Authors: Vikas Swarup
Ram Dulari gave a flawless performance once again, not
showing any nerves when facing twenty thousand screaming
fans. Seeing her receive my award, I felt the same pride in
her that Michelangelo must have felt in David, Leonardo da
Vinci in Mona Lisa and Nabokov in Lolita. It was the thrill
of an artist who sees his creation come to life. But the thrill
I received was greater than that of any painter or writer,
because my creation was much more than a sterile
collection of words or a blotch of colour on a canvas. It was
living flesh, not dead marble – thinking, breathing, moving
protoplasm. It was imbued with the vitality and fluency of
life, which all art aspires to but can never replicate.
'We have seen who is the biggest star of them all,' the
anchor said as the camera panned over thousands of fans
chanting, 'Shabnam . . . Shabnam.' 'This appears to be the
year of Shabnam Saxena, who is looking younger and more
beautiful than she has ever looked,' the anchor continued.
'She has already shown her versatility by winning the award
for Best Actress in a Negative Role. And she appears set to
win many more laurels and conquer many more hearts in
the years to come.' The fans went into a frenzy as Ram
Dulari signed an autograph on the chest of a teenage boy
whose T-shirt proclaimed 'I ♥ Shabbo' and the broadcast
went into a momentary freeze-frame.
The Master said, 'Experience, as a desire for experience,
does not come off. We must not study ourselves while
having an experience.' Watching that freeze frame of mine, I
discerned what he meant.
I had suddenly been freed from the mask of celebrity,
the mask 'which eats into the face'. For the first time I
could watch myself without the psychological baggage of
watching myself. I revelled in seeing my popularity from the
outside, as it were. It was a strange kind of thrill, like an
out-of-body experience without leaving the body.
Tonight Ram Dulari had liberated Shabnam Saxena.
Ram Dulari and Bhola returned at one a.m.
'Well done, Ram Dulari, you didn't miss a step. You
were perfect. I am really proud of you,' I beamed at her.
Ram Dulari gazed at me. 'So,
didi
, when are you going
to teach me acting?' she asked.
I couldn't believe my ears. Was she out of her mind? I
immediately put on my angry-teacher expression, the one I
use when dealing with unruly fans.
'Just because you look like me doesn't mean you can act
like me, Ram Dulari,' I said in a tone which would have
frozen a fire.
'But I can,
didi
. Here, just listen to this,' she said and
glibly recited some of my dialogue from
International Moll
.
She must have spent hours watching DVDs of my
movies because it was a bravura performance. Her dialogue
delivery was flawless. And she put in just the right amount
of emotional heft. I had to admit that she could be a bloody
good actor. A fist of jealousy squeezed my heart.
'You've had your fun for today. Now go and soak
rajma
for tomorrow's lunch,' I dismissed her.
I glared at Bhola as soon as she had left the room. '
Bas
.
Enough. Ram Dulari is not impersonating me any more. I
think all this adulation is going to her head.'
'Yes,
didi
,' he admitted sheepishly. 'No more outings for
her.'
I felt it was important for Ram Dulari to be reminded of
her true station in life. She was simply my cook, and had
been transformed into Cinderella at my bidding. And just as
Cinderella's fun ended at the stroke of midnight, hers must
too.
*
As I write this, I am thinking, what should I do with her?
She is a toy I created for my own amusement. But what do
you do with a toy once you tire of it? Where do you throw
away a thinking, breathing, moving mass of protoplasm?
I tried to remember what Geppetto had done with
Pinocchio and that is when it dawned on me that in the
original version, Pinocchio had died a gruesome death –
hanged for his innumerable faults.
15 February
I was shooting today for Sriram Raghavan's untitled
production in Mehboob Studios. But no one seemed to be
able to concentrate on work. There was a strange kind of
electric tension in the air. I realized that everyone was
waiting for the verdict in Vicky Rai's case.
At lunchtime the entire crew gathered in the screening
room, where the projector had been hooked up to cable TV.
I was in the make-up van and entered the hall to catch
Barkha Das grimacing on the big screen. 'We've just received
word from inside the courtroom. Vicky Rai has been
acquitted for the murder of Ruby Gill,' she announced.
There was stunned silence in the studio. No one could
believe the news. For once, even Barkha Das appeared to be
lost for words. 'Well, what can I say? This is an absolutely
shattering verdict, but not entirely unexpected. For years,
India's rich and famous have been able to manipulate the
law and get away with murder. Vicky Rai joins that list
today. For the common man, it seems, justice is just a
dream. It is a sad day not only for the family of Ruby Gill,
but for every ordinary Indian.'
I never met Ruby Gill, but for some reason the verdict
filled me with a strange sense of sadness, like the kind you
experience when you hear about a plane crash in some
distant country.
16 February
Jay Chatterjee, of all people, is hosting a party at the Athena
Bar to celebrate Vicky Rai's acquittal and has sent me an
invitation. How obscene. I don't know what I find more
disturbing – the fact that people are gloating over this
travesty of justice, or that someone as intelligent and artistic
as Jay Chatterjee can be friends with a criminal like Vicky
Rai. This was a revelation. Even the Steven Spielberg of
Bollywood seems to have feet of clay.
I sent a polite regret, knowing full well that this might
harm my prospects of starring in Chatterjee's next film, the
one for which he is still searching for the Salim Ilyasi clone.
But I have my principles.
Unfortunately I also have my limits. Later in the day
when I was doing a photo shoot in Lonavala, a bunch of
college students approached me. 'We are sending a petition
to the President of India asking for Vicky Rai's re-trial. Our
aim is to get ten million signatures on the petition. Will you
sign it, Shabnamji?' they asked me.
'No,' I said rather shamefacedly. 'I don't want to get
involved in politics.'
'This is not about politics, ma'am,' said an earnestlooking
kid. 'It is about justice. It was Ruby today, it could
be you or me tomorrow.'
'I sympathize with your cause, but I am unable to lend
my name to it,' I said and excused myself. The students
went away dejectedly.
I was merely following my secretary Rakeshji's advice –
do not get involved in any criticism of the government. It
invariably becomes a millstone round your neck and the
government can always retaliate. Who wants an income-tax
raid or a held-up passport?
In any event, I doubt whether I will ever meet the fate
of Ruby Gill. As Barkha said, the rich and famous get away
with murder, they don't get murdered themselves.
17 February
I am leaving for a three-week visit to Australia to shoot three
song sequences with Hrithik for Mahesh Sir's film
Metro
. This
is my first visit to Oz and I am so looking forward to seeing
all the places I have heard such a lot about.
Ram Dulari will be all alone in the flat, so I have
instructed Bhola to take extra care of the house and of
her.
20 February
Sydney must be the greatest city in the world. That first
view of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge was magical.
Bondi Beach has perhaps more bronzed bodies than any
other beach on the planet. And the Australians are great
fun-loving people.
I am having a blast.
It is especially funny to see all these Australian girls with
blonde hair and blue eyes grinding their hips in tandem with
me to a Hindi soundtrack. It has become almost de rigueur in
Bollywood to have at least one song with some
firang
white
dancers doing
jhatka-matka
at the bidding of our own
desi
brown-skinned actors. In one particular song sequence that we
filmed today, the blonde Australian dancers were required to
grovel at Hrithik's feet, follow him on all fours, huffing and
panting like bitches in heat, and beg him for a kiss.
Is this what is called reverse colonialism?
4 March
A rather interesting episode happened today. A silver-haired
man with a craggy face who calls himself Lucio Lombardi
met me in my hotel suite. He spoke excellent English and
claimed to be the Business Manager of some Arab prince
whose name escapes me.
I asked what brought him to Sydney. He said the Prince
had seen my pictures and was totally smitten with me. He
was prepared to pay me a hundred thousand dollars for one
night with him on his birthday on 15 March. I would be
flown to London in his private jet, booked into the
Dorchester, would spend just one night with the Prince and
then be brought back to Mumbai on 16 March.
Mr Lombardi explained all this in the affable tone of a
director narrating a script to me. He appeared to be a man
with money and connections, but he hadn't reckoned with
the temper of an Indian diva.
'I take strong exception to your proposal,' I blasted.
'Who does your prince think I am? Some kind of cheap
prostitute?'
I pretended to be offended at Lombardi's crassness,
but in reality I wasn't. I know I occupy that indeterminate
place in men's consciousness between whore and wife. A
wife can be seduced, a whore can be bought. An actress like
me can only be propositioned. And that is precisely what
Lombardi had done.
The Italian was not prepared to accept no for an answer.
He was most persistent, increasing the offer to two hundred
thousand dollars, then three, and eventually to half a million
dollars, with the added sweetener that fifty per cent would
be paid to me immediately, in cash.
As his final ace, he produced a picture of the Prince. My
mental image had been of an ugly cripple with venereal
disease, but the glossy photo shown me was of a strapping
young man dressed in the loose, ankle-length robe which
Arab men wear, replete with a checked headdress. He had a
long, fair face dominated by a thick brown moustache.
I had to admit that the Prince was handsome (even if it
was in an effeminate kind of way) and half a million dollars
was serious money. I did my maths. Lombardi was dangling
twenty million rupees before me for a one-night stand.
I have nearly sixty million rupees in my bank. But it has
taken me three and a half years to get them. Now I was being
offered a third of this amount for just one night's work.
And what does 'one night' really mean? It means,
essentially, two rounds of sex (even the Prince won't have
the staying power for a third). That would translate as
twenty-two minutes max. So I would be getting $22,727
per minute. That's $378 per second. Wow! On a per-second
basis, probably only Mohammad Ali made more, but then
he also got battered and bruised in the boxing ring. I might
even enjoy it.
But I still said no.
Lombardi seemed crestfallen. 'You are making a mistake,
Miss Saxena, by not accepting this most generous offer. Are
you worried about publicity? I assure you, we are most
discreet.'
'No,' I said.
'Then is it some outdated morality? Haven't you heard
the Italian proverb "Below the navel there is neither religion
nor truth"?'
'I am not for sale, Mr Lombardi, and you can tell that to
your Prince,' I said and shut the door on him.
Below the navel there may be neither religion nor truth,
but behind the forehead there is something called the brain.
By refusing the Prince today, I am only increasing his desire.
I am confident that by the time his next birthday comes
round he will be dying to offer me a million dollars!
Then it shall truly become an 'Indecent Proposal'.
I wonder why we haven't done a Hindi re-make yet.
8 March
How do I even begin to describe the worst day of my life?
I sensed something was wrong the moment I landed at
eight in the evening from Singapore and Bhola did not
come to meet me at the airport. Only Kundan was there
with the Mercedes.
'Where is Bhola?' I asked the driver.
'I don't know, Madam. I haven't seen him in a week. It
was Rakesh Sir who told me to pick you up from the
airport.'
Half an hour later, when I reached the flat, I found it in
darkness. I switched on the light and gasped. The entire
place was in disarray. Sofas had been upturned in the
drawing room, my beautiful Waterford crystal vase lay
shattered on the floor. The stench of meat emanated from
the dining room and I was shocked to see half-finished takeout
cartons of chilli chicken and sweet and sour pork lying
on the dining table, surrounded by fine threads of chow
mein. A pyramid of dirty pots and pans greeted me in the
kitchen, with the iron skillet dumped in a corner.
The biggest devastation had been reserved for my
bedroom. Sheets had been dragged off the bed and the
mattress had been viciously slashed. Drawers had been
pulled out and all the
almirahs
were open. There were
papers, hair clips and clothes strewn across the carpet. My
dressing table had been stripped clean and my entire
collection of perfumes and cosmetics was missing. I ran to
the adjoining dressing room, which had a floor safe in the
walk-in closet. I needn't have bothered. The heavy metal
door of the safe had been taken apart with a blow torch and
all that was left was a gaping hole. Luckily I keep most of
my cash and all my heavy jewellery in a vault at HSBC
bank, but I have still lost close to a hundred thousand
rupees, some three thousand dollars, five hundred pounds
and some euros, an emerald necklace and a Breitling watch.
Even more heart-wrenching was the discovery that my
entire collection of shoes and handbags had been taken
from the closet. My Manolo Blahniks and Christian
Louboutins, my Balenciagas and Jimmy Choos, all gone.