Bollywood Nights Page 6

  When Aasha Rani first came on the scene, Akshay was still riding high—but only just. Akshay had suffered his first pricey flop. Aasha Rani had just had her first pricey hit. Watching her gyrate in Taraazu, Akshay realized that there was only one surefire way for him to hold on to his niche at the top. And it involved Aasha Rani.

  Souten ka Badla, their first film together, went on to break box office records, and Akshay was back in the running once again. But only when working opposite Aasha Rani. “Lucky pair,” cooed superstitious financiers on seeing their names across a contract. Lucky or not, Aasha Rani had been delighted. Working together ensured that they spent all their time in each other’s company. She saw Akshay through a besotted woman’s eyes.

  On-screen they worked amazingly well as a romantic duo. “Chemistry,” gushed the filmi rags, while fans swooned over their love scenes. One particular duet was picturized in a train coupé in a manner so suggestive that it was a wonder the scene escaped the censors. It had Akshay making thrusting movements at Aasha Rani, in breathless tempo with the train’s insistent “chook-chook-chook” (which, incidentally, doubled for song lyrics). Every so often the camera zoomed in for a tight close-up of Aasha Rani’s face, which she would contort to express orgasmic nirvana. All this, coupled with cuts to pistons moving vigorously up and down, had the crowds going wild. Entire Chitrahaars were devoted to the song. Every dhaba, every street-side barbershop, every red Maruti seemed to vibrate with the energy of their love.

  The only person who wasn’t ecstatic about the star jodi’s success was Mrs. Malini Arora. Having gauged Akshay’s reaction at the dining table, Malini knew there was something afoot. And she had a fair idea who with. Definitely not just one of the fucks. Akshay’s glib lies had deepened her suspicion. Normally he would not even bother to keep his liaisons secret. After all, he needed sex. And Malini was hardly an enthusiastic partner.

  She was aware that Akshay had chosen her to be his wife after much deliberation. It was obvious he wasn’t looking for a glamour girl or an intellectual. He was not lying when he told the press on the day he was to wed her, “I want a homemaker. Someone who will be a good mother to my children. I don’t want to marry a painted doll, some cheap film girl who will flirt with all my friends. Malini is the right woman for me.” Malini, in turn, had explained her decision to quit her career. She was a ghazal singer who was just beginning to get noticed, when Akshay proposed to her. “My husband means more to me than a career. I believe a wife’s place is in the home, not in a recording studio. Akshay is an old-fashioned man. I will never displease him.” A cheeky reporter had asked her, “But what about his affairs? Will you tolerate them?” Malini was tight-lipped. “I trust my husband. He will never do anything to hurt me.”

  Everyone in the industry knew, however, that on the night before the wedding itself, after the mandatory stag party that generally preceded the big moment, Akshay, sloshed senseless, had driven straight to the house of Silk Simki (the easiest lay in filmdom) and stayed there. Even before their honeymoon was over Akshay had betrayed her trust at least half a dozen times. He was an indiscriminating womanizer. And a champion hypocrite. Malini had promptly been converted into the film industry’s bhabhiji.

  For her part Malini rather liked the image and cultivated it assiduously. Soon, it got to her appearance as well. She began wearing expensive, duly dignified saris and pulling her luxuriant hair back into a no-nonsense bun. Strictly no makeup apart from a smudge of kaajal, and no sparkle in the eyes either. Her singing came to a full stop as per the premarriage contract, and the only time she permitted herself the luxury of a song was when she sang her morning bhajan while performing her daily puja in the elaborate puja ghar. In quick succession Malini produced two sons and miscarried a third. Visitors to their sprawling bungalow marveled at her quiet taste and impeccable housekeeping. Akshay and she entertained little. (“No filmi parties for us, baba,” she said in rare interviews.) But the truth of the matter was that both hated to spend money. If ever the children visited Akshay on the sets, he made sure the producer paid for their cold drinks and snacks. The entire industry knew him as a kanjoos, but nobody dared say as much. Malini didn’t scrimp when it came to jewelry for herself, though. She had worked out an ingenious excuse: “It’s for my future daughters-in-law,” she’d explain to her guests. “The way prices are shooting up these days, it’s better to buy jewelry when it is still affordable.” Watching the boys as they toddled around outside, this remark always raised laughs, but Malini maintained a grave expression.

  Akshay didn’t interfere when she went looking for diamonds. It was an expensive upper for Malini, but it assuaged his guilt. He also pushed her into “social work.” Malini was associated with half a dozen causes and bullied lost souls to save themselves, when she wasn’t buying invaluable trinkets. The industry wallahs felt sorry for their bhabhiji and continued to indulge her quirks. Akshay didn’t like her to attend his mahurats because he was superstitious and believed his film would flop if she witnessed the premiere shot, so the considerate film wallahs sent her the proceedings on video, to watch at leisure in the luxury of her understated beige-and-salmon-pink bedroom.

  It was on one such video that Malini first noticed Akshay and Aasha Rani slyly exchanging glances. She replayed that particular portion half a dozen times to make sure and then kept quiet about it. Yes—she was certain she wasn’t imagining things. She had passively watched her husband flirting with his heroines during mahurats dozens of times and had never spared it a thought. But this was different. She’d had an inkling that something serious was afoot ever since she had accidentally put a tape into her player thinking it had bhajans on it and had heard a husky voice addressing erotic love poems to her husband. Initially she had found it difficult to identify the woman. Was she a new singer? A besotted fan? Some unknown admirer? But the words were far too intimate and knowing. At one point the woman had cracked a joke using one of Akshay’s favorite endearments, “Jaanu.” That had convinced Malini this was someone Akshay was sleeping with on a regular basis.

  When he got home from the studios that night, she’d deliberately played the tape and waited to see his reaction. He’d just come out of their designer bathroom (all granite, chrome and crystal) holding a towel around his middle. The voice had startled him enough to make him let go of the towel. Malini had stared at her husband and thought how foolish he looked standing there, with his cock all shriveled and limp, his eyes like a stricken goat’s. But Akshay had recovered quickly enough to say, “Oh, I’ve been looking for that tape. This female, I forget her name, sent me a demo tape to pass on to the producer. Desperate woman. Wants a break as a songwriter.” Malini had stared at him coldly and asked, “How come she calls you ‘Jaanu’ throughout?” Akshay laughed uneasily. “Silly bitch. She must have read that interview of mine where I mentioned I call you that in my loving moments.” Malini had looked at him with contempt. What a desperate liar her husband was. But she wasn’t the typical filmi wife. She would not throw a tantrum or get hysterical. That would achieve nothing. She’d wait and watch. The video more or less confirmed her suspicions that the woman was Aasha Rani, but she needed more proof. She needed to hear her voice. On an impulse, she phoned Aasha Rani one night, but her secretary answered and Malini hung up. She had never been troubled by any of Akshay’s liaisons before. In fact, she’d never even questioned him about all those heroines who’d given a blow-by-blow account of their sizzling sorties with Akshay to film journalists who thought it worth their while. This time, however, she felt seriously threatened, because she sensed that this woman was not just “one of the fucks,” as she mentally categorized the others, despising them for their “animal behavior.”

  Malini hated sex. Or perhaps she hated sex with Akshay, who did tend to have a sadistic streak. In fact, she often felt she could happily do without it for the rest of her life, despite the fact that she was just in her early thirties. She told herself that Akshay was “allowed” his flings, since they
rarely slept together. He had a ready excuse when he got home tired from the studios, and she feigned a migraine on the rare occasions he still bothered to make an amorous move. Now that she had done the considerate Indian-wife thing and given him two male children, she felt freed of all conjugal responsibility. Sex was one area she hated to discuss, particularly with Akshay. She wondered why it was made the focus of everything in life. Akshay loved watching Swedish blue films—especially those of the more sadomasochistic variety. How could human beings behave this way? she’d wonder, averting her eyes from all the heaving bodies on the screen. She knew Akshay often masturbated in bed, and even that put her off. What was he—some kind of insatiable monster? Could he think of nothing but sex? The bed would shake rhythmically, and she’d lie awake in the dark hating the man next to her, thinking, Why does he do this? He has two children—two fine sons—isn’t that enough? It never occurred to Malini that bearing progeny and enjoying sex were two different things. That being a wife and being a whore were not all that different. She needed Aasha Rani to educate her.

  THE CONFRONTATION CAME a few months after the night Malini had questioned Akshay about the tape. She had vowed never to bring up the topic again, but it wasn’t easy to keep her silence—particularly since every movie-mag hoarding in the city screeched about the same thing: Akshay’s chakkar with Aasha Rani. Is it serious? Or is this just another publicity stunt?”

  Malini was desperate to talk to someone. Someone decent and respectable. Someone who understood wayward husbands. But she could think of no one she could trust. Feeling insecure and depressed, she resorted to her favorite pick-me-up: jewelry shopping.

  She decided to go to her favorite jeweler—Tribhovandas Bhimji—and to visit their new, ritzy, Arab-trap showroom in the Oberoi hotel. Just driving all the way to South Bombay, chasing a bauble, was soothing enough. While she was trying on the latest in enameled gold bangles, she heard a familiar voice. “Helloji,” cooed Rita, who always spoke like she gargled with gulabjamun syrup each morning. Malini was almost glad to see her.

  Rita was the film industry’s self-proclaimed avenging angel and Agony Aunt. A powerful woman, whose husband was the closest thing to God in the business, Rita had, over the years, made it her business to mind everybody else’s. She also had the softest and fattest shoulders to cry on. Malini paused midbangle and greeted her warmly. For a minute or two, both of them discussed the crazy price of gold, the absurd markups in these shops and the mad way diamond prices were escalating.

  The starstruck shopgirls fawned and gushed over the two of them. Film wives were their best customers. But they were also the hardest to please. So fussy. And they could never quite resist haggling over the price of the jewelry box the ornaments came in. But the money they brought in ensured that their crassness, their inevitable late payments and their patronizing manner had to be put up with. Malini waved her bangle-laden arm under Rita’s nose and asked, “What do you think? Pretty, no? But baap re baap, just look at the prices!” Rita stared politely and then got to the point. “Malini, what are you planning to do about Aasha Rani?”

  Malini knew it was no use either playing dumb or even telling Rita point-blank to lay off. She thought quickly and concluded that it was best to enlist Rita’s help and support. “I am stuck,” Malini said. “I don’t know what to do; please help me.” Rita loved the sound of those three words—“Please help me.” They were irresistible and oh-so-sweet. “Of course I will, Malini. In fact, I’ve even thought of a plan. Let me fix up a meeting between you two. My place. That bitch won’t be able to refuse if I invite her. Arrey, what is she? A girl from the gutters of Madras. No class, nothing. A bastard child with a madam for a mother. We all know about her. She’ll get so nervous she’ll probably pee in her panties. I’ve got to go, Maliniji; I have a Red Cross meeting. I’ll phone you after I’ve fixed the date.” And with that Rita sauntered out, leaving Malini with reservations about the whole plan.

  Akshay would be furious if he found out. They had an unwritten agreement that Malini was to keep out of his professional life. He was sure to tell her this affair was a “professional” one. Hah! But Malini would not swallow that shit any longer. She would go to Rita’s and meet Aasha Rani. Akshay’s wrath could be dealt with later.

  RITA HAD ASKED MALINI to arrive early, saying, “I’ll brief you on how to tackle Aasha Rani.” Malini had wondered what to wear. Something exclusive and intimidating, of course. But the colors? She settled for beige. Akshay always told her it complemented her complexion. And the jewelry? Should she even bother with it? What would that bhangan know about fine jewels? She probably wore gaudy Madraasi rubies herself. Unless Akshay had been educating Aasha Rani. Like he’d educated her. She had often wondered how a chawl type like Akshay had such refined taste. Of course, his estranged mother was quite a lady, even though Malini found her blue-rinsed hair a bit too precious. Anyway, he knew what looked good on women; you had to grant him that. Finally, Malini settled for her “basic pearls,” as she called them. Simple, elegant and undoubtedly priceless. Let that slut see what class was all about.

  Rita was her usual self—synthetic from head to toe. She wore her hair sprayed stiff into a dome, like a crash helmet. The generously applied turquoise eye shadow, the fluorescent pink lipstick painted half an inch over the lip line and the rouged cheeks colored like out-of-season tomatoes were all set off by a sleazy, shimmering Punjabi suit of Dubai crepe de chine and a film of perspiration. She’s just trying to help, Malini reminded herself, and kept her face impassive as she climbed the steps of Rita’s massive bungalow by the sea. Rita stood at the entrance and flashed her teeth that showed up lipsticked to a luminiscent pink. Six tetchy poodles yipped at her ankles. Poor woman, an empty womb and a wayward husband.

  The house looked like the houses of all prosperous Bombay film producers—like an expensive set gone wrong. Of course, these days the younger moguls called in socialite designers to do up their homes. But Rita fancied her own creativity. She believed she had great ideas, which the house faithfully reflected, starting with the awesome front door made of mother-of-pearl (“I had it done specially for me by craftsmen near Jaipur,” she told visitors). There was the obligatory winding staircase in the middle of the drawing room, and a gigantic chandelier the size of a small closet. Rita held all her parties here with great pride and pointed out all her latest acquisitions (“See those marble pillars? Last week”).

  Malini recalled some of the earlier evenings at Rita’s as she went through the obligatory ritual of greeting. She had seen Aasha Rani at one of them. She was a faltu at that time, a nobody. But Malini had noticed her. Noticed her body and felt ashamed of her own. Aerobics. Rita had suggested aerobics at one of their coffee parties. So Malini had tried going to a health club a few times, but she was not made for leotards. She had looked dumpy and horrible. Rita’s voice cut through her reverie. “Kitni sweet lag rahi ho!” she was saying. Ugh! She hated the word “sweet.” Malini didn’t feel “sweet” at all. Sweet, my ass, you Technicolor cartoon. Take a long look at your own thopda first. Instead, Malini smiled and kissed Rita’s rouged cheeks. Poison. Imagine wearing Poison at that hour. Like a cheap call girl.

  They went inside and Rita held her hand. “Don’t worry. Akshay will come back to you. Leave all to me. I’m expert, yaar. The number of filmi marriages I have saved. Toba! I’ve even lost count by now. Your husband must have been seduced by that whore in his weak moments—all men have them. All! Or she may have used jaadu-tona. Black magic. Who knows? We shouldn’t rule anything out. Women are so cunning these days. Always after other people’s husbands. Her mother is the schemer. Maybe she trapped poor Akshay. And these South Indians! They just can’t leave our men alone. Their own must be impo, yaar. They look pretty limp. Have a pastry, ji, the samosas are too good. Don’t let that bitch boss you. Don’t beg and plead with her. These women are like nagins. Snakes. They understand only one language: threats. You tell her you will ruin her career. That she will understand.
If even then she argues, tell her that you’ll get goondas to cut off her breasts, slash her face or throw acid all over her. Strong-arm tactics. These females respond only to that. Good words, polite behavior, forget it, waste of time.”

  Malini pretended to listen but her mind was really on something else. She could hear Aasha Rani’s taped voice crooning words of love and desire. Malini had never ever done that with Akshay. Not even when they were courting. She used to sing for him, of course, but those were borrowed words, the words even her audience heard. Malini worried about that. She had stopped making Akshay feel special in any way. In fact, her contempt and impatience were only too apparent. He sensed it too, but when he asked, she’d snap back, “You don’t try your herogiri with me. I’m not one of your obliging starlets or chamchis.” So Akshay just left her alone.

  It was ironic, she thought to herself, that Bombay’s reigning stud couldn’t get as much as he wanted of sex at home. In the beginning, she used to pretend that she liked having sex, since it was important to her to keep Akshay “satisfied.” After a point, she’d stopped doing even that. She’d “allow” him to make love, as she lay there impassively, with a martyred expression on her face, letting him know that it was his desire, his uncontrollable urge, and the sooner he got it over and done with, the better for both of them. While he was doing his “business” she would go over the words of a favorite ghazal in her mind and plan her next day’s schedule. It was amazing the number of mental chores she accomplished while Akshay was grunting away—his face contorted, his body sweating despite the air-conditioning.