Bollywood Confidential (3 page)

Siddharth was the number one actor in India.

But he couldn't care less.

He was bored.

High above the trees of Bombay, ensconced in the penthouse flat he shared with his mother and sister, having just returned from a week-long shoot in Mauritius, Siddharth leaned back in the recliner, stretched out his long legs and began flipping through channels on the new flat-screen TV.

One of his movies was airing on the Zee Network. He grimaced, and it wasn't from the chicken tikka masala that Pratab—the family cook—had prepared for dinner.

On screen, Siddharth got down on one knee and began shaking his shoulders to the beat of the music.

His grimace deepened into a scowl.

He was thirty-two, for God's sake. How much longer would he have to play the boyish college heartthrob?

Siddharth flipped channels and came upon another of his films. This time he was running through a field of tulips
in Holland, his arms outstretched, beaming from ear to ear, flashing his famous toothy smile.

Siddharth remembered a time when acting had been his passion. Now all he did was star in film after film about lovers who came together, were torn apart, and then brought together again at the end.

He'd finally taken a risk last year and starred in a film where he'd played the villain.

He'd had the time of his life.

But the film had bombed at the box office.

Siddharth's status as an A-list actor remained untouched, but he'd learned that the Indian audience wanted to see him as a romantic hero and would settle for nothing else.

Ever since Siddharth's father had passed away when he was sixteen and his sister Sachi just a baby, he'd become the sole financial support for his mother and sister. He couldn't afford to take chances with his career.

Disgusted with watching himself, he turned off the TV and closed his eyes.

“Unlike you, Jai, not everyone was sexually active in the womb.”

Raveena said this last comment a bit too loudly, and the man on the street corner gave her a startled look.

She returned the look, because he had an iguana perched on each one of his shoulders and one on top of his head.

Los Angeles. Love it or hate it.

It was Sunday afternoon, they were driving into West LA, and she had just finished telling her two best friends, Jai and Maza, about the Bollywood role.

Somehow the conversation had segued into Jai's sex life.

Then again, a conversation about blueberry muffins could take a sexual turn if Jai was around.

Maza and Jai finished their cigarettes and put the stubs into the biodegradable baggie Maza always carried in her car.

Raveena wasn't a smoker and had opened the window. Now that the air was clear she closed it. She didn't want to freak out any more people with their conversation.

Jai and Raveena had been friends forever. Their parents
moved in the same Indian social circle. The year the two friends had turned twenty-one, Jai had come out to her.

Personally, Raveena had been more surprised by the zit she discovered on her chin that very same morning.

As much as she loved him, Jai was under the serious delusion that most people thought he was straight.

He was also paranoid that his parents would one day discover his secret sexual identity.

Raveena didn't have the heart to tell Jai that it was pretty obvious from the way his parents never brought up their son's lack of girlfriends, his career as a makeup artist at MAC, or his DVD collector's edition of the show
Queer as Folk,
that they probably had a clue.

In the backseat, Jai pointed at the well-muscled blond man in a red convertible. “You think he's into chicken tandoori?”

Maza pressed a hand to her stomach. “Stop. You're making me hungry.”

Jai caught Raveena's eye and winked. “I wasn't talking about food, honey.”

She didn't wink back. “Can we please get back to discussing the Bollywood deal?”

They were now stuck in a traffic jam on Sunset Boulevard. Only in Southern California could you find yourself in a traffic jam on a Sunday afternoon.

“Personally, I'd love to get out of LA,” Maza said. “Go to a spiritual place like India and just live in a cave.”

Ah…not!

Maza gunned the engine of her Range Rover and pushed forward in traffic.

Maza, the first friend Raveena had made after moving to
LA, donated numerous hours to cleaning up the environment yet drove one of the most expensive SUVs on the market.

Go figure.

At least she was an excellent driver, which was more than Raveena could say for most SUV owners.

One summer, just for the hell of it, Maza had driven a fourteen-wheeler across country. She claimed there was something Zen-like about truck driving.

Raveena would imagine Maza, dressed head to toe in Donna Karan, cigarette dangling from her lips, Chanel sunglasses protecting her eyes, CB radio squawking, as she drove the behemoth of a vehicle all the way from California to New Hampshire.

Maza was beautiful and seemed annoyed by the fact. She had an ivory complexion, thick black hair and catlike dark eyes. Regardless of the season, she always swathed herself from head to toe in black. For instance, on this gorgeous January day, Maza had on a black turtleneck and a black sweater.

It was seventy degrees and sunny.

Go figure.

Maza was a writer and her first novel had been released last year. The book detailed the dark nihilistic journey of a woman tortured by life and her deepening mental disease. The story had left Raveena vaguely disturbed. The gothic fans that routinely showed up at Maza's book signings left her even more disturbed and slightly frightened.

A few months ago, one of Maza's male fans had begun stalking her. He had confronted her in the middle of the
night outside her cottage nestled deep inside the Hollywood Hills.

When he'd grabbed her and demanded her undying love, Maza had calmly kicked her attacker in the crotch and dialed 911 on her cell phone, all without dropping her cigarette. She'd coolly continued to smoke, her boot firmly planted on the man's neck as he lay prone and groaning, until the police arrived.

Maza and Raveena met in a bookstore. Maza had been browsing in Witchcraft and Demonology when Raveena accidentally knocked over a stack of books titled
Women Who Don't Hate Enough
. Maza had come over to help her restock them, and they'd been friends ever since.

Maza forgave Raveena's occasional buying of a Britney Spears album.

Raveena forgave Maza cleansing her aura with sage before she stepped into her house.

Go figure.

Despite all of their oddities, Raveena was grateful the three of them were so close. For instance, here they were taking her to the Standard Lounge on Sunset to celebrate the Bollywood role.

The one she hadn't yet agreed to.

“Can we get back to my dilemma?” Raveena asked. “I can't just pack up and leave LA. They want me to commit to six months in Bombay. What if a great opportunity comes my way in Hollywood?”

Jai leaned forward. “Pardon me, sweetie, but what LA career? You've been waiting for a ‘great opportunity' for seven years!”

She sighed and leaned her head back against the seat. Jai had a point. Maza, umm, sort of did too. What was holding her back? A personal dislike of Bollywood films? Her dream of becoming the next Gwyneth Paltrow?

Maza shot Raveena a sidelong glance. “You're thinking about Gwyneth Paltrow, aren't you?”

“How'd you know?”

“You're always thinking about Gwyneth,” Jai said. “You constantly compare yourself to her.”

“Well, we're the same age, and she's an Oscar-winning actress.”

Jai yawned. “No one of Indian descent is going to win an Oscar. We just don't get those types of roles.”

Raveena disagreed. “What about Ben Kingsley? He's Indian and he won an Oscar.”

“He's half,” Jai said.

“So? I'll change my name to Raveena Queensley and say I'm half too.” Mentally, she apologized to her parents for disowning their heritage.

Maza thumped her horn and switched lanes. “Anthony Quinn,” she said suddenly, checking her rearview mirror.

Jai's head whipped around. “Where? Where?”

“He passed away in 2001, Jai,” Raveena clarified.

Maza gave the driver behind her the finger, and then proceeded to explain. “Anthony Quinn was half Mexican and half Irish. He struggled for years in Hollywood, but no one would cast him as a leading man. Finally he got an offer from an Italian director. So, does he go off to Italy and start making movies there, or does he stick it out in Hollywood?”

“Italian men are so hot,” Jai said dreamily.

“Anyway,” Maza continued, “Anthony moved to Italy
and began working in the industry. People back home told him he was ruining his career. They told him there was no way starring in Italian films was going to help him in Hollywood. But Anthony eventually became the number one actor in Italy with fans all across the country. They were mad about him.”

“How do you know so much about Anthony Quinn?” Jai questioned.

“I had writer's block and ended up watching his biography on A&E.”

Jai sighed. “He was a gorgeous man, wasn't he?”

“But back to my story,” Maza said, quickly cutting across the lane, swerving right and somehow bypassing ninety percent of the traffic. “Because of Quinn's status as an Italian idol, Hollywood finally took notice.” She pulled up in front of the Standard and put the car in park. “And the rest, chica, is history.”

They all filed out, and the valet guy jumped into the car. Anthony Quinn's story left Raveena quiet. She'd assumed the man had arrived in Hollywood and become an overnight sensation.

Well, Raveena really wasn't that naïve, but she hadn't realized the famous actor had to make a side trip to Italy on his journey to Hollywood.

Jai put his arm around Raveena. “So, what do you think? I hear Bollywood fans number almost a billion.”

Maza pulled a pack of Marlboros out of her bag. “Really?”

Jai gallantly held open the door and ushered them into the famous shag-carpeted, bubble chair-decorated lobby.

Raveena recalled an article her mother had once read her. “I think he's right. India's population is now practically
a billion. Add to that the millions of Indian immigrants scattered throughout the UK, Canada, the United States, Australia, Asia and Africa.” Her mother's words swirled through her head. “And Bollywood fans aren't just Indians. Russians, Armenians, Israelis, Turks, Arabs, Japanese, Chinese, Malaysians, Thai…they all watch Bollywood films.”

Maza stopped in the lobby and turned to face her. “Now, before we hit the bar, what'll we be toasting to?”

Raveena couldn't help smiling. “I'll do it.”

Looked like she was going Bollywood!

Jai threw his arms around her and planted a big kiss on her cheek. Raveena was pretty sure it was the first time he'd kissed a member of the opposite sex in five years.

Maza nodded and lit up a cigarette. The concierge spied her, frowned and came running over.

Raveena was moving to Bombay.

“India is a dirty stinking place. Too many stinking people. Bad
smells. Why go there?”

Waiting for Raveena's reaction to her comment, Auntie Kiran stuffed a samosa from the plate on the table into her mouth and began chewing furiously.

Raveena had dropped by her parents' house to pick up some Bollywood DVDs. She figured she may as well watch some of the latest releases.

Merely for research purposes, of course.

Unfortunately she'd chosen the very afternoon her mother was holding her weekly kitty party. Basically, a group of Indian aunties got together at a restaurant or at one another's homes. Their game was Gin Rummy. Everyone anteed up, and the entire kitty went to the winner.

The dining table was practically buckling with the weight of all the snacks it was supporting: nachos, samosas, chicken tandoori tenders, cheesecake, chips and several varieties of dips and chutneys. And in the center of it all was Auntie Kiran—a very competitive card player.

Kiran wasn't technically Raveena's aunt, but her mother's best friend. She was short with chubby cheeks and frizzy hair dyed an unnatural burgundy shade. Whether at the travel agency she owned or at a party, Aunt Kiran habitually wore brightly colored sweatpants and decorated her ears, nose, throat and wrists with heavy gold jewelry.

Leela laughed. “Come on, Kiran, it's not that bad.”

Taking a seat, Raveena helped herself to a piece of chicken and dipped it into the nacho cheese. “What about the Taj Mahal? People from all over the world go to India just to see that.”

Auntie Kiran scoffed and Raveena had to dodge a chunk of potato that came flying out of her mouth. “Taj Mahal? Big deal! Go to Atlantic City. See the Trump Taj Mahal. Much better. And it has clean bathrooms.”

Auntie Bindo, who read palms as a hobby and enjoyed playing practical jokes on her children (she once hid in the laundry room and jumped out of the hamper, scaring them to death), nudged Raveena. “Did you get your shots?”

Before she could answer, Auntie Kiran butted in, “What's the point of getting shots? Indian germs are too strong. They'll latch onto her clean American blood.”

“Make sure you drink only bottled water,” Raveena's mother told her for the hundredth time.

Auntie Kiran scoffed. “Bottled water isn't safe. Tourists have been getting all manner of diseases from bottled water that was really taken from the sewer.”

Sewers?

Raveena had an aversion to drinking out of public water fountains because of the germs.

At that moment, Auntie Bindo slammed down her cards and shouted “Gin Rummy!”

Auntie Kiran whipped around, pointed a stubby finger, and accused her of cheating.

The table erupted into shouts and recriminations, and suddenly chutney became a projectile weapon.

Ducking her head, Raveena raced from the room and took refuge on the front steps outside.

 

Sitting down, she could still hear shouting from inside and scooted farther away from the door. Putting thoughts of Auntie Kiran and bottled sewage out of her head, she dialed Griffin's office.

As it turned out, Griffin was wearing a blue cashmere sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes.

No, Raveena wasn't psychic. The first thing Griffin said to her after hello was, “Raveena, doll, the blue cashmere sweater I'm wearing absolutely brings out the blue of my eyes.”

“I'm sure it does, Griffin,” she answered. Meanwhile, according to her mother, the red shirt she was wearing brought out the broken capillaries in her cheeks. “Did you get my flight details?”

He had and promptly informed her that a first-class ticket to Bombay would be waiting at the Pan-Asian Airlines counter at LAX, as well as a car when she arrived in Bombay to take her to a five-star hotel. All courtesy of Randy Kapoor.

“Fabulous,” Raveena said and gave Griffin her parents' fax number so he could send over all the details.

She was about to go back inside when her call-waiting
beeped. Griffin was eager to get off the phone anyway and show off his new cashmere sweater, so she pressed the green call button. “Hello?”

“I have a date tomorrow night,” Maza said.

This was interesting. Maza's dating life fascinated Raveena (and not just because Raveena didn't have one). Maza's last date had been with a shaman from the Arapaho tribe. Propping her elbows on her knees, she settled in for some juicy details. “Do divulge. Who's the man?”

“My gynecologist, Dr. Kim.”

Raveena sat straight up. “What?”

“I was on the examining table when he asked if I was free this weekend.”

“Your gyno! Isn't that against the law or something?”

She could hear Maza taking a drag of her cigarette.

“All his patients are women. He'd be crazy not to take advantage of the fact.”

Raveena frowned. “I'm definitely not okay with this, Maza. The voodoo priest was weird enough, but this—”

“Listen,” Maza interrupted. “Dr. Kim knows I'm free of disease. Beats hooking up at a bar or a club.”

Raveena rubbed her forehead. “Remind me. You were spread-eagle at the time, right?”

This time when her call-waiting beeped she eagerly took the call. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Jai said, distinctly morose.

“What's the matter?”

“Luke dumped me.”

Luke was Jai's current flame. Raveena didn't care for the guy. Luke was from Long Beach but affected a stupid European accent and insisted on leaving wet slobbery kisses on
both her cheeks as greetings. But Jai adored him, and she was sorry to hear the news. “Why? What happened?”

Jai had gone from morose to despondent. “He said I'm too gay.”

“What?”

“I'm too gay for him,” Jai said loudly.

Raveena was confused. Sure, Jai had less body hair than she, along with a flatter stomach and tighter ass, but those qualities were common in the gay community. “I don't understand; isn't Luke gay?”

Jai sounded exasperated. “Obviously.”

Okay, this was too much.

Raveena was leaving for India in a few days. She didn't have time to deal with the dating dilemmas of her friends.

She did, however, agree to meet them for drinks that night at the Viceroy.

For a moment it felt good to be single.

The moment faded.

She shook her head and got up to go back inside.

Okay, seriously—back to the more important question.

What the hell was the deal with water in India anyway?