I saw the tape this evening. Ram Dulari was again superb. There were at least three hundred people in that store, mostly college students. She soaked up the adulation, the cheering and the clapping like a circus ringmaster and sashayed up to the podium in her jeans like a catwalk model. I detected a hint of uncertainty when she was asked to speak, a slight quivering, but she didn't stumble. And her voice sounded remarkably like mine. She cut the ribbon like a professional politician and the entire hall burst into deafening applause.
Seeing the mass hysteria Ram Dulari was generating, I had to remind myself that I was Shabnam Saxena and she was just an impostor. I was the real deal, she was a fake.
The only mishap occurred as she was leaving, when suddenly a bunch of teenage girls broke through security and descended on her. 'Autograph please, Shabnamji' they clamoured, thrusting autograph books and scraps of paper at her. Ram Dulari froze for a second and the camera captured the look on her face. A cross between baffled and bewildered, like a schoolgirl who doesn't know the answer in an exam. Then Bhola grabbed her by the arm and led her away, trailed by the disappointed cries of my fans.
20 January
'What is autograph, didi?' Ram Dulari asked me as I was having lunch.
'It is the last weapon I forgot to put in your armoury,' I conceded.
'Will you teach me how to do autograph?'
So I proceeded to teach her how to sign her name and mine – the waggle on the S, the uneven symmetry of the habna and the little flourish at the end on the m. She caught on very fast and within a day was signing test autographs with such panache that I was tempted to pass on Rosie Mascarenhas's boilerplate replies to her.
'Why do you send me to these functions where I pretend to be you, didi?' she asked me as I was about to turn in for the night.
'It is a game, Ram Dulari, just a game,' I replied wearily.
For a second I thought I caught another look on her face, a cross between frustration and resentment, then she smiled at me and walked out of my bedroom.
21 January
My ankle has almost healed. But Dr Gupte says I should not take off the plaster for another three days. Which means that I will also miss the Cine Blitz Awards Night, where I am supposed to receive the award for Best Actress in a Negative Role for my performance in A Woman's Revenge.
This time I have decided to send Ram Dulari. This will be her ultimate test. If she survives this, she will survive anything.
I will coach her personally in what to say and what to do. Then I will watch it all on TV when the Awards Night is broadcast live.
24 January
I settled down on my bed and switched on the plasma TV. The live coverage had begun and a young lady anchor was showing the activity outside the Andheri Sports Complex as stars pulled up in their cars and posed for the cameras.
Five minutes later my silver E500 Mercedes arrived and Ram Dulari stepped out in a sexy white sari with a sequined border. A very loud roar went up.
I sat on the bed, mesmerized, watching myself preening on the red carpet. I got goosebumps when I waved my hands and thousands of crazed fans began chanting my name. I was blinded by the million flashbulbs which ripped across my eyes as I smiled at the cameras.
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.
As I looked at the carnage in the dressing room, the sickening realization hit me like a blow to the stomach that robbers had entered the flat, ransacked it in a frenzy, taken everything of value, eaten a leisurely Chinese dinner, and killed Bhola and Ram Dulari.
I stood there, enveloped by the cold silence of the house, trying to gather enough courage to wrench open the bathroom door and discover two bruised and bloated bodies floating in a crimson tub. My tub!
I couldn't do it. So I returned to the bedroom and picked up the phone on the bedside table to call the police. That's when I discovered a handwritten message taped to the handset. 'Before you call the police,' it said in vaguely familiar handwriting, 'have a look at the videotape in the bottom right-hand drawer of your dressing table.'
I rushed to the dressing table and opened the bottom right-hand drawer. There was a VHS tape lying there, black, without any cover or label. Its very anonymity made it seem faintly menacing.
For some reason the robbers had not taken any of the electronic equipment in the flat. My entertainment unit with the plasma TV, the music system and the DVD player was still intact. With trembling hands I put the tape into the video player and switched on the TV. I half expected to see Ram Dulari's dead body floating in a bathtub, but what I saw was entirely unexpected. There was a bathtub all right, but the only person floating in it was me, and I was completely naked.
The twenty-minute video showed me soaking in the bath, playing with the shower head, spraying the foam bubbles from my body, doing the kinds of things a lonely girl does in the bathroom.