“Mr. Prem Kumar.”
“No,” Iqbal answered. He was still trying to comprehend the man’s height; he had never had to look up at anyone before.
“Is Mr. Prem Kumar present?” the stranger asked, peering into the apartment. The assortment of men in the room stared shamelessly at him with their jaws dropped.
Amarleen stepped in to offer a modicum of hospitality. “Let the poor giant come inside at least,” she said, shoving her husband out of the way. “Come in, Prem is just coming.”
The giant man nodded at Amarleen and entered. He had with him an orange suitcase which he continued to carry as he began to pace the room, methodically examining the space as if taking inventory. The others continued to gawk until at last Deepak said, “What kind of milk did your mother feed you?” and Gopal said, “Why is your neck like that?” to which Wristwatch responded with a grunt.
“No towel in the bathroom,” Prem said, emerging with dripping hands. He stopped short at the sight of the henchman, whose appearance—so serious, so enormous—was even more distressing than he’d imagined.
Wristwatch looked Prem up and down, then gave the room one more scan. “Interesting,” he said.
Prem came forward and offered his hand, which Wristwatch shook. Prem was alarmed at the suitcase’s similarity to one he’d once purchased. “He’s, you know, my buddy, college roommate, uh, my, uh, friend,” he stammered. “Let’s talk in the hall,” he said to the giant, leading him toward the door.
As he had done and would do again many times through the course of his quest to make something of himself, Prem put forth the outward appearance of confidence while inwardly hating himself for making yet another poor decision. The reproachful faces of those who mattered to him—his father, Leena, Hemant, the murdered cat—were watching him, he felt, judging and chastising him out the door. Wristwatch, with his sinister suitcase in tow, followed him out and pulled the door shut.
“So … how are you?” Prem began.
Wristwatch did not answer. Prem guessed he was not amused, though it was difficult for him to gauge the man’s frame of mind as he still wore his sunglasses.
“Wristwatch, is it?” Prem said.
There was no visible reaction from the man at all; Prem thought for a moment he’d fallen asleep. He was on his toes trying to look into the glasses for some sign of movement when Wristwatch finally spoke. “You are the one Tiger Nayak has chosen to oversee T-Company’s North American operations.”
“I am?” Prem said. “No, you see, it is just an investment.” He jabbered on about Superstar Entertainment and actors and choreography and the challenges associated with indoor pyrotechnics until Wristwatch silenced him with a raised palm.
“Just stop.”
“Sorry.”
Wristwatch gave Prem another once-over. “I do not have confidence that you will do a good job.”
With that, Wristwatch relinquished the suitcase to him and turned and walked away. Prem focused on getting his knees to stop shaking. He hoped against reason that he’d never again have to come in contact with that man, who seemed less like a human and more like a robot programmed to terrify with his size, condescension, and punctuality. Prem composed himself and headed over to Beena’s to stash the suitcase there. He told her and all the tenants of 3D that the suitcase was a gift from his old friend who had become a suitcase salesman, which was believed by exactly zero people.
23
The stars arrived ten days before the show, and Prem actually found a moment of enjoyment in it. He met them at their hotel in New Brunswick, which was within walking distance of the theater in an almost charming part of that college town, with an attractive sort of brick mosaic border on parts of the sidewalk there. He brought Beena, who had chicken biryani with her, and though they were supposed to meet in Event Room B, the party was already underway at the lobby bar, where it appeared Govinda was trying to do a split on the countertop.
“The current economic climate in India must change,” Juhi Chawla said to Pooja Bhatt while sipping her soda. “Really, if we do not put an end to this License Raj, India will be left behind.”
Pooja seemed to agree entirely, shaking her head side to side as well as up and down. “We need more than a few reforms, we need a complete liberalization of the system.”
Jackie Shroff poured a shot down Govinda’s throat and patted him on the back. “Keep trying, you can do it,” he urged, leaving the star mid-split, still several inches away from both thighs making contact with the bar top. On the other side, Salman and Sunny were locked in a tender yet robust embrace, which, if abandoned, might cause one or both of them to collapse to the floor, while Madhuri and Sonam were discussing nuclear-arms control. Comedian Kader Khan was puking in veteran singer Asha Bhosle’s purse while she rubbed his back and motioned for Juhi to bring water.
Prem stood at the threshold with Beena, taking in the impossible scene. Everyone was so beautiful, as if they had walked right off the screen. Friends had warned him that the celebrities would seem less lustrous in person, like ordinary, albeit familiar-looking people, but this was false. They were glowing, burning brightly like the stars they were, and Prem had to shield his eyes from the filmi glare.
Beena gave him a little shove, and he lurched into the room and into Jackie Shroff.
“So sorry, yaar, didn’t see you there,” Jackie said.
“No, no,” Beena blurted out, “he bumped into you!”
“Sorry, man,” Prem said, “didn’t mean to, um—”
“Here, have this shot.” Jackie shoved a little glass into his hand. “At least if you are drunk, you have an excuse!”
Beena laughed and laughed at this as if she were already drunk and threw herself at his chest, to which Jackie responded by offering her a shot too. For the rest of that night, he seemed to have an endless supply of shots hidden somewhere in his clothes, ready to offer one to anyone in his path, and it turned out Prem was the one most often in his path. Clamorous excess and hearty claps on the back were punctuated by moments of solemn confession, Prem telling Jackie of his lost love and her inexplicably long engagement and Jackie telling Prem about his prostate.
Later in the night, he was accosted by Madhuri and Juhi, who seemed to know everything about his romantic life and asked what he thought were overly intrusive questions. “You mean you followed and watched her without her knowing?” and “How many times did you do this?” and “What do you mean ‘all the time?’” but then he remembered he’d shared this information earlier with Sunny Deol, which was the same as sharing it with All India Radio, so Prem could only blame himself.
Prem would not recall everything from that night, but enough to know that he’d had a rollicking good time. There was the moment when Jackie called to Salman, “Salu Bhai! Your biryani has come!” and the moment when Govinda finally, inevitably, split his pants. He remembered the excitement that unfolded when he introduced himself as the organizer of the show and these famous, fabulous people switching to calling him “sir” and “Mr. Kumarji, sir.” Salman and Sunny debated with him the recent emergence of a more muscular look among Indian actors and whether they should start lifting weights; even Asha Bhosle, simple and demure in a red sari and bindi, looked like she had been hitting the gym. Then Jackie Shroff and Sunny Deol tried to bench press her. Salman devoured his biryani and proclaimed that Beena would hereby be known as “Biryani Auntie.” Madhuri and Juhi switched to drinking cosmos and discussed tensions in Kashmir while Sonam and Pooja tried to fend off their male counterparts without offending. The women were warm, kind, smart, and put-together in an unexpected way, and the men were like a bunch of hooligan children on a school bus with no parental supervision. Yet, they also were harmless, nice enough guys who maybe just drank a little too much. At some point late in the night, Salman and Sunny lifted Prem up onto their shoulders and everyone chanted his name. It was all so magical—the stars, the stories, the contest to see who could bench-press Asha Bhosle—and in the morning, after throwing up, Prem couldn’t tell what had been real and what had been just a dream.
Beena and he woke up in Salman Khan’s hotel room without Salman Khan. It was unclear whether the actor had even slept there that night; Beena was in one bed and Prem in the other, and neither remembered sleeping next to Salman. “Do you think he is still in the bar?” Beena asked, after she finished throwing up too.
“The bar must be closed,” Prem replied. “Do you think he maybe got up early, had a shower, got ready, and went to the rehearsal?
“I think he is in Sonam’s room.”
They freshened up as best they could and headed downstairs. The lobby was quiet, with just a receptionist and doorman and no stray Indian celebrities. A pit formed in Prem’s stomach. He was off to a terrible, unprofessional start. None of the men must have made it to the rehearsal. Even some of the ladies must not have gone as they were up so late. He’d have to ask them not to go to the bar for the rest of the week, but how could he do that? Maybe he could ask the hotel to close the bar. But how could he do that? They stopped off at the bar to see if any staff was around and to apologize for the previous night’s debauchery.
The manager couldn’t understand what there was to apologize about. “But I heard it was a great night! Nothing broken, nice, slightly rowdy people, tremendous tippers. Do you know they paid extra for the drinks and then left huge tips on top of the incorrect prices? I mean, even the vomit was contained nicely within an old lady’s purse.” Prem looked at Beena, who shrugged. “You tell them to come back tonight, okay?”
“Uh, okay,” Prem answered.
Next, they went to the theater. Prem assumed the director and crew would be waiting, wondering where the performers were. It would be humiliating to stand before them and endure their judging looks. For the second time in his life, he felt betrayed by the thing he loved most, Hindi movies—or rather, the people who acted in them. He crossed the street with Beena and entered the theater, still in thrall to his own wretchedness. In the lobby, they heard music coming from within. “Tirchi Topiwale,” the peppy and invigorating Gloria Estefan knockoff from Tridev, was on full blast, and when Prem threw open the doors, he found Salman and Sonam on stage dancing in bouncy, glorious synchrony.
Miraculously, all of the artists—Madhuri, Juhi, Jackie, even Kader Khan—had arrived on time, ready to rehearse the dances they had learned back in Bombay. Prem rushed down the aisle to the stage, and someone stopped the music. “You are all here?” Prem said.
