Read Online Bollywood Confidential by Sonia Singh - Free Book Online

average temperature in Bombay that winter was eighty-eight degrees.
    Earlier, Raveena had seen Uncle Heeru fighting with a crow over a piece of papaya.
    With a sigh of acceptance, she pushed her plate closer to the window and addressed the crow. “Dig in.”
    Wings outstretched, the crow once more swooped in and grabbed the last piece of egg. Instead of dining on the ledge, the bird flew up into the trees shading the house.
    American crows definitely had better manners.
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    Two hours later, Raveena thought she was going to die.
    The auto-rickshaw darted in and out of traffic, at times jumping up on the walkway, before zooming back onto the street. Open on both sides without doors, the contraption made her feel exposed. And she was guaranteed maximum exposure to exhaust fumes.
    Raveena had done her hair for the meeting, setting it with Velcro rollers, but the wind and humidity wreaked havoc with the curls. If she was going to be traveling by auto-rickshaw, she’d have to do it Jackie O. style, with a headscarf.
    Then again, Raveena saw plenty of Muslim women in burkhas walking up and down the street and thought about wearing one herself for practical reasons. Her hair would be covered. Her face would be protected from grime, and she wouldn’t have to worry about her clothes getting dirty.
    The heat was relentless. Not wanting to arrive at the meeting with foundation melting off her face, she’d wiselykept the makeup to a minimum. Just some eyeliner and a dab of Chanel lipgloss.
    However, Raveena was regretting her choice of clothing. Her parents had warned her to dress conservatively while in India. So she was wearing beige trousers and a white tailored Oxford shirt.
    Meanwhile, right alongside the conservative Muslim women in burkhas were teenage girls in shorts and twenty-something women in tank tops, jeans and everything in between.
    Obviously, Bombay was to India what Los Angeles was to the rest of America.
    A whole different world.
    Raveena especially liked the cute cotton tunics or kurtas she’d seen many women of all ages sporting. They looked comfortable and stylish. Raveena decided to buy half a dozen for Maza and herself while here.
    â€œFourteenth Road,” the driver said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the gutter. He was thickset and heavy, sweat visibly seeping through his khaki-colored clothing.
    â€œOkay,” Raveena said, happy the tobacco spray had missed her nether regions. “29 Jains Arcade?”
    The driver didn’t reply, so she repeated the question. He gave her an impatient nod.
    â€œFine,” she said, sat back and watched the scenery chug by. Cars, buses and auto-rickshaws battled each other for the road. Skinny cows walked alongside, nosing through rubbish for food. The barking of stray dogs was everywhere.
    The driver stopped beside a small stand where a man was busy rolling bidis—cheap tapered cigarettes that looked like marijuana joints.
    Not realizing they’d arrived at the place, Raveena continued to sit in the back of the rickshaw until the driver turned, looked at her and pointed to the right. She turned and saw a large building.
    Raveena paid the driver twenty rupees, about forty cents, and very carefully crossed the street, dodging bicyclists, auto-rickshaws, cars and a hungry cow.
    There was a guard at the entrance to the building who stopped her before she could go in. He had an AK-47 strapped to his back.
    One of them was seriously packing too much metal.
    â€œI’m here to see Randy Kapoor,” she said, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.
    The guard looked her up and down, decided she didn’t pose a menace, and nodded. Raveena opened the door and nearly let out a sigh of relief as the air-conditioned coolness washed over her.
    She took the elevator up to the second floor and found herself confronted by a set of thick glass double doors. Engraved into the glass were the words:
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    Karma