Six Suspects (45 page)

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.

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 defrauded 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!