Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (15 page)

Dad takes a couple. He points to Miss Glen. “Once I knew I wanted to act in films, I went to her for dance lessons. I learned from the best. Till then I had no idea that hip joints were separate parts of your body like bellies,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “My costume is ready. I have to change. See you later,” he calls as he walked away.

Shaan is searching in his chip bag. He takes out two huge chips and places them between his lips to form duck lips.

“Abby,” his voice is muffled, “want to dance?”

How do you stay annoyed at someone with chip lips? I laugh. He changed the mood with his silliness.

“C’mon,
yaar
!” Shaan the duck offers his hand.

I seize two chips from the bag and join Shaan. We both talk through our duck lips. Shaan grins, losing his chips, and points to something behind me. I turned to see Dad walking from his trailer wearing an electric blue shirt and black pants. A costume for sure.

The molded satin of Dad’s shirt highlights his stomach

muscles. The first three buttons are undone and—is that a medallion on a chain around his neck? He looks totally ready to be on
Dancing with the Stars
.

I burst into laughter. Dad grins wryly. “Glad you find it funny, Abby.”

“Wow! Look at those abs.” Shaan smiles. Why this fascination with a set of muscles? Miss Glen’s voice booms, “Places.”

All the backup dancers run into place. Rani returns. Her skirt now swings around her knees. She sashays back to her spot against the wall. Dad walks over and they are talking and laughing. So, she’s gorgeous and funny?

Ms. Glen yells out, “One, two, three,
ek, do, teen
.”

The music blares. They’ve rehearsed enough by this time that Dad, Rani, and all the dancers get the sequence.

The director yells cut, and Miss Glen shouts, “Good job!” That piece of the song would last for a minute or less on the screen, but it’s taken hours to shoot. Wow, at this rate the entire song could take a week. Now I understand why the director and the choreographer stressed that the song have

to be done in four days. They better hurry up.

After the shot, Dad retires to his trailer for a meeting. Shaan and I sit around forever watching the crew get ready for the next shot. They roll out the nightclub set and roll in the next one. It has the Taj Mahal as a backdrop.

Shaan decides we can kill time with a Hindi lesson. “I can’t be your translator forever, you know, Abby. But here’s another lesson.
Mera naam Abby Spencer hai
means my name is Abby Spencer.”

I dutifully repeat and then find paper and a pencil and write the sentence down.

“What’s your middle name?” “Tara, after my dad’s mother.”

Shaan gives me a strange look. “My mom calls Naveen Kumar’s mom Tara Aunty.”

The silence roars and the quartet bows furiously. Oh Schmidt. My guard was down and I let what I thought was an innocent piece of information slip. I groan inwardly.

He lets the words lie there between us like a ball lobbed in my court.

Do I want to hit the ball back? I have a decision to make. Can I trust Shaan? I know that he’s stumbled onto my secret. All I need to do is say yes. Unlike Priya and Zoey who are eight thousand miles away, Shaan is here. He could be someone to talk to about all of this.

But what about my promise to Dad? What if this leaks out in the wrong manner, hurts Dad’s career, and ruins Mom’s private life?

Shaan taps my knee. “
Tum, chup kyon ho?
” he asks. Then translates, “Why are you silent?”

My eyes beg for understanding. “Because I’m thinking. Because I’m scared. Because I really want to tell you my secret and I really don’t. I’m so confused.”

“Hey, relax. It’s not a big deal.”

I take a deep breath. “It’s embarrassing to watch my dad trace zigzag lines on some glamour babe’s bare back,” I say, drawing out each word confirming his suspicion without saying the words.

Shaan’s eyes pop. “Wow! You’re joking, right?”

“It’s true.” There, I said it. My mouth is dry, but my shoulders slump in relief.

“There’s something about the way he is with you. Like a father.” Shaan spreads his hands out helplessly.

“Do you think others have noticed too?”

Shaan thinks about it. Then he looks me in the eye and says, “No.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I don’t think anyone else watches you as closely,” he mumbles. I can barely hear him, but I heard the words.

I feel a monumental blush creeping over my face. I’m as red as Rani’s skirt.

Where should I look? What should I do with my hands and feet? I’m thrilled and overwhelmed.

A new bag of chips lie near Shaan. I fish for the two

largest chips and mumble through my chapped duck chip lips, “Thank you, Shaan.”

Am I saying thank you for him noticing me or for assuring me that others haven’t noticed or both?

“I know we can’t talk right now with so many people around but call me tonight,” I say.

“Sure. You know you can trust me with your secret. We can sign a contract in blood if you like,” he teases.

“I’ll take friendship bracelets instead please.”

We’re distracted by Miss Glen yelling at one of the production men. “I need more extras. Touristy-looking extras. This shot is in front of the Taj.”

She spies us. “You two!” she calls out. “You would be the perfect tourists.”

I guess it’s pretty obvious I’m a foreigner to her. Then she says, “One
phirang
-foriegner to boot! Line up for make up.”

She does not ask us. She orders us.

Shaan and I stand up. We’re programmed to respond to adult orders.

“Oh my God! She’s crazy, Shaan. We’re not extras,” I whisper urgently.

“I know. She’s nuts but imagine how awesome it would be to be in a Bollywood movie for two seconds.”

“No way! I can’t dance like that,” I protest.

Shaan tries to convince me. “They’ll teach us. We’re

supposed to be tourists, not dancers. We’ll be in a crowd. We’ll probably never show up in the movie.”

“I don’t know, Shaan,” I waver. A not-so-little voice in my head says,
It would be cool to be in a movie for even one second. Especially one that stars Dad!

Dad comes out of his meeting and walks over. Miss Glen intercepts him. “Naveen, I need these two kids as extras. I don’t have enough and they would make perfect tourists.”

Dad looks at us, “Sure, but it’s their decision to make.” Shaan grins. “I’m in. Watch the birth of a star.”

His attitude is infectious. How often will someone ask me to dance in a Bollywood movie? “I’m in too.”

Game on!
Dhak, dhak, dhin, dhin!

We stand in line with the other extras for makeup. I’m so nervous but Shaan keeps me laughing. He pretends to be interviewed by an imaginary reporter.

“I got my break as an extra in a Bollywood film,” he replies to a pretend question.

Shaan assumes the imaginary reporter role with a water bottle microphone. “How do you feel on the eve of the premiere of the summer blockbuster?”

Shaan responds without the water bottle microphone, “Oh, it’s amazing,
yaar
. What a journey it’s been!”

I can feel my nervousness melting and I get into the spirit.

How can I not when I’m around Shaan?

Dad and Rani lead the charge. Rani has changed and is now decked out like a glamorous rock chick, complete with a guitar, super tight T-shirt, and tattoo creeping up her lower back. She strides onto the set and tosses her wig. How many personas and costume changes would she have through this song?

We extras stand behind the front row of expert dancers. The steps are a bit like the Macarena, with a twist of the Texas two-step and a garnish of Bollywood enthusiasm. I learn to shake my hips. A skill I’ll use back home, I’m sure—if only to hula-hoop!

I start out stiff and conscious but then see Shaan get into the mood with gusto. I can’t let my dad down; I’m his daughter after all. I try to move my belly as ordered and almost throw out my back.

Dhak-dhak
, shake-shake,
dhin-dhin
, spin—and bump into Shaan’s head. Ouch! His head feels like a block of concrete.

We do the moves repeatedly until we get them right.

We dance until my mouth hurts from smiling and my feet blister. It’s a day of excitement!

Dhak, dhak, dhin, dhin
. The song from the movie shoot has embedded itself into my brain. What’s the cure for a perfect earworm?

I play the tune on my violin that night and bask in the admiration from Shiva, Dad, and Grandma Tara. They smile, rock, and clap, and I get into my groove, improvise, bow, and trill.

“More! More!” they cry when I stop. So I play some more.

Chapter 19

Grandma Tara and I turn the pages of my photo album for the third time. She obviously can’t get enough of my baby pictures. It’s as if she’s studying my every moment as a child. “In this picture, you look like Naveen,” she says, pointing to a picture of me sitting on the floor with mashed bananas all over my face.

I’m probably a year old in that picture. “You think so?” I ask skeptically.

“Yes,” Grandma Tara says. She asks Shiva to get a picture from her room. He comes back with one of my father’s baby pictures as proof. There is a distinct resemblance, the grin, the chin, the way we both embrace the camera.

Mom should see this! “Can I have this picture?” I ask. “Of course you can have the picture. I wish I could

have cleaned your face after that banana feast,” she says wistfully.

I squeeze her hand. I would’ve liked that too.

“Abby, I’m getting stronger again and I want to search through my husband’s old papers and see if I can find anything. I vaguely remember him telling me that one of Naveen’s American friends had called. Naveen was in Delhi then for his job.”

My heart flutters.

Grandma Tara looks through me as if she’s looking at her past. “I told Naveen this yesterday. So many of us have lost our children to America. My husband was afraid that Naveen would go back too. But I don’t think he would have ever kept the news of a child from Naveen. Not his own flesh and blood. He valued family too much. I have to believe that. If he read your mother’s letter and knew about you but still decided not to tell Naveen or me, it would break my heart,
beta
.” Her eyes shimmer.

I don’t know what to say so instead I lean on her shoulder. “Your mother says she is sure the letter was received?” “Yes, she registered it,” I explain.

After that, Grandma Tara and I don’t say anything. We don’t have to. Instead she brushes my hair till it shines.

I want Mom to know Dad again, today’s Dad. I want her to be friends with Grandma Tara and Shiva. On any

given day and moment, I alternate between anger at how things worked out and trying to accept that none of us could change the past.

I talked to Shaan about it last night when we were returning from the movie studio. Now that he knows my secret, it’s nice to share honestly.

“It sucks that you didn’t have your dad growing up,” said Shaan. “But what you can do? It’s the past.”

I laughed. “You have a point.”

Shaan’s practical advice burst my whiny self-pitying mood.

“Hey, could you write a song about it?” Shaan suggested with a smile.

“I ain’t got no daddy?” I sang in a jazzy blues wail. “No, Shaan, I don’t write songs. I could play a violin piece.”

“You should do that!” Then he turns serious. “You know how they say live in the moment and stuff?” Shaan was trying to be helpful. “Like I know I can’t change the fact that I didn’t play baseball as a kid, but I can play now if I want to.” “So you’re saying focus on getting to know Dad today?”

I asked.

“Yup!” Then he changed the subject. “Hey, watch this hilarious clip on YouTube of a baby who’s scared of his own mom when she sneezes.” Once again, Shaan has lightened my mood and made me smile.

A few days ago, I said to Shiva, “I wish I’d known you all my life.” He clucked at me, wagging his finger. “No change life. You friend now.”

I guess Shaan and Shiva both agreed to not regret the past.

It feels weird though to have these two sides of my family who haven’t met each other. Like the two banks of a river and I’m the bridge. They’re all a part of me. Why can’t they be part of each other?