I was horrified that a camera had captured these images of me. But what troubled me even more was the fact that the images were from my own bathroom.
I opened the bathroom door and peeped inside. There were no bodies in the marble bathtub. There was just an eerie silence, broken only by the metronomic drips of water leaking from the tap. I looked up at the recessed lights in the ceiling. At first glance they all looked the same, but in the centre one immediately above the tub I could make out the liquid glisten of a camera lens.
I went back to the bedroom and examined the note once again. In a flash I recognized the handwriting. It was Bhola's. He had tried to disguise it, but the slanting ts were a dead giveaway.
The set-up was becoming clear to me. Bhola had installed cameras in my bedroom and bathroom, had been secretly taping me for close to nine months and made God knows how many tapes. Taking advantage of my absence, he had looted the house, ransacked it to make it look as if it was the handiwork of robbers, and was now threatening that if I went to the police he would make the tape public.
This man, who used to call me his sister, had now become a blackmailer. And he had chosen his target well. No one could understand my predicament better than me. A sex bomb's appeal lies in keeping the sex hidden. Just as a woman in lingerie is considered sexier than a nude, when titillation descends into porn the mystique ends. The entire Indian film industry is based on the concept of chaste titillation. You can show a bit of cleavage here, a flash of thigh there, but never the whole shebang. Bollywood actresses can be sexy, but must at all times be decent.
I knew that if this tape was exposed, it could destroy my reputation, send my career into a tailspin from which it might be impossible to recover. I knew I couldn't go to the police.
I tried calling Bhola on his mobile, but failed to get through. 'The subscriber you have dialled is no longer available,' said a pre-recorded message. Bhola had probably already acquired a new mobile. For all I knew he might not even be in India.
How can I have made such a big mistake, keeping a treacherous snake as my assistant secretary? But there's no point crying over spilled milk. As the Master says, never yield to remorse, but tell yourself that remorse would simply mean adding to the first act of stupidity a second.
There's just one question dancing in my mind. What has Bhola done to poor Ram Dulari?
12 March
It has been four days since Ram Dulari was kidnapped. I think she is dead. I can feel it in my bones. She has been killed by Bhola, her body chopped into little pieces, dumped in a sack, weighed with a heavy stone and dropped into the ocean, where she probably rests with the fish.
As the police will tell you, there is a designated time frame for the recovery of missing persons. The moment you pass that point, the chances of finding the hostage alive recede drastically. I pity parents who continue to hope for the return of their kidnapped child after months or even years.
Life is all about cutting your losses and moving on. Like I have.
Ram Dulari R.I.P. Bhola R.I.H. (That's Rot in Hell. Eventually.)
13 March
Producer 'Jugs' Luthra, better known as the soft-porn king of Bollywood, met me today. A fleshy, corpulent man who wheezes when he speaks, he has nevertheless made four hits in a row. 'So, Shabnam, can we begin shooting from 15 April?' he asked in his breathless voice.
'Shooting for what?'
'For my film, Sexy Number One.'
'Luthra Sahib, I told you six months ago that I cannot do your film. I was not comfortable with all those kissing and bathing scenes you wanted.'
'But then you changed your mind. I have already paid you fifty lakhs in advance. In cash, too.'
'Fifty lakhs in advance?'
'Yes. Your secretary Bhola conveyed your acceptance to me last month and said you needed the money immediately. He even gave me dates in April and May. The production goes to the floor in a month's time. I will ask Jatin to discuss the costumes with you. They will be a bit skimpy, as you know, but then the script demands some skin. I assure you, I will have all your shots filmed very aesthetically.'
My head started spinning. Bhola had taken five million on my behalf and got me involved in a sleazy B-movie? 'I am sorry, there must be some confusion. I never authorized Bhola to agree to your project. And my dates are always arranged by Rakeshji, not Bhola.'
'What are you saying, Shabnam? You have even signed the contract, on the basis of which I released the advance.'
'Contract?'
'Yes, here it is.' He opened his briefcase and handed me a typewritten document. It was my standard contract, with the no-nudity clause prominently missing. At the bottom of the document was my signature and the date – 17 February, the day I was leaving for Australia.
I looked at the signature. I had never signed such a contract, but the signature seemed genuine. And that's when it struck me. Bhola must have got Ram Dulari to sign it. If she could give perfect autographs, she could also forge my signature on a contract.
'Look, Mr Luthra, I am definitely not doing your film,' I said firmly.
The producer became angry. 'Then I shall sue you for breach of contract,' he wheezed.
'I am sure we can resolve this amicably. I am prepared to return your money if you are prepared to tear up this contract. And as a goodwill gesture, I will make a twominute guest appearance in your film for free.'
He thought about it. 'I agree, but only on one condition. That you return my money by tomorrow. The entire fifty peti. In cash.'
'I promise. I will go to the bank first thing in the morning.'
I heaved a sigh of relief at getting out of this risqué contract. I didn't expect Jugs to agree so readily. But he knows he can find plenty of girls willing to do roles in chhote kapde – itsy-bitsy clothes – the euphemism for censor-approved nudity – for one-tenth my signing fee. The film industry is full of teenage girls ready to expose themselves at a minute's notice. They will put on any costume the producer gives them, do a pole dance that would put a Las Vegas strip joint to shame, and agree to crawl around on all fours in fleshcoloured panties.
14 March
The bank manager, a nice suited gentleman, welcomed me with noticeably less warmth than on earlier occasions. I asked him to withdraw fifty lakhs in cash from my account. He smiled frostily and said the bank wouldn't be able to give me such a large overdraft.
'Overdraft? Why do I need an overdraft when I have so much money in the bank?'
'You are forgetting, Shabnamji, that on 16 February you came here and withdrew every penny from your account, even cashing in your fixed deposits. You said you were transferring to another bank.'
'But . . . but I couldn't have done that. I haven't visited the bank in months.'
'You came personally with your secretary, Mr Bhola Srivastava. Don't you remember we sat in this very room and I explained to you how you would lose interest on the fixed deposits? You signed all the forms and collected the cash. Then you went to the vault and withdrew all your belongings.'
Every word the bank manager said was like a hammer blow on my brain. Six crore rupees, gone. All my heavy gold jewellery, gone. My 24-carat Dubai gold coins, gone. My platinum pendant, gone. My voice, gone.
'I . . . I . . . I don't know how . . . how this . . . h-happened.'
The manager gave me the compassionate look which people give those who are in imminent danger of being sent to a mental institution.
I returned to the flat in a daze, told Rakeshji to cancel all my engagements for the day, and slumped down on the bed.
I wondered how many other producers Bhola has given dates to and taken money from. I looked around at the furniture that I have managed to put back in place. How soon before I get an eviction notice and everything is auctioned to pay off my creditors?
Life, at its core, is war. I cannot be a silent spectator to my own financial ruin, to the systematic destruction of my career. I will go to the police and tell them everything about Bhola. How he had defraud
ed me, robbed me, forced Ram Dulari to impersonate me and then probably killed her.
I will deal with the tape when it becomes public. It will embarrass me, certainly, but it won't destroy me. And whatever doesn't destroy me only makes me stronger.
I have decided to pay a visit to DCP Godbole, but only on 18 March. I will not allow Bhola's perfidy to spoil my birthday.
17 March
I turn twenty-three today. All day producers and directors have been calling me up to wish me well. Bouquets have been arriving by the dozen; the whole house reeks of roses and lilies.
Rosie Mascarenhas tells me she has been flooded with cards from my fans. At the last count nearly thirty thousand had arrived, breaking all previous postal records.
Deepak Sir is hosting a birthday bash for me at the Sheraton this evening.
Even in the midst of all this festivity, my mind is tinged with sadness. Because no one will call to wish me Happy Birthday from Azamgarh. In my first year in Mumbai, I waited by the phone from morning till night on 17 March, hoping against hope for a call from Babuji and Ma, but it never came. My family has cut me off so completely that they probably don't even remember it's my birthday.
18 March
This evening a delivery arrived from DHL. I opened it up to discover a small packet, all neatly wrapped and ribboned.
I tore open the gold paper and received a shock. Because nestling in my hand was another videotape, black, without a cover or label. There was a small Post-it note attached to the bottom of the tape. 'Belated Happy Birthday. If you are still thinking of going to the police, see this,' it said in Bhola's slanting handwriting.
I inserted the tape into the video player, expecting to see the next instalment of 'Adventures of a Lonely Girl', but what appeared on the screen sent a jolt of electricity down my spine.
The tape showed me performing various sex acts on a man. The man's face was never shown, but from his wheatish skin tone and the paunch of his hairy belly I knew without doubt that it was Bhola. The footage was graphic. Its explicitness numbed me. My bath tape looked like a Disney film by comparison.
The tape made a few things clear to me. One, that Ram Dulari was very much alive. And two, that she was a willing accomplice in all of Bhola's crimes. How a coy virgin had metamorphosed into a raging nymphomaniac was still a mystery to me, but her betrayal stung me more than Bhola's.
Bhola and Ram Dulari, what a team they made. They were a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, a real-life Bunty and Babli, running riot, painting the town red, swindling, fucking, faking their way through to sixty million bucks. And leaving me to pay their bills.
For a long time I simply sat on the bed, paralysed. If you gaze for long enough into an abyss, the abyss gazes back at you. Then I began considering my options. The bath tape had nailed me, but this one had Ram Dulari in the lead role. I couldn't be held accountable for the actions of my doppelgäger. If I went to the police and Bhola released this tape, what was the worst that could happen? Going by recent examples, the tape would travel around the world as an internet video clip and rest eventually in cyberspace heaven, a permanent archive to refresh and relieve porn addicts.
I began thinking of Pamela Anderson and Paris Hilton. I thought of all the acres of free publicity, record box-office receipts. I would become the most famous Indian actress in the world, grab the number-one spot with just this one sleazy hit. And then, of course, I would conveniently blame it all on Ram Dulari!
No, no, no. It was all wrong. What was I thinking? This is India. Here exposing your belly button is seen as indecent exposure. Here a woman in a bikini leads to street protests. And how would I ever prove that it was the 'fake' me on tape? Especially after the release of the 'original' bath tape.
I should think police case. Think magistrate. Think jail. Think riots by the Society for Moral Regeneration. Think my effigies being burnt, my movie posters being shredded. Think being shunned by the film industry. Think the end of my career.
Shit!
Think, dammit. Just Think. THINK.
20 March
The call I have been waiting four years for came today.
At precisely nine twenty p.m. the telephone rang and a jaded operator asked me if I was Shabnam Saxena. 'Yes, this is Shabnam Saxena,' I said.
'Please speak, your caller is on line,' she droned, completely oblivious to the fact that she had just spoken to one of India's biggest celebrities.
'Beti, this is Ma speaking. I am calling from a PCO.' I heard my mother's thin voice and my heart leapt into my mouth.
The line was very bad, but I sensed instantly that this was not a call to wish me Happy Birthday. It was a cry for help.
Ma was imploring me to return immediately to Azamgarh. 'There has been a big tragedy,' she said. 'Your father is in hospital, fighting for his life. I cannot say anything on the phone. Just come, my daughter. Just come.'
'Yes, Ma,' I said, fighting back the tears. 'I am coming.'
21 March
I have returned to Azamgarh, the town of my birth. I flew from Mumbai to Varanasi and then hired a taxi to take me the final ninety kilometres. Lest I be recognized and mobbed, I put on a burqa over my jeans.
Lucknow changed a lot in three years, but Azamgarh has remained unchanged even after seven. It is the same congested cesspool dotted with dilapidated houses and decaying slums. The roads are full of potholes. Rubbish lies piled up at every street corner. Roadside drains overflow with sewer water. Cows roam the roads freely. Posters of politicians with plastic smiles and folded hands decorate every empty space.
Kurmitola, where our ancestral house stands, has become a claustrophobic monstrosity. Its narrow streets used to teem with rickshaws and cycles, but now they buzz with the sounds of car horns, three-wheeler klaxons and screeching tyres. Pigeons flutter from the balconies of spectacularly ruined houses. Battered hoardings display garish film posters and advertisements for sex clinics. Dexterous craftsmen in tatty clothes work in decrepit shops. Wrinkled men smoke ancient hookahs on filthy pavements, looking like derelict reminders of a forgotten past.
I had no difficulty in locating my house, at the edge of a field used by children for games of cricket and gulli danda. I knocked on the weather-beaten door and Ma opened it. She looked older and greyer than I had ever seen her. We embraced, shed a few tears, then she made me sit on a creaky charpoy in the octagonal courtyard where Sapna and I used to play hopscotch and told me the reason for calling me to Azamgarh.
Two days ago, Sapna was abducted while returning from college. She was taken to a small house in Sarai Meer, a notorious locality just outside the city, known for its gangsters. There her abductor tried to rape her, but Sapna somehow managed to get hold of the gangster's gun and shot him dead.
She returned home within hours of her abduction, but Babuji had a heart attack on receiving the news. Now he is in hospital and Sapna is hiding in the house, terrified that the police might come any minute to take her away for murder. In desperation, Ma has turned to me as a last resort.
I gripped Ma's hand as she narrated these events, her voice breaking.
'Your sister came back trembling like a leaf,' she continued. 'I couldn't look into her eyes, so full of pain. Lawlessness has increased so much in this city that no girl is safe. Well, what can you expect when the Home Minister of the State is himself a known criminal? Your Babuji will still not admit it, but I say to you, beti, you did the right thing by going away to Bombay. I only wish you had taken your little sister with you. Then we wouldn't have had to see this day.'
'Between right and wrong there is accident, Ma, which is neither right nor wrong, over which we have no control.'
'You are right, beti. Whatever is destined will come to pass.'
'Where is Sapna?' I asked.
'She is hiding in the luggage room and refuses to come out. The poor girl has not eaten in forty-eight hours. Perhaps you can make her listen.'
I remembered the luggage room was the gloomiest room in the house. It w
as windowless and the air inside was dark and lifeless, radiating the musty smell of dust and mouldy wood. It was the perfect hiding spot when Sapna and I used to play hide and seek, but neither of us could bear staying in that creepy room longer than ten minutes. Now Sapna had been holed up there for two full days.
I ran up the steps to the luggage room and knocked on the battered wooden door, its paint peeling in strips away from the wood. 'It is me, Sapna. Open up.'
There was a brief silence, and then Sapna opened the door and fell into my embrace. She looked haggard and gaunt, with dark circles under her eyes. She draped her arms around me and hugged me tightly, her fingers digging into my spine, searching for the familiar indentations of childhood in the terrain of my back. Then she broke down and cried, her frail body racked by sobs. Her tears flowed freely till she had none left. I stroked her head and silently shared her grief.
At my urging, Sapna finally ate a meal. Then we left for the hospital to see Babuji, Sapna also dressed in a black burqa like me.
The room in the ICU was dim and quiet. My elder sister Sarita was there, sitting on a chair with the same harassed look on her face as when I had last seen her, the look of an unhappily married woman with three unruly children. She embraced me more warmly than I expected. We were never that close, but perhaps my fame had bridged the gap.
Babuji lay on a metal bed with a green sheet, breathing through a tube. He has shrunk since I last saw him. Old age has defined the furrows on his face and the veins on his hands; illness has deepened them. His hair has thinned out, leaving bald patches on the scalp. He groaned occasionally in his sleep.
I have done many such scenes in movies – the dutiful daughter at the father's deathbed – but I had almost forgotten the antiseptic smell of a real hospital. The steady blip of the heart monitor resonated in the room like a radio signal in outer space. I listened to the pneumatic hiss and whoosh of the ventilator, saw the green digital surge of the EKG and felt a tiny wave of relief.
A bespectacled doctor in a white coat entered the room and checked the chart attached to the bed.
'Is he making progress, Doc?' I asked him.