“Sir, the stars have been detained at Immigration and Customs,” Prem’s new, very efficient, and monotone assistant, Pankaj, informed him. It was mid-October, one day before rehearsals were to begin for Lights, Camera, Indian! Prem had decided the show must go on.
“Which ones?” he asked.
“Aamir, Salman, Shah Rukh,” Pankaj replied.
“Jesus,” Prem said. The three Khans, the show’s headliners, had played leading men for many years and continued to play the role of college students well into their thirties. Three of the biggest movie stars in the world, they were not accustomed to such treatment.
“The airportwalla will not give me any information, sir—how long they will be there, what they are doing to them.”
“Did you tell him these are major superstars of Indian cinema?”
“Yes, sir. He was not impressed, sir.”
Prem had heard the stories of people of South Asian ancestry being pulled out of line at the airport for additional screening, the increasing occurrence of “Would you come with me, sir” directed at brown-skinned travelers. He could understand the reasons for the increased measures, but why would these three men in particular, enjoying fabulously glamorous lives of wealth, fame, unlimited creative expression, and universal adoration, take down an airplane and themselves in the process? More precise methodology was in order, Prem felt.
It was true, Aamir, Salman, and Shah Rukh were at the top of their game. With Asoka and Lagaan, Shah Rukh and Aamir, respectively, ushered in the rise of big-budget historical epics. In the same year, they heralded the era of the diasporic romance with Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham (K3G), Dil Chahta Hai, and Kal Ho Naa Ho (KHNH), which brought the worlds of expatriate Indians to Indian audiences. They also brought Indian actors out from their soundstages and into the open air of foreign countries, where they could shoot outdoors without being attacked by adoring mobs.
Prem was not interested in seeing Indian movies set in America about the lives of super-rich business families; he missed the classics that portrayed the lives of poor, struggling Indians fighting for justice in the mean streets of Bombay when it was still called Bombay. Yet, he had to admit he enjoyed K3G’s misunderstood-son-trying-to-find-himself storyline and its role in Amitabh Bachchan’s triumphant white-goateed comeback, which was bolstered by his role as host of the hugely popular Kaun Banega Crorepati—the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire of India. Meanwhile, Salman, still riding the wave of his 1999 and 2000 hits Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, Hum Saath-Saath Hain, and Chori Chori Chupke Chupke, was doing a solid job of remaining on top despite the encroachment of the slightly younger set, including Hrithik Roshan and new-Khan-on-the-block Saif Ali.
The bottom line was these three could not remain at the airport. Something had to be done, but what? Prem had amassed a large number of contacts over the years, but none with any political or aeronautical influence. He paced his modest office—which he’d acquired at the same time he’d acquired his modest assistant—as Pankaj stood solemnly and obediently very near the dangling leaves of a plant. The plant had been a gift from Suchitra, the kind-hearted divorcée, after his last show, an offering of good luck on his continued journey to prosperity. It hung from the ceiling, and apparently, when the leaves spilled over the sides of the basket and touched the ground, he would be rich. Someone else had a plant like this, Prem remembered. He stopped pacing and turned to Pankaj amongst the greenery. “I know someone who maybe can help.”
* * *
“I’ve been calling since a week,” Hemant said into the phone in an aggravated tone. He was on with the mayor’s office, according to Kailash Mistry, who answered the door and invited Prem in. The apartment was crawling with cricket fans who had come over that morning to cheer on India versus South Africa in the final of the Standard Bank Triangular tournament. Though it was not a major event, they had piled in, pillows tucked under their arms at seven on a Wednesday morning, and made themselves comfortable, sprawling out beneath the canopy of green as though sunbathing.
“Not looking good for India,” Kailash said to Prem. “Maybe you can bring them luck. Come, come.”
“No, you see, I—” Prem started.
“Why everything is taking so much of time?” Hemant growled at the mayor.
“You, shift,” Kailash said, shooing Charlie Patel to the outer reaches of the couch to make room for Prem.
“Really, I just—”
“Now, sit. Relax,” Kailash insisted.
Prem gave up and sat. He had never cared much for cricket but tried to follow along over the years because he knew it mattered to Leena. He was surprised and disappointed she was not there for the match; it was hard for her to resist this kind of scene. Though she was usually the only female in the room, she’d once told him, it was the environment in which she felt she most belonged.
Hemant ended his call and began grumbling to himself. “Always they give so much of hassle. Never getting anything done ever.” Then turning to cricket and the situation in his apartment: “All out for 183? Hopeless. Where is my pillow? What is Petrol Pump doing on my sofa?”
Prem cleared his throat and began unwedging himself from between Charlie and Nathan Kothari, which was more challenging than expected. When at last he launched himself free, he tripped on two sets of legs and an arm before fully coming to an upright position before Hemant.
“Can I help you?” Hemant asked in an unhelpful tone.
Prem had not come face to face with Leena’s father since 1988, when the Berlin Wall still stood and Rajiv Gandhi still lived. The man had aged accordingly. His hair was almost completely gone, though he still seemed to apply the same amount of Brylcreem to it, and his jowls had drooped to well below his jawline. Still, he had a younger man’s fire in his eyes, which was directed at Prem at that moment.
“Sir, can I speak to you on the side?” Prem said.
“On the side of what?” Hemant said.
“Sorry, I meant on the other side of the room. In the kitchen.”
Hemant grunted and nodded. “Be fast, my match is on.”
They stepped over two more legs before reaching the kitchen. Prem remembered that Hemant now knew everything—his parentage, his family’s situation, his outright deception. Best not to bring that up, he thought, his thighs quivering as in childhood after an exceptional tarriance at a squat toilet. He explained the problem of his actors spending the night in airport detention, but it was unclear whether Hemant was moved. “I believe they had to remove all their clothing and were only given French fries to eat,” Prem added in an attempt to make his story more compelling.
“Is that right?” Hemant said.
Prem took a seat at the dining table to gain some control over his body, a move he instantly recognized as a mistake because Hemant was now towering over him, his jowls looming above. Prem craned his neck. “Also, they searched their suitcases and confiscated their tongue scrapers,” he explained.
After a lot of heavy breathing, Hemant said, “Which actors?”
“Aamir, Salman, Shah Rukh,” Prem said.
“Hmph. Was that fellow in DDLJ?” Hemant said.
“Which fellow?” Prem said.
“Salman,” Hemant said.
“No, no, he was in MPK,” Prem said.
“Then who was in DDLJ?”
“That was Shah Rukh. He also was the one in K2H2, KHNH, and K3G.”
“Then who is Salman?”
