And what a thing it was. He’d given himself over to it time and again—in the Delhi movie halls, at Mehboob Studios in Bombay, and, at long last, in Edison through Superstar Entertainment, forged from nothing but his measureless worship of the films. The shows were his ode to the genre, and he had succeeded, he felt, in honoring the movies’ magic, their grace and rowdiness, their charm and untamed emotion, their poetry.
As Richard Gere, who had been getting quite cozy that evening with more than one Bollywood starlet, was commended for his friendliness toward India, Prem kept his eye on Tiger Nayak and Dr. Sanjay Gupta. Wristwatch had deposited the doctor at Table 3 in front of the blank place card, upsetting the entire seating arrangement to Shah Rukh Khan’s great dismay. But Shah Rukh decided not to say anything. He saw that Dr. Gupta was engrossed in conversation with a petite and aggressively confident young woman—not an actress, but someone important all the same—so he took a seat by Minerva the Psychic Reader. Toward the end of the show, Minerva turned to Shah Rukh. “You know, that woman there has done some terrible things in her life,” said as she pointed to Tiger. “Terrible things.”
“What does she want with CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta?”
“Let’s see.” Minerva knitted her brow in concentration. “She knows he is married and is not interested in him in any romantic way. She just … admires him.”
“Hm,” Shah Rukh said.
“Even murderers have their idols,” Minerva shrugged.
Prem never understood what it was about Sanjay Gupta that pleased Tiger so. Whatever it was, it was enough to placate her for a lifetime. After that night, she stopped threatening Prem and left him to his business. It was the last he ever saw of the diminutive underworld gangster, who thanked him outside profusely before she left, her ponytail blowing in the wind.
43
Prem did not typically attend the parties after his shows, but how could he refuse Sridevi and Madhuri Dixit, the most leading of all leading ladies of the post–Cold War era? They double-teamed him in the parking lot, insisting he join them at Urban Turban Bar and Grill, where a signature orange cocktail, the Mango Mojito, concocted specially for the occasion, was being doled out in tall glasses at full tilt.
“Can you believe how the fans were behaving?” Lucky mused to Mohan at the bar. “Going wild at the sight of a few stars?”
Mohan scoffed. “Yaar, you were the worst one.”
In one corner, Kajol and Ajay Devgan were behaving like newlyweds, while in another, Salman Khan whispered something to Beena that elicited tears of laughter. A large mixed group congregated on sofas in the VIP lounge, with no discernible barrier to entry.
“Prem Sahib!” an actor cried.
“Kumarji!” others followed.
“Petrol!” Deepak shouted. The entire bar and grill broke out in applause upon Prem’s arrival, and he couldn’t help but smile. He found a cozy spot next to Shah Rukh Khan and settled in.
Shilpa Shetty resumed a story about her latest heartbreak, which involved a wealthy entrepreneur playboy and a murder-for-hire plot. “When I came to know he was planning the killing of his ex-girlfriend, he thought I would be happy. Can you imagine? So, honestly speaking, I’ve made some wrong choices.”
Prem’s assistant Pankaj followed with a devastating tale of unrequited love with his cousin, which some found disturbing and others endearing, and Kareena Kapoor shared her history of misguided romance with her onscreen romantic interests. “That is too tragic,” Sridevi said, shaking her head, “too, too tragic.”
Prem listened to each account with deeper and deeper depth of feeling, at the same time sinking farther and farther into the recesses of the couch. Every twist brought him back to an episode in his own sad story; every lament was a lament he’d already lamented. Beena, having dragged Salman over to join the group, recognized immediately the look on her friend’s face, the everyday ache of his chronic lovesickness.
“But the longest-suffering among us,” Beena said, “is our own tragic superstar, Mr. Prem Kumar.” There were audible gasps and one mango-tinged projectile splatter. Richard Gere started clapping, but quickly realized his mistake and stopped.
Before sharing the saga of Leena and Prem, Beena searched her friend’s eyes for permission to proceed. He responded with a blink and a nod, indicating unambiguously to Beena that he was okay with it. Though he was a secretive person, at this point, what did he have to lose? “Her name is Leena,” she began.
At first, Prem listened quietly as Beena laid out the essential facts: his unfortunate immigration story, his gas-station days, the sweetness of the courtship, and the soul-crushing finality of her father’s million-and-one-dollar decree. The mojitos kept coming and Prem kept drinking them, eventually loosening up. He objected to Beena’s characterization of his ball of Leena’s hair and later to her version of his brief entanglement with the police. When she disclosed that Tiger Nayak, the T-Company boss and underworld terror, was a woman, there was a brief digression to marvel at that revelation and then argue about who should play her in the movie. (Rani Mukerji, it was decided.) Additional uproar ensued when Beena announced that Tiger had been in attendance at the awards show that evening.
“That small person with the leather black pants?” Shah Rukh asked. “Why did you put her at my table, man?”
“Leave him alone,” Hrithik Roshan shot back. “His girlfriend was almost murdered in the eye.”
Prem felt compelled to clarify. “She is not my girlfriend.”
“Yaar, I’m trying to help you,” said Hrithik.
“Oh. Right.”
After Beena reached the most recent events—Prem’s romantic banning of Leena from his awards program, his heroic quest to deliver CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta, and of course, her own crucial role in this—there was a Q&A of sorts, during which some of Prem’s life choices were questioned and a glut of irrelevant advice was proffered on how he ought to have proceeded. But overall, the crowd was sympathetic.
“Premji, do not take tension. We will create a solution for you,” Akshay Kumar proclaimed.
Sridevi and Preity Zinta concurred. “We have decided. We will not go to Disney World until we solve your problem.”
“I beg you, please, do not solve anything,” Prem said. “You’re going to Disney World?”
“Can I come?” asked Deepak.
The group debated who would play the roles of Prem and Leena in the aforementioned movie. Beena chimed in with a casting decision of her own: “I will play myself.” Shilpa Shetty asked Yogesh if he had any leftover chocolate mints from the Olive Garden, and Deepak turned to Aishwarya and made an off-color joke about bottomless salad. The still-popular and ever-danceable Koi Kahe Kehta Rahe came on and the party moved to the dance floor.
Prem was at once unsettled and touched by the actors’ outpouring of pledges of support. He decided to lie down on the couch for a minute, just until the room stopped spinning. He fell asleep watching the revelry, the bouncing and swaying, the drinks spilling and people slipping, Deepak’s gold tooth intermittently gleaming in the sparkle of an overlarge disco ball.
* * *
The next day, multiple Indian actors and one American one stopped by the Engineers’ store. First, Madhuri came in search of bhringraj healthy hair powder, which she used as a jumping-off point to talk about her dear friend Prem Kumar’s lustrous mane. It was strange, Leena thought, that a celebrity should come in and discuss Prem’s hair, but she wrote it off as one of those mysterious maneuverings of the universe and tried to enjoy the fact that Madhuri Dixit was in her store. But not long after the first internationally acclaimed actress left, another appeared, this one unclear as to why she was even there.
“Is there something I can help you find, Ms. Shetty?” Leena offered.
“Oh, you are a fan, you’re too sweet,” Shilpa Shetty said. “Then, you must be knowing Prem Kumar, whose Gold Awards I am here for?” She very quickly began to laud the producer’s attention to detail, exemplary work ethic, great success, and general cuteness.
“Maybe you are looking for Ayurvedic beauty products, as Madhuriji was? They are just there,” Leena said gesturing toward aisle two. Shilpa Shetty purchased a four-pound bag of red lentils, which she grabbed from the shelf absentmindedly, and soon left.
Next, Ajay Devgan and Kajol turned up, also apparently in search of nothing; a few minutes later, Sridevi, Shah Rukh Khan, and Hrithik Roshan joined them. By early afternoon, India America Grocers had hosted a broad cross-section of Indian cinema royalty plus Richard Gere, who inquired about incense. Each visitor found a way to bring the conversation around to some aspect of Prem’s evidently stellar reputation, his unwavering vision, his single-minded focus, his unrelenting loyalty. By the time Salman showed up and began praising Prem’s body weight relative to his height, Leena was certain something was afoot.
A small crowd formed outside, peering into the store and trying to discern whether the rumors were true, and if so, whether they could go in. Ten or fifteen years ago, Leena might have had a similar reaction to such a swarm of celebrities, but she had lived long enough now not to be enthralled by them. But even she couldn’t help being starstruck at the sight of the Nightingale of India in her store. Lata Mangeshkar had maintained a low profile the previous evening, quietly accepting the award for All-Time MVPS (Most Valuable Playback Singer) and keeping mostly to herself at the afterparty. She’d heard every word of Prem’s sad love story, however, and resolved to march into India America Grocers the next day to straighten out her good friend Ashok Ratan Kumar’s son’s affairs.
