Fifteen Lanes (20 page)

Vijender came round the car and again held out his hand to me. This time I didn’t let my nerves show. I shook it and politely introduced him to Parvati.

“Pleased to meet you, Parvati,” he said. “Will you be joining us today?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by
joining him
, since we were just going to sit in a local café.

“Hi, Noor,” said Grace. “It’s nice to see you again.”

I was reassured to have the same good feeling about her as before.

Aamaal raced over from the rubbish heap and leaped on VJ Patel. She must have recognized him from billboards or TV commercials. I would have smacked her for her boldness if we’d been alone.

“Hello,” laughed VJ, pretending he liked nothing better
than little girls leaping onto his back. He pranced around in a circle for a moment and whinnied like a horse. It was funny and got us through the awkwardness, but she was still going to get a scolding later.

“And who might you be, young sir?” asked VJ, speaking in Hindi to Shami, who had just woken up.

“Shami,” said Shami. He wasn’t impressed by film stars.

“Would you like to climb aboard as well?” asked VJ, leaning toward us.

Shami shook his head and stuck his thumb in his mouth. I pulled it out and kept hold of his hand as I knew he’d just stick it back in.

“So, shall we be off?” VJ gestured toward the gleaming car.

“Off where?” asked Parvati suspiciously.

“Bollywood, of course. We were told to expose Noor to new experiences, so what better place to start than the epicenter of this great city of ours?”

“He wants to show you where his dad works,” said Grace. “Don’t worry. If it’s boring we’ll do something else.”

“Of course,” agreed VJ grandly. “Your wishes are my command.”

“I cannot go,” I said. “I must look after my brother and sister.”

“Bring them along. Don’t tell me they wouldn’t like to see a real Bollywood soundstage.”

“I want to go to Bollywood,” said Aamaal, pounding VJ on the back.

“Feisty,” said VJ. “I like that in a girl.”

I gave him a look, which meant
Don’t try anything with my sister
. He smiled innocently. Normally that would only have deepened my suspicions, but I felt strangely reassured. VJ might be a foolish boy but he didn’t look at us the way I was used to
men staring in Kamathipura, like they wanted to eat us up.

“We could go, Noor,” said Parvati in Kannada, so even Vijender was excluded from our discussion. “Your ma won’t miss you for hours.”

I tried to hide my surprise. It was the first thing she’d shown interest in since the attack.

“Someone might tell.” I glanced down the street. Adit was still watching. If he told Ma I’d gone off with foreigners there’d be no end of trouble.

Parvati looked away, but I caught the flash of disappointment.

“Can you meet us on Bhatti Road?” I asked Vijender. The main road was far enough away that at least Adit wouldn’t see us getting into the car.

“No problem,” he said.

The car was cold when we climbed in a few minutes later. I pulled Shami onto my lap, though there was space for him to have his own seat, and wrapped my arms around him. He seemed more tired these days. He was often asleep when I got home from school and had no interest in playing. Every evening, he fell asleep right after dinner and rarely stirred till morning, even if I was having a disrupted night finding us a safe place to sleep. Sometimes, when I was holding him like this, it felt as though his chest wasn’t rising at all. At times like that I squeezed him hard, until he squirmed, so I could go back to knowing he was alive.

At every traffic light, beggars tapped at our windows. For the first few lights I looked closely to see if it was someone I knew. After a while I realized we were too far from Kamathipura, so I did what the foreigners did and tried not to look at them at all. I still heard them though—
tap, tap, tap
. They must have
thought I was rich, riding in a car like that. I wanted to lower my window and explain. I had a few rupees in my pocket for lunch. I was tempted to hand it over, which would have been foolish. It would only have gone to their gang boss, and then how would I have fed Shami and Aamaal? The foreigners talked the whole trip, as if the beggars were just part of the landscape, like garbage and stray dogs.

Gradually, we left the heavily populated part of the city and entered an area that was a mix of small settlements and open spaces. Whistling Wind Studios was on the very edge of Mumbai, in the forested foothills. As we passed through ornate iron gates and headed down a long, winding road, I watched intently for leopards and monkeys. All I saw was what must have been movie sets. There were huge mansions, covered in scaffolding and platforms; a town that was only storefronts; an arid patch of sand, with a few bristly plants that had arm-like branches sticking straight up. Scattered throughout were large, square, windowless buildings pasted with gigantic movie posters. It was interesting, but I would have preferred to see a leopard.

We pulled up to another gate and were waved through by a guard. He saluted to us, as if we were important. Parvati clutched my arm. I think she was regretting our decision to come.

We stopped outside a long, two-story, sparkling white building. It didn’t have any paint missing at all, and there were lots of windows with glass in them and no shutters or metal bars. The windows were so clean and so much light poured into the building that you could see the people inside going about their business.

Shami slept during the drive but woke up when I lifted him out of the car. Two women were standing in front of the building. They rushed forward and hugged VJ. One called him
“Darling.” He put his arm around her but his eyes were cold when he turned to us and introduced her.

“You all recognize Vanita Kapoor, don’t you? Rising starlet and the leading lady in my father’s new movie.”

“Not the leading lady, darling,” she purred in a sex-me voice that sounded as false as any I’d heard at home. “Your wicked father only gave me a tiny part.”

We heard the approach of VJ’s father even before he came into view. Sanjay Patel was surrounded by a crowd of people, all competing to be noticed, yet he strode along as though he didn’t even see them. It was the same way the foreigners had acted with the beggars outside the car window. I wondered if rich people all had this ability of not seeing.

VJ’s father had his eyes fixed on the beautiful young film star clinging to his son. He seemed far more interested in her than VJ, who stood rigidly, making no pretense of enjoying her attention. I wondered if it was just this girl VJ didn’t like, despite her beauty, or if perhaps girls were not his preference.

There were plenty of boys in our neighborhood, working alongside Ma and the Aunties, who served the men who preferred other men. VJ had been friendly to us, without being the least bit aggressive, just like these boys always were. It would be rash to let down my guard but I didn’t feel threatened around VJ like I did around most boys.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, clapping one hand on VJ’s shoulder and the other on the starlet’s back. “On the set barely a minute and already he’s in the arms of a beautiful woman. Be careful of him, girls. My boy’s a heartbreaker.”

“You’ve broken more than a few hearts yourself,” said VJ.

VJ’s father loaded all of us, including the starlet, into a bus, saying he had a surprise waiting on a neighboring set. VJ was uncharacteristically grim-faced and subdued. He clearly wasn’t a fan of his father’s surprises.

We drove a few minutes back down the road and turned into a parking lot in front of a building that looked every bit like a palace out of the Raj era. A dozen or so people waiting in the lot surged forward, surrounding us the second we alighted from the bus.

“Stop,” said VJ’s father. “I haven’t told them the surprise yet.” He turned to us. “You’re all going to be in my movie. These people will take you to costume and makeup.”

He paused for a response. I glanced nervously at Noor, not sure how she’d feel about all this attention.

“They’re a little shy,” said VJ. “Being in a movie is a bit much for their first outing.”

“Nonsense,” said his father. “Wait till they see the costumes.” He said something in Hindi to Noor and Parvati.

It was Aamaal who answered. I wasn’t sure what she said but everyone laughed.

“I guess we’re making a movie, then,” said VJ, ruffling Aamaal’s hair. Noor immediately stepped between them and put a hand on Aamaal’s shoulder.

We were led away by a group of women to a large dressing room. There was a rack of gowns in the center, couches along one wall and mirrored dressing tables along the other. One of our entourage directed us to the couches while they searched for our sizes.

I sat next to Noor, with the little ones on her other side and Parvati at the far end. A woman approached with a shimmering length of fabric over her arm and a gold-sequined blouse.

“This would be perfect for you, darling,” she said, holding it out to me. “We just need to get you out of those clothes.”

I was so busy sweating over the possibility that we might be required to say lines that getting undressed hadn’t even occurred to me. I felt as though my wounds were suddenly giving off heat. I cupped one hand over my thigh.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper, “but I’d rather just watch.”

“We can’t have that,” said the woman firmly. “Mr. Patel will be disappointed.”

“I don’t want to,” I said more forcefully.

“Don’t be shy. We’re all girls here.”

“I’ll try it.” Noor stood up and reached for the blouse.

“It’s too big for you,” said the woman, holding the ensemble just out of Noor’s reach.

She didn’t count on Parvati, who leaped up and snatched it out of her hands. The woman made a dive to retrieve it but she was no match for Parvati, who easily ducked away, a triumphant gleam in her eye.

“Grace is feeling sick,” Noor said firmly.

She couldn’t have known how accurate her assertion was.

Costumes were brought for the others, including the cutest little maharaja suit for Shami, complete with turban and golden dagger.

Makeup followed. Only Aamaal reveled in the attention, insisting on false eyelashes in addition to the mascara and eyeliner. She chortled with delight at sparkly green eye shadow and everyone joined in when she demanded Shami must wear it as well.

“She’s going to be a star when she grows up,” commented one of the makeup artists, admiring Aamaal in the mirror as she brushed her hair.

“Is your mum a model, hon?” asked the makeup artist who was working on Noor. Obviously, VJ’s father hadn’t told them anything.

“She’s a housewife,” Noor said, “but she’s also a great beauty.”

“You should tell her to get a screen test for your sister.”

Finally they brought out the jewelry. The chief costume lady held up an ornate necklace that she said had been designed by a famous jeweler to match a genuine period piece. Though the emeralds and rubies were fake and it was only gold plate, she claimed it had cost well over eight hundred dollars to commission and would sell for a good deal more. Parvati, who’d shown little interest in the clothing and makeup, perked up considerably at the sight of the necklace and listened carefully
as the woman described its value. She squabbled with Aamaal over which of them should wear it. Noor stepped in and decided in Parvati’s favor.

In the end, with all the preparations complete, the four of them looked as though they’d fit right into a maharaja’s court. I followed as they walked confidently down the long hall, built to look like a throne room. Mr. Patel, sumptuously costumed, was seated on a throne at the far end. VJ stood off to one side looking decidedly out of place. It wasn’t just that he was still in his jeans and T-shirt, it was his angry expression as he watched his father chat with a gaggle of women simpering around him. He raced over as soon as he caught sight of us and scooped Shami up into his arms.

“You look great, little man,” he said. “He should have come in riding a horse though. Where are the horses, Papa?” he shouted back to his father.

His father got up and came over to join us. “They’re tethered out back where they always are. When VJ was little he always begged to come to work with me. I was never sure if it was me or the horses he really loved.” He chuckled as he clapped a hand on VJ’s shoulder. VJ casually slipped out of his grasp and walked away, carrying Shami.

Mr. Patel watched his son take Shami to the throne and set him down. “He was always a kind little boy,” he said. A look of infinite sadness crossed his face. He quickly replaced it with a mask of good humor.

“So, let’s get started, shall we?” VJ’s father said. “My word.” He bent down to Aamaal. “Don’t you look lovely.”

A director materialized and the next hour sped by as they shot several takes of a crowd scene. Aamaal loved all the pageantry,
and her excitement was infectious. Shami made everyone laugh as he trundled around in his finery earnestly saying the lines he was fed. He was, without a doubt, the best-natured four-year-old I’d ever met. I was almost sorry when the director called a wrap and we headed back to the dressing room.