westland ltd
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93, 1 Floor, Sham Lal Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi 110002
First published in India by westland ltd 2015
First e-book edition: 2015
Copyright Anuja Chauhan 2015
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-93-85152-19-1
Typeset in Electra LT Regular by SRYA, New Delhi
The author asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.
PROLOGUE
W hat the hell? Samar Vir Singh rears up in bed, looking around dazedly for the source of the cacophony, his head throbbing fit to burst. His phone glows green in the gloom and he lunges for it, thumb jabbing downwards to shut the damn thing up.
There are sixteen missed calls from Zeeshan. But Zee never wakes up before noon. Is it that late already?
Also, sixteen?
Samar calls him back.
Hello?
What hello-hello , bastard, laments Zeeshan Khan hoarsely, his famous baritone barely recognizable. Here our balls are on the chopping block and youre saying hello? Were fucked. Were finished. Were dead. Where the hell are you?
At home, Samar replies. Stop being so dramatic, Zee. What happened?
Zeeshan makes a weird gibbering sound.
Samar stretches and shakes his head. I didnt get that. Speak slowly.
Get online and Google our names. Then call me back.
But
But Zeeshan has already hung up.
Samar drops the phone onto the bed and looks about blearily for his iPad. It is nowhere in sight. The dark fitted suit he had worn last night is lying crumpled inside-out at the foot of the bed, along with the tight shoes his stylist insisted went with it. Samar shudders. God, that outfit was uncomfortable. He walks over to the window and yanks open the curtains, wincing at the glare. Ah, theres the iPad.
The early Mumbai sunshine illuminates a lean, muscular figure, clad only in white low-slung drawstring pyjamas. His hair is dark, his skin-tone warm, his feet well-shaped and sinewy as they grip the wooden floor. His prominent aquiline nose and strong, stubbled jaw combine to create a harsh effect, but he also possesses a sudden little-boy-smile which, when it flashes, makes nonsense of the harshness and puts even the rawest of Bollywood newcomers totally at ease.
He isnt smiling now, though.
* Upstart duo badmouth industry bigwigs.
* My dick can direct better than the moron who won Best Director, declares Samar Vir Singh.
* Chutiyon ki baraat is how gen-now superstar Zeeshan Khan and edgy young director Samar Vir Singh summed up the sight of the Bombay film industry stepping onto the red carpet for the Sparkler Awards tonight.
Watch the video of the disgruntled nominees, who won nothing last night and ended up at the Oregano Bar and Kitchen for a late night bitch-fest, here.
Samar rubs his scummy eyes and clicks on the link. Zeeshan and he, dishevelled and disorderly in their awards night finery, bloom into sight, standing atop the deserted bar at Oregano, waving about bottles of Jack Daniels while singing a bawdy version of the classic song from Yaadon ki Baraat .
Samar swears and reaches for his phone. Zeeshan answers at the first ring.
You saw? he demands.
Yeah, Samar replies. Dyou have any idea who recorded it?
That fat smirky waiterDesmond. Im sure it was him. He spits into the food and waters down the alcohol. I never tip him.
Did we actually say all this stuff?
We must have, Zeeshan replies morosely. I remember you ranting on about how sycophantic directors are Bollywoods biggest bane, and how the slippery slope of tiny, tiny compromises leads inexorably to a shit-pit full of glittering, diamond-encrusted, 100-crore turds. But it gets a little hazy after that.
How mad is everybody?
Seething. AK, the older Khans, the studio heads. Theres been abso no reply to the sorry-sorry smses Ive been sending out all morning. Hell, they arent even taking my dads calls. He woke me up with the bad news, by the way, raving with crazy eyes about The Chawl.
Samar holds his pounding head. What chawl, fucker? We didnt go to any chawl last night.
The Chawl, man. You know, where my dad grew up. When me and my sis were little, we were always made to listen to Legends-Of-The-Chawl. You are growing up in superstar Zaffar Khans sea-facing bungalowbut I grew up in a CHAWL. I shared a room with thirty people and a bathroom with four hundred people blah blah blah. It was a nightmare, dude. If we dared ask for Hubba Babba chewing gum instead of bloody Boomer, we got a lecture on The Chawl, if we asked for a second scoop of ice cream, we got a lecture on The Chawl. Anyway, he thinks yesterdays fiasco is going to send our family straight back to The Chawl.
So the Khans are actually Chawl as? Samar cant help grinning.
Zeeshans voice climbs an octave.
Dont joke, bastard! Weve attacked legends, and weve been recorded doing it. My dads shut himself up in his study with his lawyers. I think hes trying to disown me.
Sonix is calling, Samar says abruptly. Gotta go.
He hangs up on the still-talking Zeeshan and takes the incoming call.
What is this, yaar Samar, says the mild, conversational voice of Cougar Malhotra, the massively fat head of Mumbais biggest film production house. What is this?
Samar sighs and ploughs his hair off his forehead. Yeah, I know. Major shitkrieg. Sorry.
Sorry se kuch nahi hoga, Cougar breathes heavily down the line. You must understand, youre an outsider. Not like Zeeshan, whose dad will grovel for him and get him off the hook by pinning all the blame on your bad influence.
Samars jaw sets.
Look, Cougar, whatever we said last night was completely justified. The awards were a travesty. They were
Samar, baby. Cougars voice grows even softer, which is never a good sign. This film has been too long in the making. Two red-hot new directors have been hatched since you started it. Youre not hot anymore, youre lukewarm, and there are lots of eager, lukewarm directors in Bombay. Lots.
Stop pressing my buttons with that not-hot bullshit. Samar begins to pace the wooden floor, eyes blazing. Its a goddamn golden shackle anyway, being hot. If I hadnt been so hot , as you put it, my film wouldnt have had such an obscenely swollen budget and I wouldnt have been forced to stuff it full of needy egomaniacs who cant act for arse.
Such ingratitude, Cougar sighs. Weve given you Indias biggest stars and a budget indie directors can only dream of.
Fuck off. AK is a senile and obnoxious know-it-all.
Cougar clicks his tongue. The film is delayed and way over budget and the buck stops with you. Stop blaming others.
Im not blaming others, Samar snaps. Its entirely my fault. I was in too much of a hurry to make this film. I started shooting without completing my homework, and now that stupid, inexcusable decision has come back to bite me in the butt.
