Read Online Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood by Varsha Bajaj - Free Book Online Page A

crumb of panic rises. I look at the signs. None of them reads beloved long-lost daughter.
    A car honks and startles me. My backpack slides off my shoulder. The heat swirls around me. The smells of sweat, heat, soil, and people overpower my brain.
    My chaperone tugs my sleeve and points to a sign. “There.”
    A man holding a sign with my name sees us point and steps forward, “Abby?” he yells.
    Who is this man? Why isn’t my father here?
    The airline employee and the man discuss. The man signs some papers and then my chaperone says good-bye and leaves.
    “Wait! He’s not my father.” Sheer panic invades my body, down to my smallest pore.
    The man hands me a cell phone.
    I hold the phone to my ear. “Abby! Welcome to Mumbai,” my father’s voice booms.
    “Dad?” I ask. “Why aren’t you here?”
    “I didn’t think you’d want the hoopla after a long journey. Thomas is my publicist. He’ll drive you home. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”
    I hand the phone back to Thomas, give him a weak smile, and trip over a mangy dog sleeping on the street.
    “Sorry, guy,” I whisper to the dog, whose bones stand out against his skin, and follow Thomas to the waiting car.

Chapter 11
My dad is bigger than your dad
    A white-haired Indian man opens the car door for me. “Abby, this is Shiva,” Thomas says.
    I hold out my hand, but Shiva joins his hands and does a slight bow. “Namaste.”
    I feel stupid. Next time I’ll do a namaste too.
    We get into the car—me in back, Shiva in the driver’s seat on the right, and Thomas in the passenger seat on the left. Thomas turns on the air-conditioning and then chuckles. “You thought Naveenji would come to the airport? Do you know what hangama —chaos—that would cause? There would be photographers going mad and fans fighting for autographs.”
    His tone is condescending.
    I have to focus to understand his accent. “Oh, I didn’t know,” I say.
    “You didn’t know?” His laugh is disbelieving as if I’m an idiot. I already know I don’t like this man much.
    “You didn’t know,” Thomas repeats, unbelieving. “Naveen Kumar,” he says with pride, “is the king of Bollywood! He has acted in thirty-five movies. Each one has been a hit. They have each grossed over a hundred crore rupees. He has millions of fans. Women love him and want to marry him. Men? Men are jealous of his body. They wish they had his charm. Kids mimic his dance moves.” Thomas’s voice rises in ownership and I cringe.
    This guy thinks I’m an ignorant idiot who lives under a rock. Shiva pulls the car into traffic, and we drive on the “wrong” side of the road, which I guess is the right side here. “In India, Naveen Kumar is a phenomenon. He is big. Bigger than the prime minister!” Thomas voices his
    declaration of love.
    Finally he looks at me. “You must be tired.”
    My watch says it’s noon in Houston, and the clock on the dashboard of the car says it’s 11:30 p.m. in India. I’ve been traveling for more than a day. Mom, Grandma, Grandpa and I left home for the airport almost thirty hours ago. No wonder I feel like a plant that hasn’t been watered for days. I slept, but not enough. I rest my head against the tinted window of the air-conditioned car.
    Keep your eyes open, Abby!
    I struggle to take in my surroundings through the haze of fatigue. It’s dark outside. The streets feel smaller and dustier than at home and there seems to be a lot of construction near the airport. Then we’re on a highway. I look out at the buildings on the side of the road and force myself to stay awake. I see an exit sign that reads South Mumbai and under it is a script in an Indian language.
    In spite of my efforts, my eyes close.
    “Naveen Kumar is big in India, big, big, big…” Thomas’s voice echoes in my sleep.

    My head whacks against the window and my eyes fly open. The car lurches with a thud. At first, I think I’m still on the plane and we’ve hit a turbulent patch. But then