Bollywood Confidential (2 page)

One week later Raveena had tried out for the role of slave girl, lost
it to a Brazilian bikini model, nearly twisted her ankle in a pilates class and stubbed her toe in yoga.

About the Brazilian model, apparently the casting director was looking for a more marketable minority.

Try saying that three times fast.

To top it all off, it was Saturday night and she was having dinner with her parents.

Truth be told, she didn't mind hanging out with them. It's just that a long, long time ago in a place far, far away, she recalled spending her Saturday nights with dates.

Sometimes when she was in extreme periods of denial—yes, her favorite word—she convinced herself that she'd sacrificed her love life for her career.

It was called ambition.

It was also called eight years later and no career
or
boyfriend to speak of.

Almost on cue, Mr. and Mrs. Rai walked up to the restaurant.

Raveena's father, as usual, was dressed in a three-piece suit, silk handkerchief visible in a neat triangle in his breast pocket. If he could, he would wear a three-piece suit every day of his life.

He also liked wearing women's perfume, but this was neither the time nor the place to go into that.

This time the suit was charcoal gray, the tie and handkerchief were burgundy, and the scent was Opium, if she wasn't mistaken.

Her mother was dressed in an elegant gold sari. Her shoulder-length hair was loose, and a stunning gold and pearl choker graced her slender neck. Matching chandelier earrings dangled from her small ears. She was a beauty.

People had often told Raveena that she looked like her mother, and she supposed it was true, but with some very discernible differences. Her mother was barely an inch over five feet and slender as a willow.

At five-six, Raveena was sturdy as an oak. Raveena's shoe size was also five sizes bigger than her mother's, which made walking around in stiletto heels a form of torture not condemned by the United Nations.

Meanwhile, her mother's tiny feet would have made a nineteenth-century Chinese noblewoman drool with envy.

Yes, her parents were different.

And not just because they were committed curry consumers.

First of all, Raveena's father came from a very devout Sikh family, yet his parents chose to name him Bob. Raveena's mother was Hindu and named Leela after a famous Indian actress who happened to kill herself by downing a bottle
of Johnny Walker and jumping off the tallest building in Bombay.

Then again, Raveena's elder brother Rahul always said they were just your typical Indian immigrant family.

Speaking of Rahul, Raveena suddenly wished he were joining them tonight. Rahul was in international banking and had been promoted from the Manhattan office to Brussels. She'd stayed with him last summer and met his girlfriend, Brigitta, who cooed endearments to Rahul in Flemish.

Rahul was four years older than Raveena, and she honestly believed her parents would have refused to let her major in theater arts if it weren't for him. Because by the time she was ready for college, Bob and Leela were under the blissful delusion that their one and only daughter would be studying accounting.

Please don't ask her where they got that idea!

When they realized Raveena wanted to forgo accounting for acting, they didn't just hit the roof, they demolished it.

Rahul—about to graduate summa cum laude from Stanford—flew to Orange County and sat the Rai family down for a talk. He explained to their parents that acting was his sister's dream and she would be unhappy doing anything else.

They were unmoved and unimpressed. Bob stared pointedly at his watch.

Rahul then pointed out that as an investment banker he would see to Raveena's financial security if the need should arise.

Their parents visibly thawed.

Rahul then winked at Raveena and added that he would
be sure to introduce his equally successful fellow banker friends to his little sister.

The tension in the room broke and slowly disappeared. Although for some reason their father continued to stare at his watch.

In that moment, Raveena felt like she'd won the sibling lottery.

Bob was hungry, so they entered the restaurant and followed the statuesque blond to their table. Raveena couldn't resist a small thrill of satisfaction. They were at Mantra—a hip new LA restaurant that specialized in Indian-Californian fusion cuisine. Because her last name wasn't Coppola, she'd had to book the table three weeks in advance.

Still brimming with bubbles of satisfaction, Raveena smiled at the blond.

The blond did not return it.

This was Santa Monica. The waiters and waitresses all had headshots. And customer service was not listed on their resumes.

Determined to enjoy the night, Raveena sat down and kept the smile on her face with all the determination of a beauty pageant contestant. Tonight was her mother's birthday. They were celebrating.

Though based on past experiences out to dinner with her family, she reflected that the only people who'd really be celebrating were the ones at the other tables.

Leela gracefully adjusted the folds of her sari and gazed around. Suddenly her nose began wrinkling furiously like a rabid bunny. “What is that smell?”

Raveena took a sniff. “Curry powder I think.”

Her mother raised an elegant eyebrow. “You think I don't know what curry powder smells like?”

Okay, Raveena was seriously doubting her choice of restaurant. What on Earth had made her think her parents would like Mantra?

The fact that there were more Indian artifacts lining the restaurant walls than in the entire state of Punjab? Or perhaps it was how the number of gauzy glittery scarves draped around the tables could easily outfit several dozen harems?

And did they really need to be situated so close to the sitar player?

Speaking of the musician, he had a mane of curly brown hair and began strumming the sitar version of a Jessica Simpson song. Bob indiscreetly covered his ears.

The waiter appeared and Raveena decided it was time to take advantage of Mantra's fully stocked bar.

“Double vodka martini,” she said.

Her mother stared until Raveena felt tiny pinpricks of maternal disapproval penetrate the top layer of her skin. “You drink too much,” Leela scolded.

“No I don't.”

That was pretty much the end of their discussion.

For the next few moments, her father quietly sipped his merlot, her mother quietly fumed, and Raveena quietly decided the evening was going far better than planned.

The silence was short-lived as Leela set down the menu and frowned. “Why did we have to come all the way to LA? I could have cooked dinner for us.”

“Because it's your birthday, Mom,” Raveena said. The idea is for you to get out and have some fun. This place is happening. We'll probably see some celebrities.”

Leela's interest perked. “Like Paul Newman?”

“Ah, I don't really think it's his scene, but Leonardo DiCaprio has been spotted regularly.”

She snorted. “That little boy from
Titanic
? He looks like a woman.”

Leela didn't have a hankering for actors, unless they were of the Bollywood variety. Bollywood—for those not in the know—is the popular term used to describe the Indian film industry. Bombay plus Hollywood equals Bollywood.

Then again, she supposed the word was debatable considering the name of the city had officially been changed from Bombay to Mumbai in 1997.

Mumbollywood didn't exactly roll off the tongue.

Not that it mattered. Most of the world continued to refer to the city as Bombay.

The waiter was hovering near the table, so Raveena cracked open the menu with determination. “I'm having the prawn curry. Mom?”

Frowning, Leela peered at the menu. “These dishes are weird. Tandoori pizza? Tofu curry? This isn't Indian food.” As if to illustrate her point, she began examining the plates of poppadum and bowls of chutney on the table with suspicion.

Trying to ignore her mother's scowling face, Raveena turned to her father. “What do you feel like, Dad? The lamb here is really good.”

Bob smoothed the ends of his mustache and cleared his throat. “Are we talking New Zealand lamb? That's the best. If the lamb here came from China, I'm not touching it. I'd rather eat shit.”

Raveena was spared from asking her father if he'd like a
salad with that when her cell phone began to ring. She dug it out of her purse. “Hello?”

“Raveena, doll, it's Griffin.”

“Who's calling?” Leela demanded.

“My agent,” Raveena whispered.

“I want to talk to him. Why isn't he setting you up with Spielberg and that nice Indian boy who made the movie about ghosts?”

She meant M. Night Shyamalan, director of
The Sixth Sense
.

Call her crazy, but Raveena didn't think putting her mother on the phone with her agent was a good idea.

Griffin persisted. “Raveena? Hello? Are you listening?”

She looked over at her parents who, instead of looking at each other, were watching the diners at the next table.

Maybe it was a good time for her mother to begin opening presents.

“Look, Griffin,” she said quickly. “I'll call you back. I'm in the middle of—”

His voice rose in volume. “We can't talk later. We're talking leading role here! We're talking major film! You're up for it! In fact, you're perfect for it!”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Close your mouth, Raveena,” her mother scolded. “Otherwise, you look slow.”

Raveena turned away and pressed the cell phone close to her ear. Excitement began to thud inside her. “A leading role?” It couldn't be. After all these years…“Who's the director? The producer?”

“Randy Kapoor is producing and directing,” Griffin said.

She was puzzled. “Randy? I've never heard of him.”
Raveena thought she knew all the Hollywood players of Indian descent. She belonged to a group called the South Asian Representation Society or SARS.

Sidenote: They existed before the global disease.

She jogged her memory. “Oh wait. Is this the guy with Buddha Tree Productions? The one making the Tibetan film with Richard Gere?”

Visions of co-starring with the gorgeous Gere swirled through her head, and she nearly floated out of her chair with giddiness.

Griffin cleared his throat. “Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. This isn't a Hollywood film.”

“Sorry?”

“It's Bollywood.”

She promptly fell back to Earth. “Bollywood?” she shrieked.

“Bollywood?” Her father echoed.

Leela's eyes lit up and she smiled for the first time all night. “Bollywood?”

Maybe Raveena had just given her mother the birthday present of a lifetime.

After dinner Raveena returned in a daze to her small Santa
Monica condo.

She parked her Toyota Prius—the hybrid of choice for all Hollywood types—and let herself in.

Pouring a vodka and Red Bull, she retreated to the living room—a mere three steps—and curled up in her favorite purple velvet chair.

Staring at the praline-colored walls, decorated with framed posters of her favorite movies like
Roman Holiday, The Godfather
and
Raiders of the Lost Ark,
she thought about the Bollywood offer.

Bollywood.

Even as a kid she hadn't been able to stand watching Indian movies.

The bloodstains on the heroes' clothes always looked like ketchup. The heroines wore too much makeup. And just when you thought you'd finally figured out how the hero could possibly leap across an entire row of supply trucks in
his white loafers with three-inch heels, the entire cast would abruptly break into a song-and-dance sequence.

Leela—an avowed Bollywood fanatic—didn't appreciate her daughter's continuous critical commentary and pointed out that some of Raveena's favorite movies were musicals like
Grease, The Sound of Music
and
Moulin Rouge
.

Raveena's response was to thrust out her pelvis and begin shaking her hips in imitation of the Bollywood babes on screen.

Before tonight, Raveena would have thought Bollywood had as much relevance to her world as the Kabbalah did to a devout Muslim.

Downing her drink, she rinsed the glass and placed it in the dishwasher. Then it was time to begin her nightly ministrations.

Securing her hair with a headband, she sat down in front of her bedroom dresser and began removing her makeup. She followed that up with a sugar-based exfoliating scrub.

A tedious ritual and one she'd only just begun.

Sometimes Raveena wanted to say to hell with it and jump into bed, face dirty, teeth un-flossed, but then a vision of Angelina Jolie or Kate Winslet would surface in her head, and she'd remember the stars she was up against.

So, as she battled dead skin cells and misbehaving pores, she went over the remaining details Griffin had filled her in on after her mother's excited outburst at the restaurant.

There was one aspect that had startled her most:

No audition.

She couldn't believe there was no audition for the role.
Only people like Meryl Streep and Robert De Niro (known as Bob in the biz) had roles hand delivered to them.

Not Raveena Rai.

But apparently the director, Randy Kapoor, while in Singapore attending an international Bollywood awards show, had seen a commercial she'd starred in.

The commercial was for a super-absorbent Japanese tampon the length and width of a toothpick.

The Vagitsu.

Don't visualize it.

Two years before, India had won the Miss Globe crown—similar to the Miss Universe title—for the first time. Indian fever struck Japan, and the Vagitsu Company had approached Miss Globe to star in its ad campaign.

She declined.

Apparently, Miss Globe did not want to embarrass her traditional Indian family by appearing in a tampon commercial.

Raveena had no such qualms.

After an international casting call, she was flown first class to Tokyo, put up in a five-star hotel and spent a week on a set that was straight out of Mira Nair's
Kama Sutra
. For seven days she wore a number of gauzy outfits, shot sultry looks into the camera, and was paid more money than she'd ever seen in her life.

For her efforts, she also received a lifetime supply of the Vagitsu.

Truly a fabulous product and now the number one tampon in all of Asia.

FDA approval is still pending in the United States.

Anyway, thanks to that commercial, which was still
running, Raveena was able to afford a trendy one-bedroom condo in Santa Monica instead of a cockroach-infested studio in North Hollywood,
and
get presented with a Bollywood acting offer on a silver platter.

All without auditioning.

Speaking of the role, she only had a brief sketch of the story. It revolved around an American girl of Indian heritage who grows up without a father. It's only when her mother is on her deathbed that the heroine discovers her father is very much alive and living in a small village in India.

Before the heroine can react, the mother offers up another deathbed confession. The father has no idea that his daughter even exists. The mother then conveniently—for the storyline—dies. The heroine, who has never been to India, ends up hopping a plane determined to find her father.

No mention of whether she gets her malaria shots or not.

Of course, after three days in India she realizes there's more than one village in the country. So she hires a tour guide, the hero. The hero and heroine begin their journey across India looking for dear lost Daddy, slowly falling in love and facing many adventures and sticky situations along the way. One of which involves a nasty-tempered camel and multiple molestations by a monkey.

When the heroine finally reunites with her father, there is much singing and much crying, as the old man is also on his deathbed. However, finding out that he has a daughter gives him the will to live.

Raveena could play the role in her sleep.

Beauty routine finally over, she threw on her favorite
pink cotton nightshirt, slipped in between the sheets and closed her eyes.

Call her crazy, but she couldn't decide what to do.

Bollywood was so…far.

It was time to talk this over with her friends.