The driver raised his arm in a weak attempt to shield him from the throng. But Amitabh approached the makeshift barricade that airport security had hurriedly erected, namaskaring and posing for pictures for nearly an hour, the driver looking on disapprovingly. At the end of the line was an elderly woman in a wheelchair. Amitabh bent down and cupped her hands in his and said something that made her smile. He waited at baggage claim for his own bags—why shouldn’t he? He worked out regularly with a trainer—and after he and the driver loaded the bags onto a cart, he pushed it himself.
“What if one day the crowds went away? I mean, there is no reason they ever would go away, of course, you being who you are, but would it be strange for you if they did?” The organizer of the show, a Mr. Prem Kumar, asked this question from the front seat of the overly substantial car. The previous questions, from the driver and a fastidious assistant called Pankaj, had been the usual ones—What is your favorite film? Who is your favorite actress?—for which he had rote answers (The Godfather, Waheeda Rehman). But here was something new. Of course, he had pondered this question himself many times before. In his earlier years of stardom, he often wondered how it would be when it was no longer like this. But it seemed at this late age, the crowds were showing no signs of thinning but instead seemed to be swelling—though perhaps this was not a reflection of any growing popularity on his part but rather of the increased interconnectedness of people and the unremitting flow of information. Everyone knew where he was all the time. Amitabh leaned forward to get a better look at Prem.
He didn’t seem like a typical producer who acted like a big shot. He was more like a postal worker or call-center manager. He kind of resembled a younger version of his dear friend and colleague Shashi Kapoor—lean and tall, with full, fluffy hair now flecked with gray, a mirror of himself almost, but handsomer. There was something nervous about him, as if a vital part of his essence remained unsettled. “If the crowds went away,” Amitabh said in his rich, philosophical game-show-host voice, “I would take a very long walk.”
Before leaving him at the hotel, Prem Kumar spoke with Amitabh about the rehearsal schedule, transportation, the arrivals of the other stars. It seemed he had thought of everything, including a nightly delivery of homemade dal chaaval by a woman called Beena Auntie. When people began to recognize the actor and approach for autographs in the lobby, Prem stood by and waited respectfully until they were done. He was more like a valet than a mogul, Amitabh thought.
“Americans are complaining about removing the shoes,” Akshaye Khanna said. “I had to remove even my underwear!” He had arrived one day after Amitabh on the same plane as Saif Ali Khan, Bipasha Basu, and Sushmita Sen, who had not been detained or asked to remove their underwear. “Why me only?” he said.
“Because you have that look, you know, like maybe you would hide something there,” Saif said.
“Ya, definitely something wrong is going on in there,” Sushmita said.
The stars of the show, minor and major, were gathered together at the rehearsal space, waiting for the choreographer, who liked to make an entrance. Amitabh loved this sort of on-set, behind-the-scenes banter. He had quite enjoyed this aspect of his profession all these years and recently had taken on a more paternal role with his young colleagues. “Now, now, let us leave Mr. Khanna’s underwear alone,” he said.
The choreographer dervished in with a flourish, traversing the dance floor twice before striking an elaborate pose in the center, his head bowed awaiting applause.
The actors, stunned and confused, looked around at each other. A few clapped.
“Hello, beautiful ones,” the choreographer began. “Please do not be intimidated.”
They wasted no time that morning, immediately jumping into the opening act, a group number to the song “Maahi Ve”—from the soon-to-be-released Kal Ho Naa Ho—which included the entire cast and ended in a human pyramid. The afternoon was spent with the director mapping out the rest of the numbers and who was to perform in what and when. Amitabh loved every minute of it. When Sunil Shetty kept turning right instead of left and falling off the hypothetical stage, husband-and-wife superstars Ajay Devgan and Kajol made raucous crashing sounds, which Amitabh found highly amusing. “Young man,” he said to Sunil, “turn left or you will wind up with a concussion.” When newlyweds Twinkle Khanna and Akshay Kumar squabbled about who had caused their lateness that morning, Amitabh morphed into his character from the 1989 film Toofan, singing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” which everyone joined in on, including, eventually, Twinkle and Akshay. At three o’clock, Beena Joshi showed up with samosas and chai for the chai-samosa break. Prem was with her and quietly nodded and waved hello, taking a seat on a stool in a back corner. Such an unassuming megashow director, Amitabh thought. He seemed more like a poet.
Beena had brought Amitabh’s special warm milk—he had stopped having tea, coffee, alcohol, and all manner of aerated drink in recent years—and he sipped it slowly. There was something about this Prem chap that was nagging him. He was a humble, peculiar sort of fellow, but sometimes such characters were full of surprises.
Salman Khan approached just then, eating chicken biryani out of a very large bowl.
“Salluji, come, come,” Amitabh said. “How was your flight?”
“Usual, boring. Actually, from Delhi to Amsterdam there was a bombshell flight attendant. Amsterdam to Newark, no such luck.”
“Tough times, Salluji, tough times,” Amitabh said, thumping him on the back. “Now, tell me, what do you know about this Prem Kumar Superstar guy? You did one show with him before, correct?”
Salman shoveled biryani into his mouth. “Prem? Ya, great guy, good guy, easy to work with, professional. I don’t think I have ever talked to him.”
“You don’t think there is something, uh, different about him?”
“Different?” Salman ate more biryani. “You mean because he maybe is gay? Amitji, all due respect, that is not a big deal anymore. We are in 2002.”
“No, that is not what I—”
“I can find out more about this if that is what you need.”
“No, no, that is not—”
“Anything for you, Amitji,” Salman said and walked away with his large bowl.
Amitabh sipped his warm milk and glanced in Prem’s direction. That’s when it struck him: he had met him somewhere long ago.
“Seven, eight, nine, keep breathing, stay strong,” Amitabh’s personal trainer Vrinda said. Amitabh liked to keep fit even when on the road, so she often accompanied him when he traveled for work. She had just arrived for this first international assignment. He was in the middle of his second set of squatjacks in the hotel fitness center when he asked Vrinda if she remembered ever meeting Prem Kumar on one of their trips or perhaps back in India.
“He is a tall, skinny man, sort of nervous and shy,” Amitabh inquired.
“You are asking me if I have ever met a tall, skinny Indian man?” Vrinda asked.
“Okay, when you meet him this week, just try to remember if you have met him before.”
“Or, I have an idea, why don’t you just ask him?”
“Vrindaji, how can I do that? Then he will know I have forgotten him.”
“How stupid I am,” Vrinda said. “Now plank.”
Amitabh hated plank but had really come to appreciate the importance of core work. He assumed the position. “Maybe that time Jaya and I attended the launch of TV Asia?”
“What are we talking about? Four, five, six …”
“Prem Kumar,” Amitabh grunted.
“Still?”
“Or when I came back to sell TV Asia to another company?” he asked, his voice straining.
“Amitji, you are fixed on this one thing only.”
“I am far from my home, far from my country and the ones I love,” Amitabh said, his arms quivering. “A man has to occupy himself somehow.”
“Beautiful story,” Vrinda countered. “Very moving, but I don’t believe it for one minute.”
