Bollywood Confidential Page 8

  Walking around, Raveena came to realize the studio was deserted, save for the old caretaker sweeping the drive.

  Or, at least, it looked like the old man was sweeping.

  Wielding a typical Indian hand broom made of twigs, he seemed to be sweeping the exact same bunch of fallen leaves back and forth. He wasn’t making any progress.

  However, Raveena wasn’t about to lecture the man on his lack of a Puritan work ethic. Instead, she took a seat under the same coconut tree and waited for the rest of the crew to show up.

  And waited.

  Really, this waiting thing was getting old.

  By ten the coolness of the morning had given way to wilting heat, and still no one had shown up.

  The caretaker ambled towards her. “Why are you sitting here?” he asked.

  “We’re shooting today. I was told to be here by nine.”

  The old man smiled. He was missing several of his teeth. “No one will be here before eleven.”

  “But why did the director tell me nine?”

  His smile widened. “Because that is the time to be here. Nonetheless, no one will arrive before eleven.”

  “Come,” he beckoned.

  Raveena followed him into the studio common area where she’d overindulged in chilies and vinegar the week before.

  He began flipping switches, turning on lights, and before long she heard the hum of the air-conditioner start up.

  He disappeared for about ten minutes and returned with two steaming cups. “Chai,” he said, setting one cup before Raveena with another of his gap-toothed smiles.

  It was blistering and the air-conditioner hadn’t fully kicked in yet.

  Still, what else was there to do but drink hot chai?

  Raveena raised her glass in toast and settled down for chai and conversation with the caretaker.

  Maybe he could teach her a few choice Hindi swear words?

  The ones her parents whispered, but she could never fully catch.

  “Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!” Lollipop shouted above the music.

  For Shiva’s sake! Raveena was thrusting to the best of her ability.

  Lollipop clapped his hands. “Cut!” The music was turned off.

  Raveena was learning a lot on her first day at the studio. Violence in a Bollywood film is acceptable, but kissing isn’t. Sex is taboo, but the suggestive hip rolls and pelvic thrusts she was performing in her dance routine were fine. Abrupt changes of location during songs are common—Scotland, Switzerland and New Zealand were favorite backdrops.

  Randy had explained earlier to a disappointed Lollipop that he didn’t have the budget for a foreign song shoot.

  Panting, her hands on her hips, Raveena waited as Lollipop approached. It was hours later, and the rest of the crew had finally arrived. “The dance move is like this,” Lollipop said and began to demonstrate.

  He thrust out his hips, shimmied to the right, then left, executed a few classical Indian moves with his arms, and ended by looking over his shoulder, his eyes smoldering.

  Raveena almost clapped. The man could move.

  Since there still wasn’t a script, Raveena spent the day rehearsing her first musical number.

  In the song sequence, Mumtaz Mahal disguises herself as a provocative gypsy and sneaks into Shah Jahan’s palace with her group of soldiers—also disguised as gypsies—and performs a seductive dance number in front of the Emperor and his men. The goal is to gain entrance into the palace so Mumtaz can murder Shah Jahan in his sleep.

  Hence, Lollipop’s smoldering look.

  “You must be sexy,” Lollipop instructed, lowering his eyelids demurely and slightly pursing his lips, “but at the same time the audience must see a hint of your contempt and anger towards the Emperor.” Lollipop raised his eyes and flashed her with a burning gaze.

  Honestly, Raveena was still trying to get her right hip to stay down while bouncing the left.

  Nonetheless, she nodded. “Okay, got it.”

  The music started up again.

  Getting the dance number down was important. Songs from Bollywood films were released prior to the film opening and their pre-release success was an indicator of potential box office returns.

  Randy had hired the top music director in the country. B. R. Hassan. Raveena heard Randy had to shell out a pretty penny for Hassan’s services. No wonder she’d seen Daddy mopping his forehead more than usual.

  But he was worth it. The soundtrack was sensational. Bass guitar, tabla and drums flowed together in something tribal, making her blood pound.

  “From the top!” Lollipop shouted.

  After spending the entire afternoon with the choreographer, Raveena had developed an immense respect for the man—and now managed not to giggle when she said his name or heard his high-pitched voice. After all, his job involved much more than choreography. He directed complex camera movements, set changes, costume design and anything and everything related to the musical numbers.

  The fifty male background dancers behind Raveena began effortlessly mimicking Lollipop’s instructions.

  Raveena moved to the music, lip-synching to the singer’s voice and trying to do the temptress-warrior thing when Siddharth entered the studio.

  Staying in her line of vision, he leaned against the wall, folded his arms and watched.

  The sight of Siddharth cool, composed and drop-dead delicious while she gyrated sweaty and flushed in her tank top and jeans—and still suffering the latent effects of dysentery—pushed Raveena’s anger to the surface.

  Glaring at him, Raveena whirled, spun, thrust, kicked and executed the Bollywood dance moves—mentally blessing her mother for forcing her into classical Indian dance lessons as a kid—and ended in the required pose, seething over her shoulder at the Emperor.

  Lollipop bounced up and down. “Brilliant! Sexy and filled with contempt!” He bounced over and wrapped her in a hug.

  Raveena returned the bubbly choreographer’s embrace. In the background, Siddharth raised an eyebrow, performed a mock bow in her direction and left the studio.

  See.

  All she’d needed was the right motivation.

  Chapter 22

  Raveena was attending her first Bollywood bash.

  Randy Kapoor was throwing a huge party at his family’s Juhu Beach estate. The crème de la crème of Bombay society would be there: stars, models, fashion designers, industrialists and socialites.

  She had gotten her hair blown out earlier at the Rapunzel Salon—the one she passed by every day on her way to the studio. Unfortunately, just as she was led over to the basin for a wash, the power went out, and she sat in the dark while she was shampooed and conditioned with very cold water.

  Raveena blessed the fact that she had not chosen a full body wax for the very same day.

  Sitting in the dark, towels wrapped around their dripping hair, the patrons waited as various people fiddled with the generator struggling to start it. Finally, just as the generator sprang to life, the power came back on and the same people struggled to turn the generator off before it burned out.

  Raveena’s hair was then blown out by three dusky young women—one to hold the dryer, another to hold the brush, and a third to divide the drying hair into sections. Well, there was an excess of labor in the country. Why use one person when you could use three? But the results were worth it, and she left the salon with a sleek mane of black silk.

  Hair and makeup done, Raveena stood in front of the wardrobe wondering what to wear.

  Uncle Heeru chose that moment to knock on the door and come in.

  “Hi,” she said over her shoulder, her arms filled with clothes.

  Heeru walked over to the bedside table and picked up the copy of Hurray for Bollywood. “Is this book any good?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m almost finished if you’d like to read it.” She dumped the pile of clothes on her bed.

  Uncle Heeru frowned and set the book down. “This book will not help you while you are here. You must read t
he Bhagavad Gita. In it are all the lessons one needs to know about life. I have read it seven hundred times.”

  Raveena’s mother had a beautifully bound copy of the Bhagavad Gita at home. The Gita was sort of like the Hindu Bible, a written volume of Lord Krishna’s words detailing the nature of consciousness, the self, the universe and the ultimate path to self-realization.

  One who truly understood and had studied the Gita would live a life of transcendence.

  Earlier, Raveena had seen Uncle Heeru nearly run over the neighbors in his battered white Ambassador, then speed off without apologizing.

  Hmm.

  “I’ll read it when I get home,” Raveena said, picking out a black cocktail dress and shaking it out. It was a sweet little number by Marc Jacobs. She would need to iron it.

  For some reason, Uncle Heeru was still hanging around her room, so she showed him the dress. “What do you think? It’ll impress the Bombay bigwigs, right?”

  Uncle Heeru looked aghast. “That dress is not appropriate! You will surely become the target of mischief-makers.”

  Raveena raised an eyebrow at the garment. It was sleeveless but was neither low-cut nor backless. She thought it was classy.

  However, Uncle Heeru’s eyes were bulging out in a way that was decidedly trout-like.

  “Don’t worry Uncle Heeru,” she reassured. “I’ll be wearing a light shawl over the dress.” She didn’t mention that the shawl was really a gauzy black length of chiffon.

  Raveena was determined to look fabulous. She wanted to do LA proud. She had no intention of showing up at the party looking like the offspring of a hag and a country bumpkin.

  It really had nothing to do with the fact that Siddharth would be there.

  Really.

  Uncle Heeru mumbled something and pulled at his hair. “I would like you to come with me to the temple on Tuesday. It will be a most auspicious day.”

  “Of course,” Raveena answered. “I’d love to.”

  He nodded as if in agreement. “You will need Ganesh’s blessings if you continue to remain in the film line. The industry is an ungodly place.”

  Raveena smiled politely and ushered him out of the room. “I really enjoyed our chat, Uncle Heeru.”

  Shutting the door, she returned to the wardrobe and prayed she hadn’t forgotten her black lace Victoria’s Secret bra.

  Ungodly was the look she was going for.

  “This is definitely a Page Three party.”

  Raveena turned to the young woman behind her in line at the bar. “Page Three?”

  She had a short cap of dark hair and was dressed in low-slung cropped pants and a beaded turquoise bustier. Her belly button was pierced. “In Bombay, our Page Three is like New York’s Page Six. If you want the latest in cocktail parties and glitterati gossip, that’s what you read.”

  “Thanks,” Raveena said and reached for her vodka tonic. Uncle Heeru subscribed to Bombay Times. She decided it was time to start reading Page Three.

  Wandering around, Raveena didn’t know what she’d expected from a party thrown by a Bollywood director. It seemed to be no different from an A-list Hollywood party. Not that she’d attended many of those.

  The Kapoors’ sprawling seaside villa, with a 180-degree view of the Arabian Sea, was enormous. A large Olympic-size pool complete with two waterfalls ran the entire length of the house. The decor was a mix of European tapestries, Mughal artwork and marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses.

  Personally, Raveena thought it looked as though the Louvre had vomited up several of its collections.

  Speaking of vomit…Randy appeared at Raveena’s elbow and promptly offered to give her a tour of his bedroom.

  Raveena promptly declined.

  For a moment, Raveena thought she saw anger flash across Randy’s eyes, but she was too distracted by his outfit to give it much thought.

  Randy was wearing a black tank top, a black leather jacket—so much for the sacred cow—and black leather chaps with the crotch and seat cut out. Thankfully, he had on a tight pair of blue jeans underneath.

  Well, truthfully, Raveena wasn’t that thankful. His blue jeans were very tight.

  To complete the outfit, Randy had hooked Bono-style sunglasses over the silver studded belt at his waist. His black hair had recently been highlighted with blond streaks.

  Raveena was relieved to see Daddy, who greeted her warmly with his usual, “How are you, beti?” But then had to rush off when there was a crisis in the kitchen involving a platter of mushroom turnovers.

  “I don’t see Veer or Lollipop,” Raveena said to Randy. She’d hoped to run into at least two people she knew.

  “Celebrities only,” Randy said. “Like me.”

  Raveena could see a suggestive leer forming around his lips and decided it was time to partake of some party food.

  A trendy Bandra restaurant called the Olive Bar & Kitchen had done the catering, and the food was a blend of European and Asian cuisines. Raveena helped herself to vegetarian risotto and roasted pepper salad with feta cheese.

  Spotting an empty chair, she sat down with her plate. The small group of women sitting around her were all in their twenties and early thirties. All were either beautiful, rich or both. And she couldn’t help listening in on these glamorous creatures with their light, flirtatious, slightly exaggerated way of speaking.

  She recognized the woman with flowing burgundy-tinted black hair and supermodel-like cheekbones sitting closest to her. Bani Sen. Currently the “it” girl in town, Bani had the distinction of being part of both the high society and the Bollywood scene.

  As Raveena had learned, not everyone made the transition.

  Bani had recently starred in one of Raveena’s mother’s favorite movies. Bani had played a sexy but virtuous woman who wins the heart of a serial playboy with her traditional values and high morals.

  Next to Raveena, Bani laughed gaily and made several snide remarks about butt-fucking and blowjobs. She then demanded to know if anyone would share a line of coke.

  Raveena wasn’t a prude, but she had an image of her mother’s face, happily watching Bani’s movie, and she had to get out of there.

  She was about to get up when Bani turned and smiled, her dark eyes cool and assessing. “So you’re the one starring in Randy’s new flick?”

  Several of Bani’s friends exchanged knowing glances.

  Raveena didn’t need to read the Bhagavad Gita seven hundred times to know what their looks meant.

  They assumed she was sleeping with Randy.

  She nearly spewed risotto.

  “Yeah,” Raveena said. “With Siddharth,” she emphasized. So she was bragging. She couldn’t help it. These women were getting to her.

  Bani’s gaze turned mocking. “Oh, I know why Sid’s doing it. He feels guilty. His father and Daddy were good friends…but what’s your excuse? Shouldn’t you be off in Hollywood making a film with Colin Farrell? I know that if I were from LA,” she mimicked Raveena and emphasized the last word, “I would consider it a step down to come and work in India.”

  Raveena considered bitch-slapping Bani—surely that would put her on Page Three—but she respected Daddy too much and knew a WWF-type shakedown would surely cause the gentle man some embarrassment.

  Instead, she smiled back at Bani. “You know, I never really thought of Bollywood as a step down.” So she was lying. “But after meeting you, I really do feel like I’m slumming it.”

  And with that, she stood and walked away, her heart pounding.

  She was close to tears. She wasn’t a socialite or a glamorous creature, and she couldn’t throw her head back, laugh gaily and discuss which was worse—an enema or anal sex.

  Or at least not without a few drinks in her.

  She went outside and stood at the railing, looking out at the sea. Moonlight glistened on the water. The gardens to her right beckoned, and she followed the small path leading away from the house, wanting to get far away from the party.

  It was the
re in the center of a gazebo dripping with star jasmine blossoms that she ran into Siddharth.

  He was sitting on a white marble bench with his head in his hands.

  At the sight of her he grimaced. “Shit. You didn’t follow me, did you?”

  Raveena burst into tears.

  Chapter 23

  Siddharth wondered if the rumors were true.

  Was Raveena sleeping with Randy Kapoor?

  Well, that would explain the crying.

  She sat down next to him on the marble bench and wiped ineffectually at the tears with the back of her hand.

  Siddharth reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out a handkerchief. Silently, he handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” Raveena muttered and dabbed at her face. “I know why I left the party, but why did you?

  What was he going to tell her? That India’s answer to Brad Pitt felt uncomfortable in a room full of people?

  His aloofness was in actuality a painful shyness. And that shyness was especially evident around members of the opposite sex. They expected him to be a stud like in the movies, a consummate lover.

  Immediately after his first brush with success, Siddharth had been set up with the niece of a family friend. His recent success had given him some newfound confidence. After dinner, while walking the girl to her door, Siddharth had prepared to take his leave when the girl threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. “Oh, Siddharth,” she moaned.

  Siddharth had had a good time that night and decided to kiss the girl back. After a moment, she pulled back and stared up at him with disbelief. “You’re a horrible kisser,” she’d exclaimed. “What are you, a virgin or something?”

  Flushing red, he’d turned around and ran to the lift, the girl’s mocking laughter following him.

  He’d noticed the way the female guests stared at him, their gazes full of expectation. The men in the room shot him looks laced with jealousy. Siddharth felt like a fraud. That was why he’d left the party.

  “I needed some fresh air,” he told Raveena.

  “I’m feeling homesick,” she said quietly. “God, what am I—six?”