The Nidhi Kapoor Story (8 page)

Tonight’s get-together was yet another opportunity where she could come back home with someone interesting. Someone like Prakash. Tonight her gang was welcoming one of her friends from college, Sonal, to Mumbai. Since this time the newcomer was Rujuta’s friend, she wanted to take lead and make all arrangements.

Rujuta had decided long in advance that Sonal’s party would happen at the Vie Lounge. It was located bang on the Juhu beach. The beaches in Mumbai were nothing like those in other cities. Beaches here meant harassment by touts and photographers, persuasive pitches by self-proclaimed
expert masseurs, pestering salesmen peddling cheap trinkets and other such things. However, Vie lounge gave its patrons privacy from the peering eyes of Mumbaikars hanging out at the beach.

Apart from being an ace photographer, Rujuta was an amateur ethnographer and in her opinion, there was no city like Mumbai to learn the craft. She would observe people, click pictures and try to cast them into stereotypes. She had created many such stereotypes and her favorite was about behavior of Mumbaikars on the beaches on Sundays. She had noticed that for some reason, every Sunday, people would get together in large groups and throng one of the numerous beaches that lined the western boundary of Mumbai. Each flock consisted of friends, families, distant cousins, neighbors, school friends, college friends and all other categories that people in Mumbai classified their acquaintances in. They may not have a lot of money but they always found something to be happy about. Maybe it was the togetherness. Maybe it was junk food. May be it was an escape from the rough test that Mumbai was every other day of their lives. Or maybe it merely was the healing powers of the sea winds that brought the songs and stories from the lands that lay afar.

Rujuta was of the opinion that Mumbaikars have learned to make the most of whatever limited they had. On top of it, they had something that people in most other cities lacked. Empathy towards others, even if they were strangers. Mumbaikars also had this belief that anything is possible in Mumbai. Mumbai thus was a place where every dream, however large, however gregarious, could come true. People had seen these dreams come true. You could
choose your dream and Mumbai gave you a platform to erect an empire for that dream. Mumbai was the proverbial city of dreams. There was always that someone, somewhere, who was an example to you that had lived your dream. And their lives added highly inflammable fuel to the fire of your dreams and make it burn brighter. And wilder.

You want to get rich working on a legitimate business? You had Dhirubhai Ambani as an example. You wanted to win the world by hook or crook? You had Dawood and other underworld dons as examples. You wanted to rule the hearts? Nishant Kapoor, Amitabh Bachchan and more recently, Nidhi Kapoor were examples. You wanted to excel at sports? There was Sachin Tendulkar. Politics? Sharad Pawar. Writing? Suketu Mehta. Journalism? Rajdeep Sardesai. Photography? Raghu Rai. You name it and there was a role model, however traditional or eccentric the profession you may choose. And if they’ve done it, there’s no reason why you couldn’t. It only took a strong will and maddening desire to get that dream off the ground. The one with the maddest desire and ravenous fire invariably got to see their tower soar the highest. And if there was one place where all this could happen, that place was Mumbai, home to about two crore lives. Or two crore dreams.

In Rujuta’s opinion, this chase for immortality, the wild chase for dreams and the ecosystem that Mumbai provided made for a brilliant mix. A mix further accentuated by desire, longing, confidence, despair and the never-say-die attitude. Someone had even coined a single term to capture this madness and the method. The spirit of Mumbai. And it was so true. Rujuta herself had had an option to live anywhere in the world but she chose to live in Mumbai primarily because
of this spirit. And partially because of her aunt, Tarana.

Rujuta liked Vie because its deck opened to the Arabian Sea and gave her a generous view of the sky she loved so dearly. This was one of the few complaints that Rujuta had with Mumbai. The absence of a clear view of the sky. In fact, if Rujuta wanted, she could complain about a lot. Life hadn’t been easy on her. She could start by complaining about her parents who had deserted her when she was an infant. She could then complain about her upbringing in poverty. She could further complain about not having a steady man in her life. She could also complain about Tarana’s insistence on staying away from her. She had so many more things to complain about. But Rujuta took all of them in stride and tried to make the most of what she had. Her favorite movie of all time, The Shawshank Redemption, had a dialogue that read, “Get busy living, or get busy dying.” Rujuta chose the former.

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She went to the maître-d’ at Vie and before she could put in a request, the tall, impeccably dressed man said, “So sorry ma’am, we are closed to guests for the entire week.”

Rujuta could see frantic activity behind the reception desk. She was surprised at this because she’d been a regular at Vie and she had never seen it booked like that during late afternoon. The cheery, irreverent young woman in Rujuta was back. “What? For an entire week? Did the Ambanis book you or what?”

The man smiled apologetically and with a hint of pride
in his voice, said, “Not the Ambanis ma’am. We have been booked by Mr. Taluja’s film company. In fact tonight, they are starting the shoot for their new film with Nidhi Kapoor and Kabeer Khan. Vie is central to the story!”

“What? Nidhi Kapoor! No way!” Rujuta exclaimed.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. And I see you are not being very discreet about your patrons. I’d keep that in mind next time I want to make a reservation. Vikas is still around here?”

Vikas was the head chef at Vie and Rujuta knew him well. The young steward realized his mistake and looked at Rujuta quizzically. “Ma’am, you should have said that you know Vikas Sir. If you want, I can speak to these film guys and can try to find a table for you.”

Rujuta smiled and said, “Nah, it’s OK. I will figure out something else. Oh, and say hello to Vikas.”

Rujuta gave her best smile to the young man and left. She then went to Aurus, walking distance from Vie, to make her reservation. Rujuta was old fashioned like that. Rather than booking over the phone or the Internet, she liked to visit these places and choose the tables that she would want her friends to sit on.

After she was done with the arrangements, she called Prakash.

“What?” He did not believe in greetings.

“Guess where Nidhi Kapoor’s going tonight,” Rujuta said, with a triumphant note in her voice.

“Where?” She could picture Prakash drowned in some files in his boring office.

“Prakash! Dude! You are so boring! Tonight, your Nidhi madam…” she stressed on the word ‘your’ and continued, “is starting the shoot for her new film with Kabeer Khan. And from what I have heard, she would be busy after dinner till early next morning. I am sure you would want to see her while she is shooting, no?”

“And why is this important for me to know?” Prakash asked, apparently indifferent to Rujuta’s excitement.

“Because she is back to work less than 24 hours after her favorite pets were butchered. She is either a strict professional where her work commitment comes above all. Or she is very very stupid. Also, if you want, you can you go ask her some more questions. And if not even that, I am partying close by. You definitely need to loosen up in life. You must meet my friends. They are a fun bunch,” Rujuta again spit everything out in one breath.

“I am not interested in any of those things. Thank you for the tip though.” And just like that, Prakash disconnected.

Rujuta threw up her arms in exasperation. She muttered under her breath, “Prakash Mohile, I am going to get you. Soon.”

She decided to stake out at the newly opened Starbucks at Juhu to mull over the Nidhi Kapoor incident. Although it was about a kilometre away, she decided to walk. Walking helped her clear her head. She missed her stint as a criminal photographer when she would’ve even slept with the ugliest editor to get to work on a scoop like that. Every scoop was like an endorphin rush and was followed by cheers and acknowledgment from the entire team. Every scoop could literally catapult you into the big league
of journalists where you were paid to make appearances and invited to talk to gullible students. Now she worked on features and photo-essays and each essay required weeks, even months of investigation, interviews, photographs and editing. However, in the pecking order, the photojournalists were many notches above the regular beat reporters and Rujuta could not complain. Especially when at her age, twenty-six, most of her peers were still scampering around to find the next scoop that would cement their jobs in the hyper-competitive industry.

She ordered her favorite, a double espresso, plugged her earphones and started doodling on her Moleskin. She listed everyone she met at Ronak and soon she was lost in her journal. Music helped her escape to a different planet. A place where she could focus and think about problems at hand. It helped her go far from the chaotic life that she lived. Her choice of music was just like her. Combinations of two extremes. Old Hindi Bollywood music and the modern electronic dance mixes. Right now she was listening to Kishore Kumar. She liked working to soothing medleys of Kishore, Rafi and Mukesh. And when she was agitated, nervous, excited, she wanted the likes of Black Eyed Peas and Parov Stelar to help her cope.

When she really wanted to let some steam out of her system, she would play music loud, let her hair loose and groove to the beats. She would dance till she was exhausted, till her muscles ached, till she was drenched with her sweat. She would then lie down naked on the cold floor to let her body dry and let the sweat evaporate. She loved the tingling sensation of sweat separating from her body and seeping into the cold floor beneath. To her, philosophically, it was
her escape from the mortal world into a metaphysical one. And when she got numb from the hard cold floor beneath her, she would step into the shower, alternating between very hot and very cold water to soothe her muscles. She’d been doing this for almost two years now. She discovered the shower bit accidentally when after a house party, after all guests had departed, she found herself horribly naked, horribly drunk and horribly out of her mind. She was dancing alone with Felix, her cat, till she collapsed on the floor out of exhaustion. She then somehow dragged herself to the shower. She did not know why she got in the shower but when she turned on the faucet, she could literally see all her fatigue, pain, anger, frustration, hangover, headache, and guilt running down with water. All of it.

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It was almost ten in the night and Prakash was just changing into his shorts when his phone rang. It was Rujuta. Prakash ignored it at first but when it rang the second time around, he picked it up. Rujuta was yelling into the phone, “Prakash! Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, leave it and make your way to Juhu as fast as you can. Nidhi is shooting at the Vie and I can see fire and smoke coming out of the building. I am going there now.” As urgently as the phone had beeped, the line went dead.

Prakash, without wasting any time, re-dressed and raced outside to his Bullet. He had a 1999 Royal Enfield Classic that he had bought from another police officer a couple of years back. The bike was his escape; the way
music was Rujuta’s.

By the time Prakash reached Juhu, the roads were already choked. He left his bike carelessly in one of the alleys and ran towards Vie. As he turned a corner, he could see the fire brigades and the ambulances blaring their horns, flashing their beacons, trying to inch closer to the restaurant. He continued to run, saw the traffic jam caused by curious onlookers, haphazardly parked OB vans and other vehicles of the media hounds who wanted to get some ‘exclusive’ shots, rather than help those trapped inside. The fact that Nidhi Kapoor was shooting at Vie would have made people gather around the lounge, everyone hoping to catch a glimpse of their heroine. “How do these media guys always get to a crime scene before us?” Prakash muttered to himself.

When he reached the site, the unit members were huddled outside in the small alley leading to the restaurant. Naveen Verma, Kabeer Khan, Vicky Taluja and other important looking men and women were talking animatedly to each other. He identified a few faces but his attention was diverted towards Vicky Taluja, who was shouting into his phone. Right next to him, Verma was waving his hands towards the entrance of the restaurant.

Thick billows of dark gray smoke were coming out of the door. The air was heavy with smell of charred wood and roasted meat. The area around the entrance had turned dark with soot. The fire had been raging for some time. Prakash could not spot either Nidhi or Rujuta in the commotion. He started to run towards the entrance but before he could move, he saw Rujuta dragging someone out
from the entrance of the restaurant.

People milling outside Vie saw an extremely good-looking young girl dragging Payal out from the tunnel of smoke. The first to reach them was Naveen Verma, followed closely by Prakash and Vicky Taluja. Both women appeared unharmed, except that Payal was unconscious, her hair disheveled and her white outfit blackened from soot. Rujuta seemed to be in reasonable control over her senses.

The pandemonium got louder when Verma called for a medic. Everyone in their enthusiasm to help was actually doing more harm than good by crowding and not letting the medics tend to Payal.

Rujuta, by this time, had left Payal alone with her well-wishers and had moved away from the circle. She was fumbling with her dress, trying to find her phone when she noticed Prakash. She was relieved at his presence and hurried towards him. She spoke fast, devoid of emotion, “I had to jump into the beach and climb over the wall from there to get into the restaurant. None of these fucking heroes and heroines had the balls to go save the poor girl. I found Payal at the back of the restaurant. She was unconscious, I tried waking her up but when she did not come around, I had to drag her.”