“Fine. Do you have any better idea?”
Beena gave her left-turn signal and changed lanes. “Leave it to me.”
Prem rummaged through the cassettes in Beena’s center console, looking for an appropriate soundtrack for their uncertain adventure. Like so many in King’s Court, Beena had maintained a cassette deck in her car, even when the car dealer vehemently recommended otherwise, so as to be able to play the tapes she’d lugged over from India and loved for decades. Prem picked T-Series Mega Hit Classics and clicked it into the slot. A classic megahit from the middle of the B-side ended as he closed his eyes. When he opened them forty-five minutes later, Beena was pulling into the lot of a place called Shady Pines. She parked and turned to inspect him. “There is drool coming out from one side of your mouth.”
Prem wiped the spit with his sleeve.
“Maybe you just wait in the car,” she said.
She went in and came back out just two minutes later. “Ya, he is not here,” she said. Next, they tried Pine Valley Assisted Living, followed by Peaceful Pines Senior Home, then Whispering Pines Senior Residences. “This is a very pine-oriented place,” Prem noted.
When at last they spotted a CNN news van in front of Overwhelming Pines Senior Sanctuary, he swore to Beena that in that moment he heard the soulful trumpet of a conch shell being blown, as at the start of every episode of Mahabharata and before many other Hindu beginnings that needed auspicious endings—the start of a show, the start of a war, the start of a grocery store, the start of a well-planned solution to a problem—symbolizing a call to duty, the opening of festivities, a cleansing away of negative energy to make room for the divine, a long primal om that only he could hear.
“Uh, no,” Beena said.
“I’m telling you, I hear it in my mind.”
“I also hear it.” Beena pointed out the window behind Prem. “There is a man in the yard there blowing a conch.”
“Oh,” Prem said. Of course there would be a man in his undershirt blowing a conch in a nursing home yard, he thought. This was New Jersey, after all. Beena decided she would start by approaching the van.
“Can I come?” Prem asked.
“Do you want CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta to come to the Gold Awards tomorrow to meet his number-one most murderous fan, or no?”
“I do,” Prem said, crossing his arms and pouting.
“Okay, then. Give me the tickets and leave it to me.”
Prem watched her knock on the driver’s side window of the van, then walk around to the back and disappear into it. He wondered how much room was inside, with the cameras and lighting equipment and assistants and, he hoped, Dr. Gupta. She had been in the van for over ten minutes when Prem began to worry. It shook noticeably, and he started to get out of the car, but just then Beena emerged, giggling and tossing her hair. She extended her hands and they were embraced by another pair of brown hands reaching out from within the van.
“Done,” she said when she returned to the car. “Should we go to King’s Court or directly to the hall?”
* * *
Shah Rukh was late for rehearsal because he had been detained by security at the airport. By now, he didn’t require assistance in navigating the situation; it had become routine. Fortunately, his delayed arrival at rehearsal was not a problem since there wasn’t much for him to rehearse. He and Rani Mukerji would be presenting the award for Best Actor in a Negative Role (female), after which he could just sit in the audience and enjoy. They were dressing the tables as practices went on, everything in shimmering orange and gold—linens, glasses, salad plates upon dinner plates upon charger plates, nesting Russianly one on top of the next. Name cards were carefully placed among scattered marigolds; Shah Rukh found his at Table 3. Seated to his left was director Mira Nair, and to his right was Beena Joshi, who, as far as he could tell, was someone operating at the highest levels of Superstar Entertainment. Also at Table 3 were married stars Ajay Devgan and Kajol, a person called Minerva the Psychic Reader, CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta, and a mystery guest signified by a blank card. Shah Rukh wondered what the thinking was behind this particular arrangement and whether the precise seat assignments were in service to some greater plan. Most likely, they had been indiscriminately positioned, he decided, and switched his card with the unnamed guest’s so he would instead be flanked by Minerva and Dr. Gupta. It was a victimless sort of noncrime, he thought. He probably should have remained by Mira Nair to discuss future projects but just wasn’t in the mood. He was intrigued by this Minerva, though, who might not know who he was and could therefore give an unbiased reading, untainted by his overwhelming celebrity. Plus, always opting to sit with a psychic when presented with the opportunity seemed a good rule to live by. And then there was Dr. Sanjay Gupta, whom Shah Rukh had never before met and who seemed like someone interesting with whom to converse. And if there was time, perhaps he could prevail upon the good doctor to examine his swollen ankle.
If only Dr. Gupta would show up. Prem, who was no stranger to everyday anguish, was altogether wrecked by the double anguish of thinking about his last interaction with Leena and waiting for Sanjay Gupta. “I told you he will be here, so he will be here,” Beena proclaimed. It was Saturday afternoon, just a few hours before the show was to begin, and she was directing her crew as they carried in the chafing dishes. Prem sat at the edge of the stage, looking as though he’d just built it. He had slept in his office again and shown up to the event space unshaven in Exxon coveralls.
“You are very confident. Why are you very confident? What did you do in the back part of the CNN van?” he demanded to know.
Beena raised a pretend rolling pin to pretend hit him. “I simply made an offer. He could not refuse it.”
“So, if really he is coming, maybe I should go back to Leena and—”
“No, stop, just no,” Beena interrupted. “There is no time. Show is starting soon, Leena problem will take long time to fix and you have to brush your teeth.” With that, she left to supervise the setup of the live dosa station while Prem lay down on the stage. Several of his employees looked at him then at each other, then went back to what they were doing. The hall was glittering and golden, bathed in an orange glow. He unfocused his eyes and the scene became watery and fluid, flowing and swirling in on itself, harkening back to the original puddle of orange soda that had started it all. He got up and walked around. It was much as he’d envisioned, only better, yet all he wanted to do was vomit, which was what he did, into a chafing dish.
Beena didn’t witness the retching but was there for the stench of the aftermath. She rubbed Prem’s back and forced a glass of water upon him. “I am sending you home in the car and calling those duffers in your apartment to help you.”
Prem shook his head and hand in protest, but Beena was already on her phone.
“Hello, duffer?” Beena said to Deepak. “Wake up, it is evening almost.”
“Beenaji, Beenaji, what a night we had at Olive Garden. Man, I tell you, those stars, they are wild. They drank all the wine. Not from our table only, from the whole Olive Garden! Some got out of hand, but Sridevi helped them, such an angel that Sridevi. All of them were loving the unlimited breadsticks, but then the manager—”
Beena had heard enough. “I am sending Prem home. Make him get ready, shave, shower, brush, scrape, comb, and get dressed, then put him back in the car.”
“Is he drunk again?” Mohan yelled from the background.
“Can you make me sit by Aishwarya?” Yogesh yelled from the background.
* * *
By five o’clock, the unending orange-and-gold carpet had been unfurled and was crowded with reporters eager to report. Fans were lined up ten feet deep, some there since the previous night, others peddling chai and samosa—entrepreneurs recognizing an opportunity when they saw one. People stood on benches, on cars, and on each other; fans pushed other fans who bumped up against other fans who got angry. When a rumor spread that the first star had arrived, cameras began flashing and there was shouting and shoving mixed with flowers. Though they were all staying at the same hotel, Prem had arranged for the stars to be picked up and delivered to the Bollywood Gold Awards in a staggered fashion. The first to arrive was Madhuri Dixit, who looked fresh and vibrant and generally awake, being the only one not suffering from jet lag, having just flown in from Colorado with her Coloradan husband.
“Madhuriji, great to see you, you’re looking gorgeous!” a reporter from Little India declared, to which Madhuri replied, “Ah, too sweet, thank you,” to which the reporter said, “You are nominated for Devdas, which was superb, the most gorgeous and outstanding film I have seen, so tell me, how was your experience in making the film?” to which Madhuri said, “The experience I had in making Devdas was one of the best in my career. For us, for the entire team, it will always be extremely special, and full marks go to Sanjay and the entire unit, it was an absolute pleasure,” at which point Aishwarya emerged from a large vehicle, and the roar of the crowd grew so loud it was difficult for the interviewer from the Good Weekend, Jersey Indians! show to hear Aishwarya’s response when he asked, “Between you and me, who do you think will win for Best Actor? Come on, I won’t tell anyone, haha,” which Aishwarya didn’t really even hear and so replied, “I have been blessed to get strong roles and work with good directors, blessed in the sense because all of us want to make outstanding films, and what’s wonderful is—” which Salman, having just alighted upon the orange carpet, overheard and passionately disagreed with, arguing, “Oof, the director and role are secondary to the performances that Aish has given, really, just mind-blowing,” which startled Aishwarya, pleasantly, and led to a warm embrace, which elicited cheers from the fans, who seemed unable to handle this turn of events, but whose attention was soon diverted by Ajay Devgan and Kajol, who walked the orange carpet holding hands, adorable couple that they were, giving interviews that way, about which a reporter from India West commented, “You are fully in love, so cute, please, can you reveal, will we be seeing you on the big screen together soon, I hope?” to which the husband responded, “I hope too! No, but seriously, ya, we are very excited to be here with so many amazing actors and filmmakers, not just with actors and filmmakers, but more for the fans, America’s fans are unreal—” which happened to be the exact moment a fan broke his leg jumping off his van onto what he’d hoped would be the strong and welcoming arms of the crowd but instead turned out to be the pavement, upon which another fan closer to the orange carpet fainted, causing three different people to dial 911, which ended up working out because a third person needed medical attention after she had elbowed someone who in turn attacked her eye with the pointy part of a samosa, prompting Prem to make a mental note for next year: crowd control, bleachers, first-aid tent.
By the time Sridevi and Shilpa Shetty began working their way through the press gauntlet, several police cars had arrived at the scene, circling the parking lot in anticipation of a full-blown riot. The screaming mounted and more than one person was inexplicably crying. Shilpa Shetty talked with a Stardust reporter about the making of her latest film (“It was loads of fun. So much of attention to details as is visible in each frame, that’s the main thing”). Sridevi was telling a bewildered Star-Ledger reporter that goodness, no, it wasn’t her first time in Edison (“Many times. Every Indian in this country, and some even abroad, knows Edison. As well-known as Disneyland.”), while Prem stood at the end of the carpet by the entrance to the hall, taking in the wild and glamorous scene.
Counter to his explicit instructions, three cars pulled up at the same time and three sets of megastars entered the fray. The crowd erupted in pandemonium all over again upon seeing Hrithik Roshan, Kareena Kapoor, Akshay Kumar, and Preity Zinta, and the flashing cameras became blinding. Prem spotted Wristwatch at the far end of the carpet but then lost him. Why was he there? To protect Tiger Nayak or for other, more eye-threatening reasons? He had to get to him, to assure him that Dr. Gupta was on his way and there was no need to go after Leena, who was not even coming that night. He pushed his way through the mayhem but kept getting stopped by actors, reporters, Representative Frank Pallone, Jr., of the Sixth District, there to mingle with his constituency, the Indian American vote having become crucial. He extracted himself from one conversation after another, inching forward through a blur of tuxedos and sequins. Wristwatch reappeared on the other side of the velvet ropes, towering over the fans. It made no sense that he would be over there, but then it made perfect sense—Leena was there.
Mired in a crush of people, she was trying to press ahead at the same time Wristwatch advanced the other way towards her. Prem had the sudden feeling that something was about to happen, a rumble of a disturbance to come. He forced his way forward, and everything that followed happened in slow motion with the volume on mute. The horde of fans turned hostile, clashing with each other, some getting knocked to the ground. Prem lost sight of Leena just as Wristwatch reached out his arms. The flash of a camera reflected off Wristwatch’s wristwatch, catching Prem’s eye at the very moment the thug swooped someone up in his arms. Prem lifted his hand to block the glare. When Wristwatch turned, it wasn’t Leena he was carrying. Instead, it was the dazzling and highly educated key to taming Tiger, the handsome correspondent and neurosurgeon, CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta. He had come. Prem watched in awe as Wristwatch carried his precious cargo to safety, parting the crowd as he went, kicking anyone in his path, the illustrious doctor burying his face in his savior’s shoulder, not unlike the singer with her bodyguard in the film The Bodyguard, which Lucky had once forced Prem to watch.
After that, the volume came back on and somehow the chaos subsided. The rampaging fans lost interest once the stars had shuffled into the banquet hall. Prem remained outside looking for Leena, wandering up and down the orange-and-gold carpet and among the parked cars in the lot. He couldn’t see her anywhere, and he began to wonder if she’d really been there at all. But he kept searching until Beena came to drag him in. The carpet was almost completely cleared but for a few straggling producers giving unsolicited soundbites and Gopal, who had been mistaken for an actor by the American press and was giving a weird series of interrogative interviews (“Why do they call it World Series when it is only American and Canadian teams?”).
Inside, the awards program began. The emcee for the evening, an up-and-coming Indian American comedian from the up-and-coming Indian American comedy scene, warmed up the crowd with some pertinent apolitical jokes while the champagne flowed freely. Prem tried to put Leena out of his mind, at least for a short time, to enjoy the product of his labor. A dance number performed by a local dance troupe came off beautifully, mashing together songs from the best-picture nominees into a high-energy triumph of synchronicity.
One by one, glamorous people disseminated awards to glamorous people, and Prem was tickled each time the phrase he’d created, “And the Gold Spot goes to…” was spoken. The winners made their way up onstage amid rounds of applause that Prem imagined were meant as much for the whole of this thing called Bollywood as much as they were for them.
