There was much excitement as they readied to start the movie. Iqbal prolonged the anticipation, reveling in the attention and admiration. Shanta Bhatt asked, “Is someone making popcorns?” and Gopal wondered out loud, “If there are major motion pictures, are there also minor ones?” Once the movie was underway, the crowd behaved as though they were in the bench seats of a Bombay theater, hooting and hollering, talking back to the screen, having full-blown conversations with the characters. Someone even threw a cashew. At the interval, Iqbal paused the tape and everyone got up for a break. Amarleen made an enormous amount of chai, and a few brave addicts went out in the snow to smoke.
“I don’t know, yaar,” Yogesh said. “How can there be no other police officer available to chase Amar except for his brother Rajesh? They couldn’t give the assignment to another guy?”
“You know, I think that is not really the point,” Prem said, shifting in the one square foot of floor he had claimed for himself. “It’s about the two very different paths that brothers from the same family can take in life. It’s about decisions and consequences, you know?”
“But why would Dimple suddenly decide to sleep with Anil Kapoor in a barn,” Yogesh asked, “when he has been drunk the whole time and stumbling around like a hairy clown?” He raised his voice to declare, “American movies are better. More realistic, better acting, better stories, better quality, actual kissing. There’s no singing for no reason and they are not all the same dishoom-dishoom formula. What is good about Hindi movies?”
Prem had never really thought about why he loved Hindi movies; he just did. He gave the question serious thought. It was difficult to explain yet difficult to deny the movies’ appeal. They crammed it all in—romance, comedy, drama, suspense, action, international teleportation, song, dance—creating a glamorous spectacle, a singular genre, “the masala film,” a big, spicy mix. They celebrated Kathak’s graceful aerobic choreography and preserved an Urdu-Hindi mix of poetic language that might otherwise fade. Even when unrealistic, they expressed reality, transmitting the agony and ache of problematic love. He left theaters feeling the world contained too much beauty to bear, that the characters were larger than life—and thus he could be too. “Everything,” Prem answered.
Nearby, Dave (formerly Devinder) Reddy, a pharmaceutical sales rep who took great pride in his spiked hair, was bragging to Falguni about the two American concerts he had attended late last year. “You know, it is hard to decide, was George Michael better or Michael Jackson. On one side, there is the ‘Faith’ and the ‘Father Figure,’ on the other side is ‘Bad’ and the ‘Smooth Criminal.’ How can I say?” Three people rolled their eyes. Dave continued, “Michael really can dance. But then, George also has some nice moves. And Michael, I don’t know, something was looking wrong with his face.”
Mohan said, “I do not believe you went to either of these shows,” which led to a short but vigorous brawl. Dave lunged at Mohan and they rolled around on the floor in a tangled embrace. When they came too close to her, Beena Joshi rolled them back the other way. All through this, Prem was oblivious. In his mind, a grand and glittering vision unfolded for an astonishing enterprise. It was a singular light-bulb moment precipitated by Janbaaz combined with Dave. Prem conceived the idea to start a company to produce lavish stage shows featuring Hindi movie stars. What if he could get Anil Kapoor, Jackie Shroff, Sanjay Dutt, Sunny Deol, and all the popular heroes of the day here, to Edison? They could each perform their numbers, and it would be bigger even than the American concerts that featured just one megastar. When Sridevi, Madhuri Dixit, and Juhi Chawla came out, the crowd would go wild, and he could also include some of the old guard, the Kapoors and such, who would bring an element of sophistication to the event. Maybe some playback singers could come and sing their songs as the actors dance to them live on stage. There could be special effects, magnificent lighting, a screen showing scenes from the movies. Every show could have a surprise performer, someone who would make the audiences lose their minds in the best possible way. If he could pull off such a program, it would be unlike anything the Indians in America—or Indians anywhere—had ever witnessed.
Prem did not watch the second half of the movie that day. When Iqbal pressed play, he grabbed his coat and hat and slipped out of the apartment to find his bike. Later, he would be hard-pressed to tell you where he went, crisscrossing the town many times over, mulling over the possibilities, contemplating the best ways to execute this new and sudden dream.
19
Many years later when Prem would find himself enlightening a reporter for the India Abroad on the subject of industriousness, he would claim that from the moment of his arrival in Edison, he had been seized by the spirit of its eponym, its former wizard-in-residence from the days when our town was still Menlo Park. He would lean back in his chair at Bombay Talk (a block from Sona Jewelers, Virani Jewelers, and Kundan Jewelers, right next to Sangam Jewelers and Jewelry Treasures II), order a third cup of milky tea, and wax nostalgic about his earliest American days, when he slogged and strove, when he was fiercely single-minded, a veritable workaholic, as he had taken to describing his younger self.
That assiduousness did not kick in, however, until he went to Beena Joshi to find out how exactly one went about starting a business. She had recently expanded her catering business to include extensive buffet dinners for upscale events hosted chiefly by physicians. This shrewd decision, Prem felt, demonstrated her perspicacity and acute understanding of the doctor-party market. She would certainly have keen insights into how to get his venture off the ground.
When Beena heard Prem’s impassioned speech about his vision for stage shows in America featuring Hindi movie actors, she immediately dismissed Bob the electrician, who was helping her hang picture frames, then turned to Prem excitedly. “Can you make me meet Rajesh Khanna?”
“Yes! And Amitabh and Anil Kapoor and Sanjay Dutt. You will become friends with all of them,” Prem replied excitedly. “You can have lunch with Jackie Shroff, you can pick Sunny Deol up at the airport, you can ask Govinda to show you how he moves his hips like that.”
“Rajesh Khanna is enough,” Beena said. “Now, you find a pen and pad, I will make the chai.”
Beena’s apartment could barely contain Prem’s feverish pacing as he threw out questions: “What kind of hall should it be in? How will I sell the tickets? Should I take an ad in the India Abroad?” He stumbled over a bag of almonds next to five packages of straight blades, lined up along the wall with a number of other items to be taken to India sometime next year and distributed to various family members. The assortment of face creams, suit pieces, Spanish saffron, blenders, bras, perfumes, and more ran almost the entire perimeter of the apartment. “How will I get the actors? Also, why are you taking a skateboard?”
“Okay, first, you can talk to my customer Kishan Chopra about the hall. He organized that Anup Jalota ghazals performance last year and the Jagjit Singh one the year before.”
“Oh, ya, that guy,” Prem said. “He has a small mustache, Charlie Chaplin–style, no?”
“Ya,” Beena said. “Someone should tell him it is also Adolf Hitler–style.”
“Good, I’ll take his number. Next, we will need people who know about lighting and microphones and sound systems and the things on the stage, you know?”
“Yes, there is Nachiket Rao in Building 17, whose daughter is on hunger strike until she is allowed to marry a plumber. Nachiket is involved with audio and visual support in wedding functions, he will know who to call, what to do.”
“His daughter is on hunger strike?”
“As if she is Gandhi fighting the British Empire.”
The pair went through dozens of questions and came up with action plans for each category, filling up an entire notebook in the process. Four rounds of chai and salty snacks later, Beena summarized the key takeaway from that meeting: “Basically, you have to make lot of calls.”
Prem was not looking forward to this aspect of the work. Calling the friends of Beena would be hard enough, but ringing up movie stars? Though booking Indian celebrities meant mostly talking to their secretaries—managers and agents rolled into one—it would likely require talking on the phone directly with the stars as well. A shiver went through him at the thought. Talking with complete strangers, trying to get them to do something—it wouldn’t be easy. He had hated it the first time around and would hate it once again. “You can make some calls if you want. Wouldn’t you like to talk to some stars?”
“Uf oh! What is so hard about making simple calls?” Beena said, slapping her forehead with her palm. “Have some confidence before I hit you with my rolling pin. Now let us have some paan.”
Back at the Singhs’ apartment that evening, Harbhajan Gill and his angry family were over to visit his sister. They sat at the kitchen table while the roommates huddled around the television watching an early episode of Mahabharat, which everyone agreed was surprisingly riveting despite the difficult vocabulary, slow pace, and religiosity. When Prem entered, he was happy that no one turned around; though he was ecstatic, he wasn’t ready to talk about his new venture. He tried to slip past the dining table without attracting anyone’s attention.
“Are you trying to go around us without attracting our attention?” Iqbal said.
“Oh, no, you know, I thought you were having dinner just with family, private, you know,” Prem said.
“But you are in this family!” Amarleen said. “Come, sit. You can share my chair.”
“What is in that journal, Pumpwalla?” Harbhajan said with a suspicious edge.
“Nothing, just, you know, addresses, phone numbers, lottery numbers. They say if you use the same numbers every time, you increase your chances.”
“Something is in there,” Iqbal said. “You are holding it so tight, like you would die for it. Who would die for a journal when nothing is in it?”
“I was watching the 60 Minutes program last week and they showed how a terrorist tried to make a bomb at home,” Harbhajan said. “He wrote the instructions in a journal.”
One of Harbhajan’s kids yelled, “Show us the journal, you skinny nerd!”
Prem reluctantly laid out his plan for them.
There was silence at the dining table, then Harbhajan’s wife burst out laughing. She kept laughing for a long time, at times trying to catch her breath or slapping the table. Prem looked around to see who else found his idea hilarious.
“Stars don’t have time to fly to America to pretend to sing on a stage,” Iqbal pointed out.
“You think Amitabh Bachchan will take your phone call?” Mohan asked from his spot in front of the TV without turning around.
“Shh,” Deepak said, chomping on a donut. “Mahabharat.”
“Here is the problem,” Harbhajan said. “People will not pay money for this. Why would we go there to see the stars dance when we can see them here?”
