Tiger from extinction,” Siddharth said, offering up some more details.

“What are you? His matchmaker?” Raveena said crossly. She didn't like her narrow-minded judgment of royalty being questioned.

Siddharth grinned and his dimples made her forget all about the Maharajah of Lalpur.

Siddharth asked her if she was hungry—she wasn't—so they got back in the car and headed for a magnificent section of Victorian architecture Siddharth explained was known as
Kala Ghoda
or “black horse.” The area was named after a bronze statue of King Edward VII astride his dark horse that had once graced the premises.

The area was now a parking lot.

They drove past the University, the National Gallery of Modern Art, the Prince of Wales Museum and the Jehangir Art Gallery.

Siddharth then drove past an area called Flora Fountain and pointed out the Bombay Stock Exchange.

They passed by the VT, the beautiful Victoria Terminus railway station that looked more like a Gothic cathedral than a place to disembark.

Opposite VT was the Victorian
Times of India
building, which housed Bombay's daily newspaper. Raveena wondered who the Page Three staff would write about next.

Siddharth was an excellent tour guide. He knew the history of the city like a scholar, and his words were full of pride as he pointed out his favorite locations.

Raveena reflected that after eight years in LA, she could probably take a visitor to the Farmer's Market and the Getty Museum. That was about it.

“This stretch of road is known as the Queen's Necklace,” Siddharth said, as they drove along the coast. “At night, when all the streetlights are on, if you look down on Marine Drive all you see are a row of lights against the darkness of the water, and it looks like a necklace.”

He pointed to the tall buildings on his left. “The flats here are worth millions in American dollars.”

Meanwhile, street kids ran up and down the drive selling flowers, cheap copies of books and, of course, Bollywood magazines.

Raveena realized that India was not a third-world country. It was two worlds—a first world and a third, both existing simultaneously.

“Ma'am,
Harry Potter…Harry Potter,
ma'am.”

Outside Raveena's window, a little boy waved copies of J.K. Rowling's famous series.

“Please, ma'am,
Harry Potter
?” The boy had a wistful look on his face.

Raveena already had the first five books in the series in hardcover. Nevertheless, she bought the faded copy of
The Order of the Phoenix
.

“Thank you, ma'am!” The boy flashed a bright smile.

“Here,” Raveena said, handing the book to Siddharth. “Have you read any of them?”

“No.”

“Now you can start.”

“Do you want to buy me the rest of the series?”

Puzzled, she didn't get what he meant until their car was besieged by at least a dozen kids all waving copies and shouting, “
Harry Potter,
ma'am!
Harry Potter!
”

“Uh oh,” Raveena said.

Laughing, Siddharth indicated the kids. “You're dealing with some of the best business minds on the planet.”

The day passed like a whirlwind for Raveena. There was so much to take in.

She bought several gorgeous Fendi knockoffs at the Oberoi shopping arcade in Nariman Point for her mother, Maza and herself.

They had a seafood lunch of fresh crabs cooked in a green garlic curry and a Bombay specialty fish called pomfret, which was cooked tandoori style.

In the evening they went to Bade Miya, a food stall that was open from dusk to one
A.M
. and served the best kebabs in the city. The kebabs came in rolls and were served with a spicy sauce, lime, and no napkins.

Siddharth had come prepared, though, and he supplied a box of tissues as they sat in the car and ate.

“Look at this guy,” Siddharth said with amusement.

Raveena turned and laughed at the sight of a large stray dog, his paws on the window sill, his face peering in through the open window.

“Here,” Raveena said and passed along her last kebab, which Siddharth handed to the dog.

Siddharth then put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.

The man who'd taken their order hustled over to the car.

Raveena admired people who could whistle like that.

In fact, she found it downright sexy.

And it was the smart thing to do, as other people were vainly trying to catch the man's attention by waving and yelling.

Siddharth ordered a plate of kebabs for the hungry dog.

Raveena found that even sexier.