Bollywood and the Beast (Bollywood Confidential) (11 page)

Why
? When he was whole and successful and had the world at his fingertips? “I can’t stand tall—I’ve forgotten how—but
you
still have it all at your feet, little brother. No matter what has happened, there is still a place for you in the world.”

“It’s not my place, Taj. It’s yours. All of it is yours. I’m the fraud,
na
? Pretending what’s rightfully yours is mine. Ten years, I’ve been pretending. Trying to be
you
.”

“
Yeh kya bakwas
? Ashu, you’re
you
. Not a fraud. Not a replacement. Rahul Anand didn’t sign
me
for his picture. I don’t even know him. Everything you have, you’ve earned. For yourself.”

Everything belonged to Ashu fair and square but one thing. And she was wholly Taj’s. Her, he would not credit to his brother. Not even on pain of a thousand deaths would he give Rakhee away.

“
Nahin
.” Ashu shook his head, knuckles whitening on the edge of the parapet. “Not for me. For you. Don’t you know,
Bhaiya
? My first three films were all on your slate. You were still recovering. I was not even eighteen yet, and they told me to take your place in the spotlight. So I did. I tried. For all these years, I’ve tried. But I’ve failed. I’m not a hero. I’m a puppet. Speaking other’s lines, dancing on strings. Doing what you want, what
she
wants…” He shuddered violently. “Now no one will want
me
. Because she…because she…”

Because Nina had forced him.
Nina
. That bitch. Taj understood immediately, and the constant greenish cast to Ashraf’s features suddenly made sense. The secrets, which were never secrets in a
desi
house. The nightmares that rivaled his own. “That wasn’t your fault, Ashu. That was
her
ugliness. We’ve all made mistakes, trusted the wrong people. She took advantage,
yaar
. Don’t let her take any more from you.”

He took a step. Then another. His traitorous legs had never been steadier, nor had his hand as he reached out and caught his brother by the wrist. “Come down. Come home.
Sab tik ho jayega
. It will all be all right.”

Ashraf looked like a little boy. The little boy who’d held his hand to take his own tottering first steps. “How do you know,
Bhaiya
? How can you be certain that this can be fixed?” There was…
hope
in his voice, a plea for reassurance. “That anyone will love me?”

“Because
I
love you, Ashu.” Taj could have cried with relief, were he capable of it. But he kept his words even, reasonable, as he tugged Ashraf step-by-step farther and farther from the ledge. “Because it was all right for me. I did not die that day in the car like
Ammi
and
Abba
. I came back. I fought.” He risked a glance back at Rocky, who stood next to Kamal, pale and drawn with worry, her knuckles pressed to her mouth. “I’m
still
fighting,
na
? So don’t you give up now.”

Don’t you give up now
.

The gin was still buzzing in his head. The ground still seemed entirely too close. But Taj’s arms were tight and warm and solid. Ashu held on, taking in great gulps of air, wet with tears and tasting of alcohol…distantly aware that they were not alone. That he’d put on one last grand show for a crowd.

Rocky was just over
Bhaiya
’s shoulder. Kamal stood back, shaking—with fury or with fear, Ashraf couldn’t begin to guess. But when
Bhaiya
finally released him from his ferocious hug, they were drawn together like magnets.
Nahin
, warped magnets. Not a tight snap but a tentative one.

Kamal towered over him, taller, bigger, stronger than ever before. But weaker, too. Bewildered. “Why?” he asked, something that sounded almost like hurt lacing his low voice. “Why did you not come to me,
Chote Saab
?”

It was an odd question now. Here. But still he tried to answer. “I didn’t think you wanted me to. I thought it would be better if I…if I…”

“
Chote
,” Kamal whispered raggedly, reaching out to knuckle Ashraf’s jaw. “When I have stayed with you for ten years, why would you think you can leave me behind?”

These words made even less sense. Ashu clung to them anyway. “Y-you stayed for
me
? What about Taj?”

“He is my duty. You,
Chote Saab
, are my heart.” As Kamal spoke, he took Ashraf’s hand, flattening it over the organ in question, which pounded like a drum.

His own heart seemed to follow the same erratic rhythm, still racing from his reckless dance on the ledge. And perhaps something more. But he couldn’t know what that something was. Not with
daru
and death still sloshing in his veins. So he just gripped Kamal’s forearms like the railings of a staircase leading him back down from the precipice. “I won’t go,” he whispered, in barely passable Urdu. The kind that would never be set down as poetry. “Not…not like
this
.” A nervous glance back at the parapet was his only punctuation. “I cannot promise you I will succeed. But I will try. Is it acceptable if I try?”

“Good.” Kamal replied in English. Of
course
the beautiful bastard spoke English. “That is very, very good.

Chapter Twenty

“He needs a doctor, Taj. A psychiatrist. You know that, right? A couple of hugs and Kamal promising to be the Sam to his Frodo isn’t going to cure him.”

“I know.” Braced against the window, framed in sunlight, Taj looked almost like a different man. Tall, strong, flawless…because the light softened his scars, made them just another part of his achingly familiar face. “I’m not so stupid and backwards, Rocky. I’m only blind enough to have missed my brother’s troubles. With my good eye, I do see what must be done to fix it.”

She made a rude noise, shaking her head. “You know you didn’t miss Ashu’s problems because of your injuries. You missed them because you’ve been a selfish asshole who doesn’t let anyone in. Well, we’re in now, and you have to love us. You have to take care of us. And you have to take care of
you
.”

“What is this ‘us’?” He arched his eyebrow, smug and imperious to the hilt.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she huffed. She didn’t bother to feign coyness. Why start now? “And you said
I
was the one who needed lessons? You need them, Taj. So many lessons: honesty, trust, love. And when you learn them all, you are going to be unstoppable. Just like you were today on the roof with your brother.”

“Is that how I transform? I thought you were going to kiss me and turn me into a prince?”

“I already kissed you, and you stayed you: a gorgeous Beast who drives us all completely crazy. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He looked surprised. Genuinely, honestly surprised. What could she do but kiss him again? Rocky closed the few feet between them and took his face between her palms, stroking scar tissue and smoothness with equal abandon. She pressed her lips to the depression where his left eye should have been, and he shuddered, hands coming up to clutch at her shoulders and shove her away.

“
Nahin
. Don’t, Rakhee. You don’t have to…”

She held on. She knew now that she would always hold on. “This is you. I don’t have to, I want to.” She feathered another kiss over his permanently closed eyelid, her chest constricting as he shook like a man electrified. “Taj,” she whispered, “you’ve looked at me with more honesty than anyone I’ve ever met. You’ve made me feel beautiful. Let me return the favor.”

He couldn’t, of course. He had to take charge. He crushed her to him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, as he conquered her mouth. His lips demanded, his tongue took. He stole her words, her breath, her promises and converted them into lust. Now she was the one electrified, not with fear or shame but desire. He fell back against the window, settling onto the sill and taking her with him, locking her legs round his lean hips.

Taj was all coiled power and energy, bigger in life than he’d ever been onscreen. In more ways than one. She barely recognized the sounds he drew from her throat as he rocked into her, as he kissed her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks…all before returning to her mouth with a husky plea. “Teach me, sweet Rocky. Teach me how to be human again.”

She wanted to. She would. Gladly.

If not for the rustle of cloth. The clearing of a throat. Deliberate sound from someone who practically moved like a ninja. “Sir? Rocky
Mem
?”

Oh God.

Taj was slow to release her—reluctant—and she practically crawled down the length of his body until her feet hit the ground. She couldn’t look at Kamal, certain her cheeks were bright red.

Taj, of course, had no such shyness. “What is it, Kamal?” he asked with his typical brusqueness. As if they’d been chatting about the weather when Kamal walked in.

Whatever thought of propriety or distance had kept Kamal speaking Urdu this whole time was gone, because he responded in English—crisp, British-accented English that beat Rocky’s casual American drawl by a mile. “It’s
Chote
. Ram Lal has brought the car round to take him to the hospital, and I’ve made certain the assistant on the film knows he will not be filming this week or the following.
Nani-ji
has been informed. All the preparations are in place. I thought you would like to be told.”

Rocky had to look then, because the quiet intensity in his voice was that arresting. Kamal’s show of emotion from the roof had been banked, but there was no less affection on display. It was obvious that he cared about Ashraf. That he would lay down his life for him and probably even kill for him. How had they missed it all this time? A house full of actors, and the most poignant, authentic performance had been going on under their noses.

And maybe Taj recognized that, too. Because he said “thank you” and separated from her until only their hands remained linked. Except there was no “only” about it, because she felt his touch in every part of her. A promise that this was only the intermission, and the second half of their erotic picture was yet to come. “Thank you for telling us…and for everything else,” he said gruffly. “You’re a good man.”

Kamal smiled—almost as shocking as Taj doing the same—and the gentle turn of his lips vaulted his somberly handsome features into hero-level charisma. “As are you, sir. As are you.”

Rocky couldn’t agree more. She hoped that someday Taj would believe it, too.

Chapter Twenty-One

The windows had bars on them. For all its benefits as a mental hospital, at the end of the day Ashraf was locked in a very expensive cage. They had confiscated his mobile. He couldn’t watch TV or films. Every meal was monitored. Every pill counted, lest he swallow too many in an effort to recreate his rooftop tango. Visitors had to be approved by his doctor—a tiny Bengali woman, Dr. Ghosh—and were only allowed on the premises on Saturdays and Sundays. He had time. He had silence. He had nothing to do but dream clean, bright dreams.

It was the most free he’d been since he was a stupid boy of sixteen.

Everything you have, you’ve earned. For yourself.

Everything he had, he’d never wanted. Now…now, perhaps he could discover what it was to really live.

The knock was gentle. Faux prison or no, they were unfailingly polite here. The top of Dr. Ghosh’s head was barely visible in the tiny window cut into the door. The person behind her was easier to mark, even before the door swung inward. Kamal was tall and dark and fearsome, even when lit by the soft, soothing bulbs of the ward. His pale green
kurta
was free of wrinkles, almost razor-cut in its perfection, his slim trousers black and devoid of mud splatters. He seemed to span the entire doorway with the breadth of his shoulders. It was still
ajib
to see him outside the
haveli
, like he’d stepped out from a black-and-white film. Of course, he’d accompanied Ashraf here that first day, not leaving his side until the doctors whisked Ashu away for observation and then sedated him for good measure. But now, three days later, it was different. Strange. Uncomfortable.
Nahin
,
too
comfortable.

“You,
Chote Saab
, are my heart.”

Perfect dialogue for a perfect moment. What did it mean now? A blush heated Ashu’s cheeks, and he dropped his gaze, pretending to pluck at the patterned bedspread tossed over his legs.

Dr. Ghosh either didn’t notice or was too professional to call attention to it. “Your friend may stay one hour,” she said briskly. “You may exchange news from home, chitter-chatter, etcetera. And, afterward, you will come talk to me, okay?
Tik aache
?”

Friend
. Was that what Kamal was after all this time? Had he not asked himself that question many times before? “He’s family,” he found himself saying automatically. “Kamal is family, Doctor-
sahiba
. More than just a friend.”

The slight incline of Kamal’s head was the only acknowledgment in front of the psychiatrist, along with a rumbling murmur that he would be vigilant of the clock. It was only after the door shut behind her that his severe face turned radiant. So absurdly handsome that Ashraf wondered why
he
had not chosen a career as a screen idol. “
Chote
,” he whispered in a way that said “little” was, in actuality, something so very, very vast. “Are you well?”

He almost shrugged. But something about Kamal had always made him want to mind his manners. To stand up straight. To use his best Hindi and his second-best Urdu. To be honest. “I’m…better. I am liking it here. But I know it’s not reality,
samjhe
? I know I have to go back.”