“Sir, good morning! How you feeling?” Salman said.
“Hi, sir! Difficult night?” Sonam said.
“Kumarji, sir, is your back feeling better?” Juhi called from the wings.
Prem did not understand what she was asking.
“Because, sir,” Juhi said, “you tried to lift up Asha Bhosle last night.”
Prem tried to hide his embarrassment by assuming an authoritative tone: “Fine, fine, I’m great. Carry on, good work, everyone,” he said.
Beena and he sat back to watch the rehearsal, Beena shaking and shimmying in the front row and Prem tense and unsettled by her side. The next number the group practiced was a multi-starrer featuring nearly all of the actors dancing to an evergreen song from the sixties. It was flawless. Everyone moved perfectly in step, forgetting nothing, laughing and enjoying while looking unreasonably attractive. How could it be that everything was going so well? The choreographer, Faiza, was disturbingly relaxed, crouched in a front corner of the stage, picking her teeth with a toothpick, occasionally waving it to direct the performers though it was not needed. Prem tried to let go and enjoy the show—all these stars, dancing to his favorite songs, right before him, because of him—but he couldn’t help but wait for the thing that would go wrong.
The director of the production, Jagan Bose, was a theater man long past his prime, accomplished and revered in certain entertainment circles, who had a stilted manner of speaking and a wild shock of smoky gray hair inexplicably streaked with orange bursting forth from beneath a floppy beret. Horn-rimmed glasses and the occasional pipe gave him a professorial air consistent with his view of himself as a doyen of his craft. As he coached the Bollywood stars, he brandished his wrinkled, bony hand like a conductor’s baton, as though he were directing Laurence Olivier in King Lear, and the actors, flattered to be taken seriously by someone so serious, did as he said.
That day, Jagan Bose was supervising the installation of a backdrop of one hundred bulbs that would shine on and off strategically during the show. At the rehearsal, when the director yelled, “Damnation!” Prem, assuming the worst was happening and the one-hundred-bulb backdrop was the beginning of the end, rushed up onstage to the director’s side.
“What happened? What’s wrong? Did the electrician mess up the wiring? Is the installation going to catch on fire?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Jagan said.
“Then what?” Prem said.
“I stepped on a nail,” Jagan said. Feeling that Prem did not adequately grasp the gravity of this news, he added, “It hurt.”
Prem experienced a strange sense of disappointment; he had actually wanted it to be something worse so he could stop worrying about something terrible happening. He hoped this nail issue was more serious than he realized. “Should I call an ambulance? Your foot could get infected and they might have to cut it off or you could die,” he said in a hopeful sort of tone that Jagan found disconcerting.
“Just a Band-Aid will be fine.”
Prem sat back down with Beena to watch the rest of the rehearsal, which was impeccable. But he was unnerved by an unshakable feeling that he was forgetting something of vital importance.
“What is wrong with your head?” Beena said. “The show is perfect and there still are few days.”
“It is sold out,” Prem said.
“Is that not good?” Beena said.
“Everyone is expecting so much,” Prem said.
“The show is fantastic, first-class!” Beena said.
“Many things can still go wrong, Prem said.
“Uf! Let’s go,” Beena said, deflated by frustration. “I have to make biryani for Salman.”
The week of rehearsals continued without incident, but Prem’s anxiety only increased. The stars continued to party at night and report on time for work the next morning. It should have been one of the most fun weeks of his life, but instead, Prem chewed off all of his fingernails.
A full dress rehearsal was scheduled for late Friday afternoon. The show’s official car service dropped Prem off in front of the theater, where the sidewalk was wet from melted snow dripping off the eaves. Though it was still cold, the setting sun felt warmer and brighter than it had in months. Looking up at the marquee, which had been updated to read “Superstar Entertainment Presents: A Night of Indian Superstars,” Prem experienced a moment of calm, unfamiliar and welcome, before going in.
He had arrived early, before the actors and most of the crew, as the director wanted to go over a few things beforehand. It was completely quiet and empty inside. Prem took a seat in the front row and waited. The backdrop installation of bulbs seemed to be in place, but he still had doubts as to whether the lights would shine at the appropriate times. There was a shuffling sound backstage followed by a loud jolt. The backdrop turned on, flooding the theater with a radiant glow, its brilliance lifting Prem up out of his seat. He let his head fall back and his eyes close, enjoying the feeling of being bathed in the light of a hundred incandescent bulbs. Prem opened his eyes and thought for the first time ever about anything he had ever done: It might be good.
On Saturday night, a long line of ticketless fans stood outside the theater. A security officer had informed them the show was sold out, yet they refused to leave. What if someone decided to sell their ticket or didn’t show up? What if Madhuri, running late, arrived right before their eyes? Two teenage girls began to cry. Ticket holders streamed past and joined the gridlocked horde in the lobby. The house lights flashed on and off, and they found their seats in the auditorium, which was packed and crackling with energy. The show began on time with a short word from its sponsors. Two men from Prudential in borrowed Indian clothes spent three minutes explicating the benefits of purchasing life insurance, both term and whole life, then shuffled offstage to a smattering of applause. The lights dimmed and the crowd hummed with anticipation. Suddenly, a booming voice announced the beginning of the program: Juhi Chawla performing “Disco Dandia.” Harbhajan Gill, who had driven his entire angry family down in his taxi for Juhi Chawla and Juhi Chawla alone, couldn’t contain his ardor. When the number came to a close, he stood up and inserted his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled repeatedly, stomped his feet, and clapped vigorously. Shanta Bhatt preferred the second song, the more pensive “Mere Rang Mein Rangne Wali,” which Salman Khan performed tastefully with Sonam, who wore a tight-fitting sequined outfit that Deepak, Lucky, Iqbal, and Anamika Painter all appreciated immensely. When the first three-couple song began, the entire audience leaped to their feet and joined in the dancing. The backdrop lights started flashing strategically and confetti rained down, and Mr. Khosla, the owner of the Exxon, wondered if perhaps he was paying his employee too much. While the stars changed into their flashy costumes for the final number before intermission, the comic actor Kader Khan took the stage to entertain the crowd and had Nalini Sen and Gitanjali Vora rolling in the aisles.
The lobby was jam-packed during intermission, with hundreds of people vying for a limited number of samosas provided by Beena Joshi Catering. Charlie Patel, who had helped Beena bring the samosas from King’s Court in his Honda Accord, elbowed Raghava Sai Shankara Subramanya, who in turn shoved Uttam Jindal, whose hairpiece shifted to an inelegant position.
Once all had returned to their seats, the fog machine came on and, as if out of a cloud, Jackie Shroff and Pooja Bhatt appeared and dazzled everyone with their sultry dance moves, which made a few of the older women—Urmila Sahu, Rachna Bajaj, Priti Sinha—uncomfortable because they liked it so much. Next was a ladies’ performance, with all four leading ladies and a bevy of competent sideys shimmying and swiveling, causing a tiff between Nathan Kothari and his wife, Pratima “Pam” Kothari, who felt her husband was applauding a little too enthusiastically. All of this raciness was nicely balanced by a vocal interlude from Asha Bosle, graceful and modest with flowers in her hair, who sang three of her evergreen songs, calming everyone down except Kailash Mistry, who felt he should be up there singing with her. The superstar men performed the song “Papa Kehte Hain” and brought down the house with their energy and passionate pelvic thrusts, calling to mind for Dave Reddy the George Michael concert, which he inwardly conceded was not as fun as this one. By the penultimate Tridev multi-starrer number, Falguni, Snigdha, Varsha in Row K, Suchitra in Row W, and Sayali in Q were all in pain from wearing heels, which they wore not realizing that they would be on their feet the entire time. They all sat down at precisely the same moment, but popped back up when the bright-eyed and stunningly beautiful Madhuri Dixit came out and offered the audience a “namaskar.” Every person in the theater that night knew what her namaskar meant: “Ek Do Teen” was next and the grand finale would be everything a grand finale should be, which it was.
Prem had arranged an afterparty for the show but did not attend it. He remained in the theater long after it emptied out, the set was cleared, and the crew was gone. He paced the stage for a while, replaying the show in his mind. It had been perfect. Nothing had gone awry and he had not failed in any way. He sat at the edge of the platform, his legs dangling down, and looked out at the empty seats. In a moment of utter happiness, a golden, aching instant of bliss, he realized he had made money. Not nearly enough yet, he thought, and some of it earmarked for an organized crime syndicate—but it was a start.
He was the first one back to the apartment that night, and he collapsed onto his mattress without changing his clothes. Before falling into the deepest sleep he had had in months, he rooted around in his bag, past his Amitabh Bachchan dollar and his backup tongue scrapers, pulled out his ledger, and wrote:
41. Did you like the show? It was for you.
24
Leena’s favorite part of the show was when it was over. Mikesh and she had sat in the front row thanks to Varsha, who would not name the completely obvious source of her miraculously free VIP seats. Leena found the show impressive, dazzling. But while she enjoyed seeing the stars dancing, gyrating, and pretending to sing, it was hard for her not to wonder if Prem had put in all this effort just to prove something to her and her father, and the thought of this bothered her. All the old outrage and injustice came rushing back to the surface. Plus, she was bitter that Prem got to meet his favorite, Juhi Chawla.
Hemant had also been in the audience that night, in front-row-center balcony seats that his dear friend Sanjay Sapra had acquired. The show held little interest for him; he was not much of a Hindi movie fan and his mind was preoccupied by the terrible news of a new Indian grocery store opening up on Oak Tree Road, just a little ways down from his. As if one were not enough. The new store was twice as big, with more aisles, more fridges, and three separate checkout lanes, but Hemant doubted this was the experience customers were looking for. They wanted personal attention, the feeling of coming home to India. What they didn’t want was unlimited bitter gourd and economy-size cans of ghee. There was nothing to worry about really, he told himself. Besides, Hriyan was still thriving, his leaves strong, green, and crisscrossing the ceiling, assuring him that everything would be fine. Halfway through the show, when the fog machine kicked in, it struck Hemant that the production values of this program were not bad at all. In fact, the whole thing was quite a feat. It occurred to him then that Prem Kumar, that lousy gas-station attendant who had tried to steal his daughter, might still be trying to make the million and one dollars. Why would he do this? Didn’t he hear of her engagement to a dashing endocrinology student? What if he made the money and came after Leena again? Hemant wasn’t sure how he felt about this fresh, unforeseen possibility.
The rest of the community, however, was thrilled. The morning after the show, Prem awoke, in his apartment full of roommates, a hero.
“Petrol! A way to go!” Iqbal said.
“Rocking time,” Lucky said.
“I did not think you could do it, yaar,” Mohan said.
“Ya, I also did not think so!” Deepak said, using his sleeve to wipe crumbs from his chin. “I was thinking it will be a total flop!”
