Murder in Bollywood (2 page)

At the other end of town, in Mumbai's tony suburb of Bandra at exactly the same time, the sea-facing stretch of road called Bandstand lay besieged by an army of so-called status-symbol cars, each one more expensive than the other and all of them honking at the same time to get ahead—all headed for The Crown Palace Hotel, the city's grandest seven-star property, overlooking a battered old fort along the Arabian Sea. The area around the hotel's entrance, just before the lobby, was a beehive of activity, with reporters and camerapersons from various news and entertainment channels, along with the press and paparazzi, camped out there since earlier that night, just to get one glimpse of superstar Mallika Kapoor, Bollywood's long-time reigning queen who was due to arrive any minute to unveil the newest masterpiece by Swiss luxury watchmaker Viktor Van Zant, of which she was the brand ambassador. It was in celebration of this event that The Crown Palace's grand ballroom was teeming with a host of Page Three regulars, socialites and celebrities, who nibbled on hors d'oeuvres, and sipped champagne, while alert police personnel with trained sniffer dogs on hand examined each and every vehicle which approached the hotel's main gate. Then, a little before eleven, a flawless white Bentley, accompanied by four SUVs full of bodyguards, entered through the hotel's main gate and made its way towards the entrance; the pace was slow on account of all the traffic ahead. The moment they saw the car approach, the media scrum let out a deafening roar and the very next second a sea of flashbulbs descended upon the luxury sedan from all sides as it halted right in front of the red carpet, even as the accompanying bodyguards charged out of their SUVs, pushing and shoving with all their might to keep the mob at bay. Then, as if on cue, the back door of the Bentley swung open ever so slowly, to reveal a raven-haired figure in an evening gown of shimmering gold, with a beauty so ethereal and immense that its glow outshone that blinding man-made light which encircled and engulfed and threatened to swallow her whole. But in all fairness, to accomplish such a feat was a walk in the park for the hazel-eyed Mallika Kapoor, for Bollywood's greatest-ever heroine had enjoyed that effect on all things for a good decade. As she stepped on to the red carpet to make her way towards the lobby, all hell broke loose as cameramen and photographers yelled at and jostled each other violently to get as close to her as they possibly could for that one perfect close-up, while her trusted bodyguards formed around her a protective ring, moving her forward as they pushed their way through the frenzied crowd, escorting her unharmed into the hotel, where she was joined by four of her longest-serving sentinels, even as the rest of her posse stayed put outside. As Mallika entered The Crown Palace's lobby of glass and marble, her long-time secretary, Ram Prasad Tiwari, who had reached the hotel a couple of hours earlier, got up from his seat hurriedly to greet her. Under normal circumstances, the ever-efficient Tiwari would have made sure that he received Mallika madam the moment she stepped out of her car, instead of hanging around in the lobby like some ‘laat saheb', waiting for her to walk in through the front door—that was something he found both unprofessional and downright disrespectful. But on that particular night, Tiwari had abandoned his much-vaunted professional code, out of fear of the camera-wielding hooligans, who had gathered outside in full strength waiting for Mallika to show up; the mere sight of that legion badly affected his unnaturally timid disposition, causing his stomach to churn so violently that it left him shivering—he felt queasy and nauseous all at once. When Mallika finally arrived, along with her entourage, and all hell broke loose, Tiwari thanked his stars that he had had the good sense to stay indoors, for deep down in his heart he seriously believed that someone as weak and puny as himself would have been crushed like an egg had he been caught in the midst of that melee. However, by the time Mallika had entered the hotel, Tiwari was his old efficient self again, evident from the manner in which he ran over to her with the utmost urgency in order to brief her on the evening's itinerary.

‘The unveiling is in exactly fifteen minutes,' Tiwari explained, leading Mallika towards the ballroom. ‘Then there will be a brief press conference in which you will have to say something nice about Viktor Van Zant watches and how they epitomize the independent and successful Indian woman of today. After that, you will wear the watch they present you and pose with it for a couple of pictures. Then you will be joined by Mr Marcus Van Zant, who is the CEO . . .'

‘I need to go up to my suite to powder my nose. Tell them I'll be down in about thirty minutes,' Mallika suddenly said, cutting him mid-sentence.

‘But there's no need. You're looking great. In fact, you're looking better than great,' Tiwari reassured her.

‘I said I need to powder my nose. Tell them I will be down in thirty minutes,' Mallika firmly reiterated, then turned towards the elevator.

‘I know exactly what powder you use, Mallika, and believe me, it's not going to do your complexion any good,' Tiwari replied with uncharacteristic candour.

‘Listen, Tiwari, you might be my husband's best friend-cum-secretary, but to me you're just a secretary. Always keep this in mind and do exactly as you're told, otherwise I can always find someone else to take your place,' Mallika shot back angrily.

‘Well, Mallika, it's good to see that you are finally coming out with what's really on your mind,' Tiwari smiled and said. ‘Did you seriously think I wouldn't come to know about the meetings you've had with Shanaya Raichand behind my back? Did you think I wouldn't hear that she's starting her own talent management agency, and you've verbally agreed to become one of her clients? Mallika, you and I go back ten long years. During all this time, I've worked hard for you. I've always been loyal and I've always looked out for your best interests. Then why, Mallika, why? Why are you treating me this way? After all these years, what have I done to deserve this?' Tiwari questioned, moved to tears.

‘I am tired, Tivs. I am just very tired,' she replied. ‘I am tired of doing the same old things day in and day out. I am tired of seeing the same old faces around me all the time. Heck, I am even tired of being the same old person. What I want is a change, Tivs. I want everything around me to change. I want to reinvent myself and start afresh, because if I don't, I fear I will stagnate, and others will race ahead of me. You understand where I am coming from, don't you, Tivs? You will support me on this, won't you?' Mallika asked wistfully, gently touching his face.

‘Sure, Mallika, I understand. I understand everything. I understand that this place isn't the Hindi film industry any more. It's called Bollywood these days. And in Bollywood, the days of star secretaries are over. Today, it's all about management agencies and high-profile business managers doing whatever it takes to turn the star into a brand and the brand into a money-making machine. So I understand that a plodder like myself, who ran around collecting your instalments from producers and maintaining your date diary, has today become obsolete. But don't worry, I will survive. Nikhil will never leave me. Shanaya Raichand made him the same offer she made you and he turned her down. That's loyalty. Your husband, the great Nikhil Kapoor, taught you everything you know. It's a pity he didn't teach you this. Now run along and powder your nose. I'll go tell them you'll be thirty minutes late. But try not to use too much powder, my dear. It could be the death of you one day,' Tiwari stated bluntly, unafraid for the very first time, and then simply walked away in the direction of the ballroom, while Mallika looked on silently, stunned, no doubt, by her secretary's tone and choice of words.

At exactly eleven, Mallika entered her suite on the twenty-fifth floor, accompanied by her bodyguards, who immediately conducted a thorough search of the place to make sure it was secure, after which they stood guard in the corridor, closing the door behind them, leaving the superstar all by herself in the Egyptian-themed living room, decorated with exquisite silk, entirely in ebony and gold. ‘You've come a long way, baby. Right to the top,' Mallika told herself, staring out of the window overlooking the sea and the narrow stretch of road, at the dozens of cars still making their way into the hotel, which, from where she stood, seemed more like ants or similar insignificant things, moving forward in a single file, as if towards a destination far greater than themselves. Once she had tired of that view, Mallika turned around and went over to the suite's state-of-the-art music system and rummaged through the tall rack of CDs lying right next to it, until one particular album, titled 70s' Disco Hits, caught her fancy; she popped it into the player and turned up the volume. As the strains of Gloria Gaynor's
I Will Survive
erupted over the speakers, Mallika kicked off her stilettos and danced to its rhythm with gay abandon, singing along at the top of her voice; then she popped open the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling close at hand and poured herself a glass. ‘You played a dangerous game all your life, you naughty girl. It had to catch up with you some day. Why, Manjeet? Why can't you just let it go? I beg you, Manjeet, please let it go . . .' Mallika, suddenly sombre, whispered to herself, then sipped her champagne. It seemed that a terrifying thought from which she was trying to escape had made its way back into her mind. Just a few feet away on the living room's centre table lay Mallika's evening clutch. She went over to it and opened it with an excited tremble in her hands, removing from inside a mother-of-pearl-encrusted cigarette case, at which she stared with her eyes shining bright, as if it contained a magic potion which would make all her troubles disappear just like that.

Meanwhile, exactly at that moment, a fresh-faced college boy named Lucky got out of his chauffeur-driven BMW, talking loudly on his cellphone, and entered The Crown Palace Hotel, where he promptly disappeared into the men's room. Once inside, Lucky removed his crisp white shirt to reveal a black waistcoat concealed underneath, which he wore on top of his shirt this time around. After this, he reached into the pocket of his jet-black trousers and removed from it a necktie of the same colour, wearing it around his collar immaculately. Having completed these tasks, Lucky admired himself in the mirror, nodding appreciatively, secure in the knowledge that phase one of his plan had been accomplished, which was entering the hotel and dressing up as one of the waiters of the ballroom, where the watch launch was taking place. Thoroughly chuffed with his transformation, Lucky got out of the men's room and headed straight for the ballroom to put the second and final phase of his plan into action, which was to crash the party disguised as a waiter in order to get close enough to superstar Mallika Kapoor—so that just for one evening he could be in the same space as she, for the lady was indeed the woman of his dreams. In fact, so besotted was Lucky with Mallika that the idea of hanging around in the hotel lobby like a regular fan and getting his picture clicked with her the moment she arrived was simply unacceptable, as that would be a meeting which would last for just a second, whereas he wanted it to last a whole lot longer; that was why he had devised such an elaborate scheme. Why, even the chauffeur-driven BMW, which he hired for the evening to make a grand entry, was an integral component of his plan, as was talking loudly on his cellphone while entering the hotel lobby, as these two acts made him come across as important and moneyed, which helped him blend in with the city's elite, enabling him to rise above suspicion and scrutiny. As Lucky entered the jam-packed ballroom, he felt a nervous chill run down his spine, followed by a deep, foreboding of personal danger, on account of the sudden realization that his elaborate charade could fail and the ramifications would be disastrous. Terrified by the thought of this possibility coming to, Lucky stood rooted to the spot, staring at the distinguished gathering like a deer caught in the headlights, not knowing whether to move forward or turn back. Precisely at that moment, he felt a tap on his shoulder and, as he turned around, he saw Mr Roiston Francis, The Crown Palace's seniormost waiter, standing before him, who gave Lucky a firm reprimand for admiring the celebrities in attendance instead of doing his job; he then handed him a trolley laden with spectacular food, along with a set of key instructions which made all of Lucky's dreams come true. ‘Take this to Mallika madam in the presidential suite. Her secretary, Mr Tiwari, had instructed that a light meal be served to her exactly fifteen minutes before she comes downstairs for the unveiling. It is common knowledge that Mallika madam never dines in public,' Roiston informed snootily, and then proceeded to explain what each item on the trolley was exactly. ‘Over here we have the
crema di patate ed erbette selvatiche
. Right next to it is the
insalata caprese rivisitata alla moda del mostro chef
. Then there is the
carpaccio di menzo, pinzimonio
,
pesto
,
d'erbe e mascarpone
and finally, we have the
filletti di triqlia con belga all'arancia e rosmarino
. And for dessert, there's
zabaglione e amaratti
,
zuppa inglese
and chef Luigi's signature
torta cioccolato
.' Roiston rattled off the names of all these delicacies in an accent which would have made even the staunchest Italian proud, even mentioning as an afterthought that Italian was Mallika madam's favourite cuisine. He then put his arm around Lucky and dragged him with his trolley towards the service elevator, issuing some last-minute diktats along the way. ‘Now, remember, when you lay the food out in front of Mallika madam, you must explain to her each and every dish just as I have explained it to you. After this, you will make a polite inquiry if madam wishes to be served. If she answers in the negative, you will bid her bon appétit and exit the room without turning your back towards madam, as it is considered rude and not in the tradition of The Crown Palace Hotel. However, if madam wishes that she be served, you will do so in courses, beginning with the crema di patate, followed by the insalata, then the carpaccio and finally, the filletti, after which, you will serve the torta, the zuppa and the zabaglione in that order. But keep in mind to serve each and every dish in bite-size portions, more like a selection of salty and sweet amuse-bouches, as Mallika madam never eats more than a spoonful or two of anything. Also, remember that under no circumstances are you to start a conversation of any kind with madam; so any talk about you being her biggest fan, or telling her how much you enjoyed her last film, or even asking for her autograph will get you sacked on the spot. And just so that you know, the time is twelve minutes past eleven which gives you exactly three minutes to deliver Mallika madam's dinner to her suite, for at The Crown Palace Hotel, we take great pride in our punctuality.' Roiston beamed, then bundled Lucky into the elevator. Standing all alone in that metal cubicle, Lucky was in a tizzy, not on account of his impending rendezvous with Mallika Kapoor, but because of all those instructions and hard-core Italian food names which Roiston had fired at him at breakneck speed the moment he entered the ballroom. In fact, even the array of beautifully plated dishes lying on the trolley before him didn't make any sense, as Lucky's understanding of Italian cuisine began and ended with spaghetti in white sauce, served with a side order of garlic bread, followed by the ever-popular sizzling brownie with vanilla ice cream and hot-chocolate sauce, which, as his friendly neighbourhood eatery would call it, was an authentic Italian dessert. As Lucky stood scratching his head, trying to comprehend chef Luigi's culinary brilliance, the elevator abandoned its ascent and its doors parted with a sharp metallic clink, as if to announce that the twenty-fifth floor had arrived. At the end of the corridor to his left was the presidential suite, its door guarded by four impossibly large men wearing dark grey safari suits, staring in his direction ominously. Lucky took a deep breath and moved forward pushing the trolley as he whistled a popular tune in a deliberate effort to display great normalcy and calm, the absence of which would expose his frightened inner self and give the game away.