Bollywood and the Beast (Bollywood Confidential) Page 7

  “It could kill him, right?” Rocky’s uncertain contribution pulled Ashraf back to the conversation. “His family or his village…they could put him to death if they thought he was gay? That still happens, doesn’t it?”

  He shivered despite the fire leaping high in the hearth. “Okay, okay. I am sorry I brought it up, Mr. and Mrs. Thought Police. I was just curious, na? About where he goes when he is not here.”

  “Where would he go? Why would he go?” Taj laughed, glaring across the room at Rocky as he spoke. “This is the Hotel fucking California. Check out, but never leave.”

  She glared back, social conscience for the moment forgotten. “Have you ever actually tried to leave, Taj? Or do you just assume you’ll burst into flame once you cross the threshold?”

  Oh, yes. Mr. and Mrs. indeed.

  Ashu only had the barest memories of his parents. Ammi’s laugh. Abba’s stern features, so much like Taj’s. A car crash had claimed their lives as well, killing them instantly when he was just five years old and Bhaiya fourteen. Nani and Nana-ji had taken over their care. His memories of them were clearer, more present…and they’d often argued just like this, blazing higher than the fireplace, blistering each other with tirades that always ended in peace and private smiles.

  Would he ever know the same? Nahin. It was not for him. His stomach coiled tight as he thought again of Nina. At first, he’d been naïve enough to think she cared. A worldly older woman who knew so much about the business, about how to make it or break it. He’d thought she could be his teacher, his godmother, his guiding hand. Just where she was guiding hands became all too clear all too quickly.

  Kamal, despite being in their household for a decade, seldom touched him. There never seemed to be a reason, even an instance of their shoulders brushing as they passed in the hall. And yet, that day on the veranda, he’d reached out to break Ashraf’s fall…and that simple movement had spoken volumes. Like a locking of eyes across a room or a ceasefire in the form of a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, even though Taj and Rocky had already returned to their prior topic of conversation. “I would never want to put Kamal in danger. Never.”

  Not when it seemed to be his life’s work to spare all of them from harm.

  If only Kamal had stopped his fall all those years ago. How different things would have been…

  Long after Ashraf left them to go up to bed, Taj stayed in the living area, listening to Rocky chatter about nothing and everything. She railed about Indian society’s injustices against the gays, moved on to injustices against women and then described to him her first taste of a gol-gappa from a Chandni Chowk stall and assured him, “The ones Usha makes at home are so much better.” It was almost…domestic. A wife telling her husband about her day. Except in this scenario, the wife was a rising star, the husband was a housebound monster and the marriage was an impossible fiction.

  It was not to be. It couldn’t be. And if it existed for even a moment, it wouldn’t last beyond it. You would die on the vine, he’d said to her. And he meant every word of it.

  Rather than distance her, it had only rallied her. She seemed more determined than ever to seek him out, to stay by his side, to draw him into conversation and tend him like a stubborn rose in need of cultivation. The harder he tried to push her away, the more firmly she stood before him. The day they first met, she’d warned him he would not easily be rid of her, and she was seeing that promise through.

  “You need me,” she said now, as if she knew the subject of his thoughts. Certainly it wasn’t street food or politics. “I want to help you, Taj. I want to be here for you. Let me be your friend if you can’t let me be more. Is it really so hard?”

  Yes. It was so hard it was impenetrable. After all, he was made of stone, na? The walls of his garden were too high, too reinforced. Not simply to keep Beauty out, but to keep the Beast in.

  “Goodnight, sweet Rocky,” he whispered, before he left her alone by the fire.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The lights were hot. Sweat beaded his brow, and his pressed white shirt stuck to his back like a bloodied bandage. There was a boom mic in his peripheral vision, swinging subtly like the pendulum of a giant clock. And Rocky was staring at him. Why was she staring at him? Ashraf glared back, uncomprehending. Did he have something in his teeth? Did he need a Chiclet for his breath? Had the wind whipped his hair into an odd configuration?

  “Line,” she hissed between barely moving lips. “Ashu, it’s your line.”

  But it was too late. The pause had gone on too long. The pace was broken and the moment over. “Cut!” Chatterjee screamed from the director’s chair that was inexplicably hoisted far above their heads. Ashraf had blown the shot. A simple shot. Something he hadn’t done since his first film as a junior artiste. And Chatterjee’s irate railings cited him as lower than such, suggesting they hire the tea boy as the new lead or perhaps just cut the film to 1 Luv in Delhi. Disproportionate rage, no doubt, but Ashu’s sweat turned ice cold and his hands began to shake.

  Rocky stepped in front of him, a tiny packet of fury, placing her hands on her hips and crying out, “Stop it! Stop it, Mr. Chatterjee!” she yelled up toward the chair. “Ashraf knows his lines. You know he knows his lines. Let’s just take it from the top.”

  While some still-attentive part of Ashu appreciated the defense, their filmi overlord did not, turning his scathing display of temper to Rocky with a vengeance. “Director ho gayi kya? You are not in charge of this shoot! I am! Chup-chap khari raho. In English, madam, that is ‘just shut up and stand there’.”

  Ashraf’s blood was roaring in his ears. Louder than whatever Rocky said in response. Whether placating or provocative, he couldn’t have sworn upon pain of death. All he knew was that his silence, his stillness, had turned into the worst sort of tremors. And a tightness in his throat. And spiders crawling upward from his churning belly.

  You’re a fraud, Ashraf, reminded the ghost-Nina in his head. No one will ever want you.

  You’re a failure, Ashu, said the phantom Taj. No one will ever love you.

  Simply make it stop, urged his own darkest heart. Make it all stop.

  He couldn’t do that. Not here. All he could do was turn and bolt from the set, tripping over cables and ropes and knocking into lighting equipment. Running and running and running. From things he could never escape.

  After a round of profuse—albeit completely insincere—apologies to the director and the crew, Rocky knew she had to find Ashraf. The shoot was small, pretty contained, with their trailers girding the field where their characters were supposed to declare their love, but what if he’d run off? What if he’d gotten to the main thoroughfare and caught a taxi or an auto to parts unknown?

  The worry that had begun pricking her with the first of the mysterious phone calls kicked into overdrive. Something really was wrong with Ashu. She’d never seen him choke under pressure before. If anything, he was always the one who made sure she was on the ball. His discipline was almost scary. Robotic. Like he’d been trained since birth like a Russian gymnast. Or at least it had been…until recently.

  Worry only made her walk faster, threading between the set pieces and equipment he’d practically bulldozed in his need to get away. Was it Taj? Was it being home? Something had him unraveling at the seams. The least she could do was try and sew him back together.

  The breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding escaped in a whoosh of relief when she let herself into his trailer and found him slumped in the chair in front of a small vanity. He was staring into the mirror. Practically crawled halfway into it, really.

  “Ashu!” He didn’t reply to her winded hail. So she tried again. “Oh my God, Ashraf, what was that out there? Are you all right? Do you want me to call Taj?”

  It was the mention of his brother that broke his communion with the glass. Understandable, since the name certainly did amazing things to her.

  He turned, just slightly, wiping his face as if he was
trying to brush off whatever had him in thrall. “Nahin. No, Rocky. Don’t ring Bhaiya. Don’t concern him. We will see him soon enough. I…I just lost myself for a moment. I have a lot on my mind, na?”

  “Like what?” She knelt in front of him and took his hands in hers, wholly and completely aware that this was the second time a Khan brother was compelling her to her knees. “You can tell me, Ashraf. I won’t tell a soul. Are you and Taj having trouble? Is it…is it something else?”

  “Something else?” He echoed the words, more darkly amused question than real answer. His eyes were still a little glazed and distant, his breathing shallow. When she brushed her thumb across his wrist and then held it there, his pulse was wild. “Rocky bahen, my somethings are things you do not want to know of. My somethings are things I do not want to know of.”

  Bahen. Sister. He was calling her his sister. Somehow that intimate kindness, more than anything, filled her with genuine terror. “Ashu…”

  “Please.” He squeezed her fingers and then opened them, turning her palms up as if encouraging her to pray. “Don’t worry about me, Rocky. Look after yourself. Look after Bhaiya and Nani. You have made them your own.”

  “If they’re my own, aren’t you, too?” she demanded, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “You can’t call me your sister in one breath and then leave yourself out of the equation. And you can trust me.”

  “Chohro, Rocky. Let it go.” He smiled at her. A tired smile. And it looked like a cracked reflection. One that she couldn’t put back together. “Now, chalo. Let’s go take it from the top.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Taj felt her gaze upon him before he even caught her looking. He turned so he could return the favor, rather than reducing her to a half-blurred dark spot at his periphery. He’d made a thousand similar tiny adjustments over the past decade, all to compensate for what he’d lost. She could not possibly understand such concessions in less than ten weeks. “Kya hai, Rocky? What is it?”

  “It’s Ashu,” she said bluntly. “I think something’s really wrong with him.” When had she begun using his little brother’s pet name? How had he not noticed? And why was he suddenly burning when, all along, he’d thought them a far better match? He struggled to push the flurry of impossible questions aside and focus on the second half of the declaration.

  “What do you mean ‘something’s wrong’?” He frowned. “Is he sick? Did he injure himself in some way?” Surely Kamal and Usha would have come running with the tidings were that the case.

  She shook her head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

  He shifted on the sofa, angling himself so there was room should she want to sit. She came to his library without hesitation now. He’d been completely unsuccessful in pushing her away. Perhaps he had not tried very hard…or perhaps her determination was just that great. They met most frequently in the haveli’s public spaces—the dining table, the great room, the veranda, but still she invaded his private corners. As if she would simply wear down the distance between them. No doubt it was why she’d come to him now, with such a fragile claim. “Do you think to soften me to you by using my brother?” he wondered. “It won’t work, Rakhee. My mind is set.”

  “Your mind is lost,” she shot back, instantly moving farther away rather than closer. Her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “Do you really think I would make up bullshit about Ashraf just to bond us together or something? I don’t need to resort to that.”

  “Nahin. I know what you would resort to.” And just like that, they were returned to the garden. To her on her knees before him, the desire heavy in her eyes and her hands and her tongue.

  Her cheeks darkened with a blush only her gori skin could display, and then her equally rosy lips curled into a bud of anger. “Don’t be a jerk. You can’t push me away over and over and then bring up that, Taj.”

  He shrugged, hoping his smile was as ghastly and smug as it felt crawling across his face. “I can do whatever I want. It is my house.”

  “Then make sure your brother is okay.” Suddenly, her distance from him expanded beyond meters, beyond four walls, beyond the grounds. “Someday, he’ll be the only person you have left.”

  There were any number of things he could do. Arrange to have their phone number changed. Bar the household from answering when she rang. Report her to the police for harassment. But Ashu chose none of those options. In the end, he simply picked up. Each time. He listened to her laughter, to her heavy breaths, to her insults and intimations. He curled tight in a corner of his bed, knees drawn to his rough chin, and let her tell him what he already knew: that she had ruined him for other women, that he was nothing without her and that he was doomed to fail.

  He couldn’t remember his life before her. What he’d wanted, who he’d been, what dreams he’d dreamed. Whether Julia Roberts and Madhuri Dixit or Tom Cruise and Akshay Kumar had starred in his fantasies. He only knew what she’d turned him into…

  “I made you, Ashraf. I can un-make you, too,” she promised. And he did not tell her that the deconstruction was nearly complete.

  Soon enough, another hungry young hero would take his place in 2 Luv in Delhi. Mumbai was full of handsome men with talent—though the talent was frequently optional as long as they were handsome—and Chatterjee and his backers would, no doubt, find someone who would generate far more box office revenue than a retired action hero’s worthless brother. So, too, would Rahul Anand find someone else for Be-Izzati. Seats never stayed unfilled, spotlights never shined on an empty stage.

  It was over. He was over.

  Ashraf made certain that his dressing room was meticulous. He swept up all his crumpled shirts and a chuddi or two, so that Usha would not have to come into his rooms and clean his messes. And every morning he wished for courage.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He had never been one to hallucinate. Not until his brother’s phantom taunting had taken root in his brain and Nina’s oily threats had begun spreading like a slick down his spine. Now, those voices were almost deafening. With him always. And they all said the same thing: You are worthless, Ashu. You are terrible. You are filthy and dirty and godless. No one will ever love you. They roared over his dialogues, drowned out Rocky’s worried murmurs and Usha’s clucking that he should eat because he was growing too thin. They even deadened him to Kamal, who didn’t say anything at all.

  And why should he? Kamal was good and decent and kind. Ashraf was not fit to breathe the same air. Surely the man had written him off, just like everyone else, and that was why they passed each other like strangers in the corridors and on the stairs.

  The bottle of gin he’d smuggled into his room was small comfort. The burn of the liquor washed away the taste of tears clogging his throat and flushed his eyes with a red not born of grief. But it only made the jeers louder. They repeated themselves in stereo, surround sound. You deserve to be alone. You should be alone. You’re disgusting.

  Ashraf began to wonder what complete silence would be like…and then, eventually, he knew. Bliss. Peace. A nothingness where he would not constantly have to replay his sins on a cinema hall screen and relive the base, ugly existence that Nina had reduced him to. He would never have to set foot in front of a camera again. Never have to be recorded. Never have to become someone else because he himself was not good enough. He would no longer be a second-rate replacement for a hero. He would not have to flicker among the stars.

  It was this thought that sent him up to the chaath, climbing the succession of stairs with one unsteady hand sliding along the stone banister and the other clutched round his Bombay Sapphire. It was still dark, dawn just brimming in the distance, and a handful of stars winked in the sky. All too soon he would have to meet Rocky and take the car to the shoot…or perhaps not.

  Ashraf lurched to the edge of the roof and its waist-high wall. He and Bhaiya had played circus so often—the balancing act earning them soundly boxed ears from Nana and Nani both—and the view was still dizzying. A
head of him were sparse treetops, endless lengths of sky and the roofs of mud-brick hovels in the village. Below were the gardens and the coarse, brown earth.

  Taj loved his roses. They’d provided solace to him when nothing else, no one else, could. Perhaps Ashu should have tried gardening as well…but, nahin, he’d taken up daru, defying all custom to go numb with drink. But not numb enough.

  The near-empty bottle slipped from his fingers, as if to punctuate the thought, and went tumbling several stories to the ground. The glass shattered. The noise made no impact upon him, not with Nina whispering at his back, but he watched the shards and slivers scatter across the back veranda like sharp little bugs.

  Would he break into pieces, too? Or was he already broken?

  He was hollow inside, na? As though someone had come in the night and carved out his guts. Nahin, not “someone”. Everyone. All of them. Even his parents’ and Nana-ji’s ghosts.

  But what did a coward need with his innards? What use did a loser have for his heart? There was no one to give it to. There would never be anyone to give it to.

  It was easy, in the end. Simple. The moment when it all became clear.

  It was the noise that got her. In the pre-dawn hours, when there was little sound except for the chirp of the early bird or two and some unidentifiable critter growling, it was startling. A crash that jerked Rocky out of bed and had her bolting toward one of the windows. All she could see through the ancient iron grating was glass on the ground two stories below.

  Nani. Had the old woman fallen? Dropped something? Sleepwalked somewhere she shouldn’t wander to? Her heart leaped into her throat, and she barely remembered to grab her robe from the foot of her bed before running from her room and straight to the stairs that led to the roof.

  She almost couldn’t breathe when she reached the top…and a few seconds after that, she really couldn’t breathe.