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Authors: Suleikha Snyder
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finally let herself check her SMS. Sure enough, there were two from that Khanna woman and one from Rahul.
I miss you. Come practice lines with me.
For a film they weren’t scheduled to begin shooting for another eight weeks? No way. And it was funny to her how he’d suddenly developed the habit of text messaging her. If only he had done the same in Bihar. If only he hadn’t come to her room that night. She wouldn’t be tormented by the fresh memories of his touch. Everything she had hidden away, locked tight for Shona’s sake, would not be so close to the surface.
Priya answered Sunny instead, gingerly typing out on the touch screen that perhaps they could meet for a coffee. Maybe if she spoke to her one-on-one, she could put this business of a guest spot out of Ms. Khanna’s mind. That, at least, was a better proposition than seeing Rahul alone.
Because Rahul didn’t smell like hope. No, his scent was dangerous. Intoxicating. Paagalpan and chaos.
All blush-gold skin and thick-lashed dark eyes, Priya Roy really did look like a rose. The pale pink salwar she wore only the made the description more apt. She was a bud on the verge of blooming. As fresh as the dew on a petal. Etcetera, etcetera. All those bloody metaphors they used in the Bollywood gossip rags Sunita kept subscriptions to. If she were the jealous type, she would’ve hated Priya on sight on principle, particularly as the girl had strung her along for weeks. But when they finally got around to meeting, all she felt was an instant kinship. It didn’t make sense. She held champion grudges—one only had to ask Sam for proof—but the moment Priya sat down across from her at the cozy outdoor table, any ill will she’d harbored vanished.
“What do you want from me, Sunny- ji ?” the younger woman wasted no time in asking her, folding her hands one over the other on the tabletop. “Why am I such a demanded guest? Main kaun hu? I’m no one in the grand scheme.”
It was the kind of humility that could not be faked…not that faux sincerity that so many stars wore like fur coats and false eyelashes. Sunita couldn’t remember if she’d ever been so earnest, so pure. Who was it that had said, “Modesty in an actor is as fake as passion in a call girl”? Nowhere was that bit of philosophy more appropriate than Mumbai. Most everyone in Bollywood was selling an image, making money off of their smile or their swagger. But Priya was genuine. “ That is why you’re so demanded,” she concluded aloud. “Because my audience will look at you and see your innocence.”
Priya burst out laughing. Even that had a floral feel, as though someone was raining marigolds onto a crowd of onlookers. “I haven’t been innocent in a very long time, Sunny- ji . In fact, it is the last thing anyone wants from me now. Item girls don’t need to be sweet.”
“And yet you are. It doesn’t matter how much you paint your lips and shadow your eyes, they all still look at you and see that cho chweet heroine from Hain Apna Dil To Awara. They want that Priya on their arm, and the item girl in their beds.”
The public virgin and private whore…one of India’s favorite dichotomies. The very same society that leveled obscenity lawsuits against actresses for “vulgar” song sequences went home and wanked to blue films in the privacy of their bedrooms. Sunita had witnessed the hypocrisy more times than she cared to count, and nearly been a victim of it a thousand more.
She sighed, gesturing for the waitress to come over and take their coffee orders. Only after they were done with the formalities did she turn the topic back to the show. “Your jodi with Rahul Anand was all the rage once.” It didn’t escape her that Priya’s rosy cheeks went white at the reminder. “People like to be reminded of romance. Of ‘what was’. They like a good story. And you coming back and working with Rahul…it’s a perfect filmi moment, na ? That’s all we want: to spin a
I miss you. Come practice lines with me.
For a film they weren’t scheduled to begin shooting for another eight weeks? No way. And it was funny to her how he’d suddenly developed the habit of text messaging her. If only he had done the same in Bihar. If only he hadn’t come to her room that night. She wouldn’t be tormented by the fresh memories of his touch. Everything she had hidden away, locked tight for Shona’s sake, would not be so close to the surface.
Priya answered Sunny instead, gingerly typing out on the touch screen that perhaps they could meet for a coffee. Maybe if she spoke to her one-on-one, she could put this business of a guest spot out of Ms. Khanna’s mind. That, at least, was a better proposition than seeing Rahul alone.
Because Rahul didn’t smell like hope. No, his scent was dangerous. Intoxicating. Paagalpan and chaos.
All blush-gold skin and thick-lashed dark eyes, Priya Roy really did look like a rose. The pale pink salwar she wore only the made the description more apt. She was a bud on the verge of blooming. As fresh as the dew on a petal. Etcetera, etcetera. All those bloody metaphors they used in the Bollywood gossip rags Sunita kept subscriptions to. If she were the jealous type, she would’ve hated Priya on sight on principle, particularly as the girl had strung her along for weeks. But when they finally got around to meeting, all she felt was an instant kinship. It didn’t make sense. She held champion grudges—one only had to ask Sam for proof—but the moment Priya sat down across from her at the cozy outdoor table, any ill will she’d harbored vanished.
“What do you want from me, Sunny- ji ?” the younger woman wasted no time in asking her, folding her hands one over the other on the tabletop. “Why am I such a demanded guest? Main kaun hu? I’m no one in the grand scheme.”
It was the kind of humility that could not be faked…not that faux sincerity that so many stars wore like fur coats and false eyelashes. Sunita couldn’t remember if she’d ever been so earnest, so pure. Who was it that had said, “Modesty in an actor is as fake as passion in a call girl”? Nowhere was that bit of philosophy more appropriate than Mumbai. Most everyone in Bollywood was selling an image, making money off of their smile or their swagger. But Priya was genuine. “ That is why you’re so demanded,” she concluded aloud. “Because my audience will look at you and see your innocence.”
Priya burst out laughing. Even that had a floral feel, as though someone was raining marigolds onto a crowd of onlookers. “I haven’t been innocent in a very long time, Sunny- ji . In fact, it is the last thing anyone wants from me now. Item girls don’t need to be sweet.”
“And yet you are. It doesn’t matter how much you paint your lips and shadow your eyes, they all still look at you and see that cho chweet heroine from Hain Apna Dil To Awara. They want that Priya on their arm, and the item girl in their beds.”
The public virgin and private whore…one of India’s favorite dichotomies. The very same society that leveled obscenity lawsuits against actresses for “vulgar” song sequences went home and wanked to blue films in the privacy of their bedrooms. Sunita had witnessed the hypocrisy more times than she cared to count, and nearly been a victim of it a thousand more.
She sighed, gesturing for the waitress to come over and take their coffee orders. Only after they were done with the formalities did she turn the topic back to the show. “Your jodi with Rahul Anand was all the rage once.” It didn’t escape her that Priya’s rosy cheeks went white at the reminder. “People like to be reminded of romance. Of ‘what was’. They like a good story. And you coming back and working with Rahul…it’s a perfect filmi moment, na ? That’s all we want: to spin a
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