She reminds me so much of my younger sister. I have not been able to do anything for Sapna, but I can at least do something for Ram Dulari. She is an orphan; I will make her my surrogate sister.
26 August
I have thought long and hard about what I can do for Ram Dulari and I have come to a decision. I will transform this gauche village belle into a suave sophisticate. She can never become Shabnam Saxena, but she can at least talk and walk like me. And then I will find a suitable groom for her, give her a lavish wedding.
I know this will be quite a task. She is just an illeducated villager. But I see in her a certain shy polish. She is a fair-skinned Brahmin, after all, not some vulgar low-caste. With proper grooming, she can be made presentable. Her voice is harsh and grating. With practice, it can be made mellow and refined. She is artless and callow. Through imitation she will become urbane and genteel.
I have also found a perfect name for my mission of transforming an ingénue into a lady.
I will call it the Cinderella Project.
27 August
I called Ram Dulari to my bedroom and told her of my plan. 'I am going to change you into a new person. Look at me. I am offering you the opportunity of becoming just like me. What do you say?'
'But why, didi?' she asked. 'How can a servant become like her mistress? It is not right. I am happy as I am.'
'But I am not happy with you as you are.' I made a face. 'If I am your mistress then you have to comply with my wish.'
'Ji, didi.' She bowed her head. 'Whatever you command.'
'Good. Then we'll begin tomorrow.'
28 August
The first phase of the transformation began today.
I started with a haircut, snipping away at Ram Dulari's long black tresses, giving her what my Chinese hairstylist Lori would have called an 'easy shoulder-length flippy brunette hairstyle'.
Then I handed her a slinky pink dress, the one I wore in International Moll, and told her to go into the bathroom and put it on. It is one of my hottest outfits, with a corset ribbon lace-up front, sexy thigh slits and a handkerchief hemline.
After fifteen minutes, Ram Dulari had still not emerged from the bathroom. So I knocked, entered and nearly died of laughter. She was trying to wear the dress over her blouse and petticoat. It was a struggle to make her understand that the spaghetti straps, low-cut front and exposed back meant she couldn't even wear her bra underneath it.
'Come on, out with your clothes.' I snapped my fingers.
She unfastened her blouse and stopped. I gestured that the bra had to come off too. Her whole frame shook as she unhooked it. Her bra was one of those cheap white shoddy ten-rupee things they sell on the pavement. She tried to cover her bare chest with her hands, but I pushed them down.
Her breasts are big and high and the nipples brown and pointy with small aureoles. I reckon she's a size 36C.
'Now take off your petticoat,' I ordered.
She started crying. 'Please don't ask me to do this, didi,' she begged me.
The strangeness of the situation was becoming apparent to me. To an outsider it would have looked like a scene straight out of a lesbian film. I relented. 'OK. Forget it. You don't really need to wear Western clothes.'
Ram Dulari picked up her sari and blouse and ran to her bedroom as if she had just been violated. I could hear her muffled crying.
I knew without any doubt that Ram Dulari is a virgin. This was the first time she had undressed before another person, her natural inhibition overridden only by her unquestioning loyalty to me.
What have I done, wrenching this village maiden from her rural hamlet and bringing her to the evil lights of the city?
But look at it another way. Ram Dulari is virgin territory, a mind not yet awakened, a body not yet touched. She is a tabula rasa waiting to be moulded by me in any manner I like. A mother can do this with her daughter – mould her mind and body in her image – but it has to be done painstakingly, over a period of ten to twelve years. The Cinderella Project will try to achieve the same result in just ten months.
Phase One may have been an unmitigated disaster, but all is not yet lost. I simply made a mistake in the sequencing. Before I transform Ram Dulari's body, I need to transform her mind.
30 August
I've started with basic English lessons. Thankfully, since she has been partially educated, I didn't have to begin with R-A-T and C-A-T. I went straight to sentence construction, syntax and grammar.
She is a keen learner, perceptive and intuitive.
'I think you have great potential,' I complimented her. 'Every day, you will sit with me for an hour and do the exercises I tell you. Now say a full sentence in English, anything that comes to your mind.'
'I-liking-learning-English,' she said haltingly, and I clapped in delight.
Phase Two appears to be on track.
14 September
Filmfan says I am vain. To quote that bitch Devyani who interviewed me for the latest issue, 'Shabnam is in love with her own beauty, dazzled by her fair, peach-like complexion.' So what's wrong with that? I am beautiful, I know it, and the world acknowledges it. All this talk about a woman being beautiful from the inside is pure humbug, invented perhaps by some mousy journalist to hide her own ugliness. Ask a plain woman how she feels inside; no inner glow can warm the hearts of dark girls enduring life solely by the promises of Fair and Lovely cream.
23 September
Ram Dulari was able to read a complete short story today. A full three pages. Hooray!
11 October
Box Office takings for my latest multi-starrer, Hello Partner, have been disappointing. According to Trade Guide, the movie is likely to sink without a trace. I am not entirely unhappy. The film was supposed to be a launch pad for Rabia, yet another untalented star daughter, and the director was an obnoxious jerk who deserved to pay the price for editing out three of my key scenes from the final cut.
The Cinderella Project, on the other hand, is going swimmingly. Ram Dulari has picked up enough English to answer phone calls.
I have a sneaking suspicion that I have a hit on my hands.
25 October
A thick letter arrived today, marked 'Highly Confidential'. Written in childish handwriting, it began, 'My dearest darlin' Shabnam, I reckon a love like ours is as scarce as hen's teeth.'
I laughed so hard, the letter slipped from my hand and went flying out of the window. I didn't even bother to retrieve it.
24 November
I know that a Bollywood actress has to act dumb, especially one who is a sex bomb. Men shouldn't feel intimidated by her brains. But yesterday, in an asinine programme on KTV about celebrity endorsements (I still don't know why Rosie agreed to send me on that show), I violated the golden rule.
The compère, a mousy-looking middle-aged man, tried to attack my campaign for PETA. 'People like you do these campaigns only for cheap publicity without really caring about them or knowing anything about the cause,' he alleged. And then, out of the blue, he asked me, 'Have you heard of Guantanamo Bay?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'It's a military prison somewhere in the US.'
'Wrong. It's at the south-eastern tip of Cuba. This just proves my point. You brainless bimbos of Bollywood have no knowledge of current affairs. All you people care about is fashion and the latest hairstyles.'
Perhaps he was trying to be deliberately provocative, but I couldn't stand his patronizing arrogance. So I laid into him.
'OK, Mister, can you name the film which won the Palm d'Or at this year's Cannes Film Festival?' I countered.
'Er . . . no,' he replied, not expecting a repartee.
'So should I conclude that all compères are smug, selfabsorbed idiots who have no knowledge of the arts?'
'That's like comparing apples to oranges,' he protested. 'We make it on the strength of our ability; you have made it only because you have a beautiful face.'
'If that was the case then every Playboy centrefold should have made it to Hollywood,'
I retorted. 'Cinema does not worship beauty, it worships talent.' And then I proceeded to question him on the philosophy of Martin Heidegger (he had not heard of him), the poetry of Osip Mandelstam (he hadn't heard of him either), the novels of Bernard Malamud (same response) and the films of Ki-duk Kim (ditto). By the end of my grilling the asshole needed a mouse hole to crawl into to prevent further embarrassment.
Rosie was not amused. 'Be prepared, Stardust will now nickname you Dr Shabnam Ph.D.,' she said grimly and shuddered.
Isn't it weird that the ultimate accolade in academia is the ultimate insult in the glamour business?
15 December
I am in Lucknow today, the city where I spent three of the best years of my life. I have come with Annu Sir's musical troupe to give a charity performance to benefit a foundation working for street children.
When I first arrived in Lucknow six years ago I was fresh from Azamgarh, and the capital of Uttar Pradesh seemed to me to be the greatest city in the world. It had wonderful book stores, lovely markets, graceful gardens and, above all, an air of elegance and culture. I fell in love with the adab and tehzeeb of Lucknow, a welcome change from the rustic rudeness of Azamgarh. The decadent grace of the city has remained a lovely texture in my imagination ever since.
Now when I look at Lucknow, I see it through the prism of my travels around half the world. Compared to Mumbai, Lucknow seems inadequate, a glorified mofussil town full of the squalor and seediness, the clutter and chaos of smalltime India. But it will always have a special place in my heart. The city has moulded my life. If Azamgarh was the abattoir of my ambition, Lucknow was the cradle of my dreams. It is here that I learnt to believe in myself, to aspire, to soar.
The Natya Kala Mandir hall was overflowing with people. The moment I was introduced as a daughter of Uttar Pradesh and a product of Lucknow, a great roar erupted from the throng. Screams reverberated around the hall like cannonball blasts. A girl caught hold of my hand and just wouldn't let go, another swooned when she saw me The Cinderella Project 361 up close. It reminded me of that night in Lucknow when I first saw Madhuri Dixit and was blown away by her ethereal beauty.
Today I was Madhuri Dixit, the cynosure of all eyes. The capacity crowd had come to see me dance, but I was tense and distracted. Throughout the stage show my eyes kept darting to the front rows, searching for a familiar face. My ears strained to hear a familiar voice. Azamgarh, after all, is only 220 kilometres from Lucknow and I was hoping against hope that Babuji or Ma or perhaps Sapna might have heard about my visit and come to see me. But in that sea of faces there was none from my past, and my gaze just encountered the same lascivious grins and lusty eyes that I see at every show from Agra to Amsterdam.
I repaid my debt to the city tonight, and I don't think I shall ever return to it.
31 December
On this last day of the year, Rosie brought me a whole bunch of letters written by some loser called Larry Page. He's been writing me five letters per week since October. What's even more intriguing is that he's American (or at least he claims to be).
The guy is completely off his rocker. He claims that I wrote to him posing as some Sapna Singh and even promised to marry him. Now why a top actress would fall for a goof like him boggles the mind. The poor sod professes his love for me with lines like 'I'd walk through hell in gasoline underwear for you.'
He also tries to give me life lessons. A sample: 'When life gives you lemons . . . make lemonade.' Another gem: 'Life is like a turd sandwich – the more bread you've got, the less shit you have to eat.'
But enough fun and merriment. Rosie is seriously 362 MOTIVES worried this guy might be a psycho and the next I know I may be running to the High Court to get a restraining order against Mr Larry 'Stalker' Page. So as of today, I've instructed Bahadur to carefully screen all visitors. Anyone looking even remotely like an American is to be denied entry and taken straight to the Andheri police station. I'll also tell Bhola to have a word with DCP Godbole, just in case the sicko has a police record.
Such is the price of fame!
7 January
Ram Dulari has proved to be a most adept pupil. She can now speak English with the glibness of a tour guide. She can wield a knife and fork at the dinner table with the finesse of a dowager. She can pirouette in six-inch pencil heels and eat chop suey with chopsticks.
I had hoped to complete the Cinderella Project in ten months. Ram Dulari has passed with flying colours in just five.
This calls for a celebration.
13 January
Disaster struck me today. As I was getting out of the bathtub after a leisurely bath, I slipped and badly twisted my ankle. Forget walking, now I can't even hobble.
Since this morning Ram Dulari has been applying balm to my swollen left foot and using hot compresses to bring down the swelling. Dr Gupte says it will take at least ten days to heal. Luckily the Guddu Dhanoa film to which I was committed from 10 January has been shelved for the time being, so no cancellations will be necessary. But I will be unable to attend the première of my latest film, Love in Canada, which takes place tomorrow at the IMAX theatre. The producer is Deepak Hirani, my godfather, for whom I have enormous respect, and it will be a huge blow to him to have his leading lady missing from the première line-up. Unfortunately an actress can never be seen in a plaster, otherwise I would have dragged myself to Wadala, come hell or high water.
I was about to call up Deepak Sir to apologize for having to cry off when Bhola stopped me. 'I have an idea, didi.'
'What?'
'Why don't we send Ram Dulari to the première?'
'How will that help?'
'I mean we send her in your place, as Shabnam Saxena.'
I gave Bhola the piercing-gaze treatment, the one I use to deal with producers who have a rather liberal interpretation of my no-nudity clause. 'Are you a raving lunatic? How can Ram Dulari become me?'
'Just think, didi. She looks just like you. Same height, same build, same skin tone. Once she puts on make-up and your clothes, I bet you no one will be able to tell the difference.'
'But everyone knows she is just a cook.'
'Who knows, didi? No one. Ram Dulari never steps out of the house. Even the watchman hasn't seen her.'
He had a point. We had indeed kept Ram Dulari hidden inside the house like a family secret.
'I tell you, didi, it is a perfect plan. Ram Dulari will attend the première, but everyone will think you are attending. The crew will be happy. Deepak Sir will be happy, no one will ever know.'
Bhola was persuasive, but I was not convinced. 'How can you be so sure?'
'Because I will go with Ram Dulari, didi, be with her throughout. She doesn't have to do much. We'll enter through the rear gate to avoid the fans. She will climb up to the stage to light the lamp and pose with the cast for some photo-ops. Then after watching the film we'll leave again through the rear exit.'
'Supposing someone asks her something?'
'Ram Dulari will not open her mouth. I will spread the word that you have a sore throat. I tell you, didi, it's foolproof.'
I still had my doubts. 'But what if it is not? What if she gets caught? What if Salman or Akshay finds out that she is just a lookalike?'
'Then we will pretend it was all a stunt. The movie will get even more publicity. Deepak Sir will certainly not complain.'
It was lunacy, but I was getting caught up in it.
'OK,' I exhaled. 'I'm in. But there is one condition.'
'What?'
'I need to watch the whole thing on video.'
'Done. I'll get you the tape.'
14 January
She was perfect. I couldn't have done it any better. She smiled when she was required to smile, lighted the lamp with just the right touch of reverence, stood stock still for the photographs, didn't flinch from the flashbulbs popping in her face, shook hands with the demureness of a princess and handled the presence of Bollywood stars around her with the sang-froid of a fellow celebrity.
> It is a blessing that Ram Dulari has not seen any Hindi films. Any other girl would have started swooning on being within kissing distance of Salman and Akshay. But she wasn't overawed by them. She is herself a star. Created by the Cinderella Project.
Azim Bhai, the stunt director of the movie, was also at the première. I felt like calling him up and telling him that I had pulled off the greatest stunt of them all, and even the cameraman had not been able to spot it!
16 January
Bhola has become a tiger that has tasted blood. He came to me today with another outrageous proposition. B. R. Virmani, the textile magnate, has asked me to become brand ambassador for a new line of jeans being launched by his company. He has offered to pay me five hundred thousand rupees for a five-minute appearance at the opening of a new Liquid Jeans boutique on Friday, just two days from now.
'Virmani's PR man is Rakesh Dattani. I know him very well. He has confided in me that if you don't agree they will offer the deal to Priyanka, your biggest competitor. Now we wouldn't want that, would we?' Bhola said.
'But I can't go. My leg is in plaster.'
'Wrong, didi. You can go.' He winked and pointed at Ram Dulari.
'This is madness. How the hell do you think Ram Dulari can handle all those fans that will be thronging the store?'
'Simple. We tell Virmani to keep tight security and not to allow any fans to come near her.'
'But doesn't she have to say something when she cuts the ribbon?'
'Yes. Just three lines. Ram Dulari?' He gestured to her.
'So good to be here. I love Liquid Jeans. So will you,' Ram Dulari intoned. Though she stood stiffly like a mannequin, her delivery wasn't bad.
'So this is all a set-up. You two have been conspiring
behind my back,' I complained. 'No, didi, please don't blame Ram Dulari. I coached her,' Bhola said contritely. 'I made her believe these were your instructions. But if you don't want her to go, she will not go. Your trust is worth much more to us than five lakh rupees.'
I relented. 'Go, we can use this money for Ram Dulari's wedding. But don't forget my videotape.'
18 January