Bollywood Confidential (5 page)

“I don't want to do this film,” Siddharth said, his voice flat.

His manager, Javed Khan, sighed. “I agree with you, Sid. Randy Kapoor is a bastard of the first degree, and I wouldn't trust him alone in a room with a female goat, but Daddy asked for you personally.”

“Daddy?” Siddharth could feel his resistance crumbling and cursed his luck at being born in July. He was a Cancer, which meant he was moody, sensitive and often wracked by guilt.

Damn those astrologers, they really got it right sometimes.

The last thing he wanted to do was work with a
chutia
like Randy Kapoor, but Randy's father and Daddy had been good friends. If he said no, every time he passed by his father's picture, framed by a garland of marigolds, he would feel guilty.

Then again, one romantic role was the same as another. The familiar feeling of boredom began creeping up on him. He sighed and slumped in his chair. “Who's the actress?”

His manager smiled approvingly and slid over a slim
portfolio case. “She's Indian, American born, from Los Angeles. Randy spied her in a commercial in Singapore.”

Siddharth opened the portfolio and stared at the glossy eight-by-elevens.

The woman was beautiful; no doubt about that.

Her long black hair hung to the middle of her back. She had a sensuous quality, evident in her deep brown eyes and the slight curl of her full lips.

He noticed something in the last photo. “She has big feet.”

Javed looked over. “She does, doesn't she? Her shoe size must be close to mine.”

Siddharth shut the portfolio and sat back. “I've already committed to
Love in the Himalayas.
What about that?”

“No problem,” Javed said. “I've looked at the dates. They won't overlap with Randy Kapoor's film.”

Siddharth stood up, wearing a distinctly grumpy expression. “Fine. But I'm only doing this because Daddy asked.”

His manager nodded. “I know, Sid.” He reached for the phone and began dialing. “Will I see you tonight at the premiere for
Love along the Ganges
?”

Siddharth paused, his hand on the door. “Damn. I'd forgotten about that.”

Emitting a string of Hindi obscenities that caused Javed to smile, Siddharth slipped on a pair of Revo sunglasses and was out the door.

The heat was so intense Raveena could practically hear the oil on
her T-zone sizzling.

She was attempting to place an international call to Griffin back in Los Angeles. She had some specific words to say about Randy Kapoor.

That morning, a different—but equally sleepy—porter had been behind the front desk when she came downstairs. She'd barely slept five hours.

The porter had made no mention of the mosquito bites disfiguring her face, or how her eyes were swollen from crying.

When she'd asked about calling America—there was no telephone in her room—the porter pointed out the door, “Left, madam.”

The sun beating down fiercely, she'd walked past carts selling coconut water, vendors frying up chickpeas and serving them in newspapers, and beggar women with naked children clinging to the skirts of their saris.

And the noise:

Horns blaring from cars and taxis, the roadrunner-like “beep, beep” from the black and yellow motorcycle rickshaws, known as auto-rickshaws, that buzzed down the street like angry hornets, the blasting of Bollywood hits from every stand, the barking of stray dogs as they chased one another alongside the road.

And the people:

Men and women on bicycles, on foot, in cars, in auto-rickshaws, in double-decker buses that looked as though they would topple over at any second with the number of people hanging out of windows and clinging onto the sides.

And everywhere she looked there were billboards advertising Coca-Cola, Pepsi, McDonalds, Omega Watches, MTV Asia, Sony electronics, the latest film release…a veritable attack of information.

Next to Bombay, Los Angeles suddenly seemed like a quaint New England village.

As a child, Raveena had accompanied her parents on several visits to India to see grandparents and various relatives. They'd arrive in New Delhi, be whisked off to the train station and travel first class to the northern town of Amritsar where both her parents had grown up.

But Bombay—

Bombay was something else.

What on earth had made her think she could handle it?

With the telephone stand's operator helping, she dialed the country code, then the area code and finally the number of Griffin's cell phone.

Groggily guessing, she figured it to be around nine-thirty in the evening in LA.

The phone continued to ring. If she got Griffin's voice mail she would become hysterical.

Raveena gave herself permission.

Fortunately for the telephone operator and anyone within screaming distance, Griffin answered.

“Hello?” he said.

“Griffin! This is Raveena!” she shouted.

“Raveena,” he said in a casual voice. “How are you, doll? Did you make it all right? Can I put you on hold? I've got another call coming in.”

She gritted her teeth. “Griffin I'm calling from thirteen thousand miles away. I know because I counted the fucking miles while on the plane. And if you dare put me on hold I will tell everyone about your butt implants.”

That got his attention.

“Raveena, wow, you sound upset. What's up, babe?”

“That bastard Randy Kapoor flew me coach to India. There was no driver to meet me when I landed at four in the morning. And the five-star hotel? It's some sort of run-down military club. The toilet doesn't work. The shower is a drain in the middle of the floor. The bed has probably ruined my posture permanently, and I've got mosquitoes binging and purging on my face. You have to do something!”

She could practically hear Griffin rubbing his chin. “Hmm. Well that's not what Randy promised at all. I'm sure it's a misunderstanding, doll. Call me back in an hour.”

And then he hung up.

Raveena knew there was no misunderstanding. She'd seen the same type of behavior in some of her Indian relatives, especially in the wealthier ones.

Randy Kapoor was a cheap asshole.

For a while, she waited outside the telephone stand. She was drenched in so much sweat she could have started a salt factory then and there. She hadn't eaten anything, her stomach was upset, and she wasn't a big fan of coconut water or fried chickpeas.

The loafers loafing about stared, and she stared back at them angrily. Auntie Kiran had told her to ignore them, but she was in no mood to be docile. If even one of them dared make a smooching noise…

Finally, she became so thirsty she decided to walk down to a small roadside stand and buy a soda. They were out of Coke and Pepsi but an Indian cola called Thums Up was in stock. It was cold, and that was all she cared about. After a few tentative sips she found herself liking it. It was on the sweeter side like Pepsi but had sort of a spicy aftertaste.

Raveena blessed her mother for having the foresight to give her a bundle of rupees left over from numerous trips to India. She was in no mood to search for an Indian ATM.

Finishing her drink, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and returned the empty glass bottle to the clerk. She then emitted a very unladylike belch. No one paid any mind, and her stomach instantly felt better.

Raveena was about to walk away when she noticed a boy and girl sitting next to each other in the shade. Their dusty faces and bare feet betrayed their economic status.

She bought them each a Thums Up and two bags of masala-flavored Ruffles potato chips. In return, the kids rewarded her with big smiles, their teeth surprisingly white and perfect.

Raveena walked back to the phone stand and waited. Only fifty minutes had passed, but she wasn't about to
twiddle her thumbs or stare at the cow lounging on the road just to kill ten more minutes.

So she called Griffin back.

For the first time, Griffin answered the phone without enthusiasm. His “hey, doll” was almost apologetic.

This was bad.

“Tell me,” Raveena said.

“Randy is definitely not being cool. He refuses to pay for alternate accommodations. He also said he needed to make use of his car and driver last night, and that's why they couldn't meet you.”

“And what about the promised first-class ticket?” she demanded.

“He said that by first class he meant traveling by plane, not a first-class plane ticket.”

“What was the alternative? Traveling by steamship?”

Griffin sighed. “I don't know what to tell you, doll. Your role is legit, though. You will be playing the heroine of Randy's film. I have the contract to back that up. But I do have some good news.”

Quentin Tarantino had written a role for a belly-dancing assassin in his new movie, and she'd be perfect for it.

The heat was obviously making her delusional.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I spoke with your mother.”

“Mom?”

“She says you have a distant uncle who lives in Bombay. She's contacted him, and he's agreed to let you stay with him for the duration of the filming.”

Distant uncle was right. Raveena knew that her mother's cousin's wife's nephew's grandmother had a brother who
lived in Bombay. Leela had given her his address and phone number and ordered her to visit or at least call him while she was there. Apparently he was in his sixties and lived alone. Although she hadn't seen her uncle in thirty years, Leela dutifully sent him a card every Indian New Year.

“Stay with an uncle I've never met?” Raveena questioned weakly.

“I'm sorry, doll. Either stay put or head to your uncle's. Otherwise you can come back to LA. A role came across my desk this morning. They need someone to play Sacajawea's sister in a made-for-TV movie about Lewis and Clark. They've got the kid from
Small Wonder
playing Sacajawea. The sister doesn't have any dialogue but…” his voice trailed off.

Raveena closed her eyes and leaned her head against the booth. Then she opened her eyes and nearly screamed when she saw the dead fly guts sprayed all over the glass. She screamed again and wiped her forehead.

What should she do?

Part of her longed to go back to LA. Her spirit of adventure had been replaced with fear, anxiety, self-doubt and resentment.

Plus, she missed her mommy and daddy.

Maybe she'd go back, land the role of Sacajawea's sister, and finally be noticed.

Right.

That was about as far-fetched as her curling up alongside the cow for a snooze on the road.

She'd come this far. This was still her best break. She thought of Anthony Quinn and took a deep breath. “I'm staying, Griffin. I'll move in with my uncle.”

“Excellent.” Griffin sounded relieved. “Do you have the address?”

Raveena took out a piece of paper from her bag.

 

Heeru Punjabi

17 Portugal Road

Bandra

Bombay

 

It was time to meet the distant uncle she'd be spending the next six months of her life living with.

She wondered if he had a liquor cabinet.

Raveena had never checked out of a place as fast as she did from
the odious Officer's Club.

In a burst of strength—she was channeling Bionic Woman—she grabbed a suitcase in each hand and dragged them down the stairs running, knocking the porter down in the process.

Once outside, she waited impatiently as the taxi driver struggled to fit her bags in the trunk. Finally, she elbowed him out of the way and did it herself.

And then with a resounding slam of the car doors, they sped away in a cloud of dust.

 

Uncle Heeru lived in a suburb of Bombay known as Bandra.

Bombay was divided into two sections: South Bombay, or the city, and the outlying northern suburbs. Bandra was the suburb closest to the city. Raveena knew this because she'd purchased the
Lonely Planet Guide to India
at Barnes & Noble before she left.

They drove along Turner Road, the busy Bandra thoroughfare, and then headed away from the shop-lined streets and tall buildings housing expensive flats.

They passed Catholic churches—Bandra had a large Indian Christian community—and veered towards the ocean, making a right along the famous Bandra Bandstand. According to the guidebook, at sunset the Bandstand would turn into a veritable lover's paradise, with couples strolling hand in hand and venturing out onto the rocks to sit and be alone.

And then they were turning away from the water and heading up a winding street. The thick growth of trees on either side blissfully blocked out the unrelenting sun.

Between the trees, Raveena could see mountain cabin-like duplexes and stunning gated villas. She felt her spirits rise. Maybe staying with her uncle wouldn't be so bad.

The driver had to stop and ask directions three times because none of the homes seemed to have numbers on them. After the third set of directions, the driver drove a few more meters, stopped short, made a sharp right and plunged down a dusty wooded drive.

He cut the engine.

They'd arrived.

Raveena looked out the window at her new abode and her mouth dropped open.

She quickly closed it because she didn't want to look slow.

In front of her was a two-story faded gray bungalow that desperately needed an HGTV makeover. A wide wraparound porch encircled the house. The area around the bungalow was dark and heavily wooded with red oak, palm and mango trees. Hawks circled above and she could hear the cawing of hundreds of crows.

She paid the taxi driver, then went up three short steps and knocked on the heavy wooden door.

She had no idea what to expect, and
Lonely Planet
didn't have any answers.