I
Friday, 11 a.m.
Rohan climbed into the luxury car that was waiting for him at Kathgodam railway station, the nearest railhead for Ramsar. Apart from the slight delay of his flight from Mumbai to Delhi, the journey had begun well and promised to get better. He had peremptorily rejected the option of flying up to Pantnagar, followed by a three-hour drive to Ramsar. His calculating mind had favoured the benefits of a long trip that would afford him time to introspect: therefore he decided to go with the option of the overnight train journey to Kathgodam.
He gazed at the picturesque surroundings with satisfaction. With the mellow sunbeams dancing around them, the car sped on the undulating hill road, past lofty pines and majestic oaks.
It would take him four hours to reach Ramsar, he was informed by the driver. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath of the pine-scented air and sank into the plush upholstery of the car. His heart was thumping at the prospect of meeting Ramola once again.
The landscape got progressively more verdant and the jagged white teeth of the Himalayas appeared in the distance. The sound of gurgling rivulets and bird calls, apart from the soft purr of the car engine, soothed his ears as he rolled down the window further to inhale the fresh air. Soon, the crisp, cool breeze blew away all thoughts of Ekta and Mumbai from his mind.
Ramola had chosen well, he thought. The place was idyllic. Rohan was glad he risked Ekta’s wrath by accepting Ramola’s invitation. ‘It’s either Ramola or me,’ the girl had issued an ultimatum. ‘You can’t have both. If you go to Ramsar, our relationship is over.’
It had taken him a mere instant to decide. Ramola had money. She also had a lovely cottage in a beautiful location. One fleeting glance at the cramped single-bedroom apartment and his mind was made up. A guy had to survive, and in order to survive one had to take tough decisions. The relationship with Ekta was good while it lasted, but two struggling stars could never hope for a bright future.
‘Let’s face it,’ he had told her, ‘our relationship is getting nowhere nor are we. Ramola can give me a comfortable life and that’s what I need at the moment. Someday, when I am successful and need her no longer, I might look you up.’
‘Get out!’ Ekta had thundered. ‘And I don’t ever want to see your stupid face again. You’ve made your bed, now lie on it.’ She had unceremoniously thrown out him out, bag and baggage.
‘You bet I will,’ he had chuckled irrepressibly, picking up belongings.
Now, as he surveyed the green pastures interspersed with tiny houses, he knew he had made the right choice.
II
Friday, 12 noon
At his office in New Delhi, Sammy issued some last-minute instructions to a harassed secretary. There were dozens of loose ends to be tied up, appointments to be cancelled and embarrassing explanations to be made. He wished he didn’t have to leave for the weekend but providence had played its part.
Just a day before Ramola’s birthday, he had received a call from the party headquarters. One of the old and loyal members of the party from Haldwani constituency had died of a cardiac arrest that morning and the high command had instructed Sammy to attend the funeral. Much as he hated funerals, he couldn’t help but toe the line.
Haldwani was just a little over a hundred kilometres from Ramsar. The timing was perfect and the temptation too much. He would attend Ramola’s party after the funeral, Sammy decided. There was no point in informing her about the change of plans. He wanted to see the surprise on her face when he landed there unannounced.
He told no one about his rendezvous at Ramsar. It would raise too many eyebrows. Only his trusted aide knew that Sammy was planning to spend a couple of days at a nearby hill-station after the funeral. I need a break from the campaign trail. A couple of days at Ramsar will provide the much-needed rest, he had convinced himself. Besides, she had said something about an announcement. He speculated on various possibilities before discarding all of them.
It was a few years since he last met her. Her meteoric rise in the film industry had taken everyone by surprise. They had met when she was at the peak of her career. During a weak moment, Ramola had confided in him about her struggle up the ladder, the bit roles and the C-grade movies, before reaching the top. Hers had been a tough life. Having lost her father at an early age, she had taken on the mantle of responsibility to support her impoverished family. A weak mother and a younger brother are not much help when it comes to keeping the home fires burning. Forced to earn a living, Ramola took whatever job came her way, but the fire of ambition for greater things had burned unabated.
‘We have a lot in common,’ she had said. ‘Nothing came easy for either of us.’
Their relationship had been a stormy one from the word go. Sammy wasn’t a fool and realized that Ramola had never loved him per se, but she had kept him in good humour because she had political aspirations. He knew what she wanted.
The politician found a kindred spirit in her. They were very similar in many ways: ambitious, ruthless and single-minded, the two of them shared a fondness that went beyond the formality of a conventional relationship. With her he could share things he couldn’t share with his wife. He admired Ramola’s tenacity and enjoyed having her around. She added the glamour quotient to his life. He had made a few wild promises but they amounted to nothing. A serious relationship had no place in his scheme of things. They were both too ambitious to form a lasting bond. The complexity of their relationship exhausted him and Sammy knew he would tire of the game eventually. And he did.
The woman is a wily vixen. As far as he knew, Ramola had no scruples. From sex to emotional blackmail, she didn’t hesitate to use any method to attain her objective. A smirk creased his face as he recalled their halcyon days together. Politics and Bollywood had so much in common. One had to prostitute oneself to be successful. Ethics, moral, beliefs are of little use in both the professions. He looked forward to meeting her again. It would be worth the effort of journeying all the way to Ramsar.
III
Friday, 2 p.m.
Similar thoughts were racing through Vikram Ahuja’s mind as his cab raced towards Ramsar that afternoon. It was the thought of meeting Ramola after all these years that made him loosen his purse strings.
An announcement, she had said. It could be a film. You never know. The woman had the money to indulge her whims and fancies. Perhaps she was thinking of casting him in the leading role. They had been a successful on-screen couple. He was sure that Ramola’s announcement had something to do with a film.
A stab of remorse touched his heart. He had been unkind to the girl and had taken advantage of her. He was sure fate would have dealt him a better deal if he hadn’t gotten on the wrong side of Ramola. He had been a pompous ass and had suffered because of that attitude.
At the time they had met, Ahuja was a phenomenon with an unrivalled career. The mere name was enough to sell a film. Furious that he had not been consulted during the casting, he had lashed out at both the director and the producer when they first cast Ramola with him.
If you wanted to cast a girl who has done bit roles in C-grade flicks, the least you could have done is check with me, he had raged. Sen, who was directing the movie, had remained stoic and stubborn. He refused to replace the heroine. In the end, unwilling to lose a meaty role, Ahuja had capitulated. The rest, as they say, was history. The movie went on to become one of the biggest blockbusters of the year. Almost immediately there was a flood of offers from film-makers. The two stars were signed up for half a dozen movies. The media declared them as the greatest hit pair since Raj Kapoor and Nargis.
He was surprised by her success. Ramola wasn’t a beauty; there were far lovelier stars in Bollywood. She couldn’t act to save her life; there were better actresses. Nevertheless, despite her lack of sophistication and seeming naiveté, she had chutzpah and screen presence. The moment the cameras were on, she transformed from the girl-next-door to a sex siren who set the screen on fire.
She drove the front-benchers to a frenzy. They wolf-whistled and threw money at the screen when she danced, went wild when she pouted and gyrated provocatively. She was the new demi-goddess. Everyone in the industry knows that it is the front-benchers, not the critics, who decide whether a movie would hit the bull’s eye.
Ahuja, the canny superstar, knew nothing creates as much buzz as a romance between the lead pair. He wooed her until Ramola succumbed to his charms. He promised her the earth; he swore he would divorce his wife and marry her – which, of course, he had no intention of doing. Money was of no concern. He bought a cosy love nest for the two of them. Unaware of his intentions, Ramola agreed to the clandestine arrangement. In the meantime, they continued to generate one hit after the other. It was a comfortable arrangement and Ahuja had no intentions of rocking the boat by divorcing his wife.
For a while, it was all moonlight and roses for the stars, until she started growing restless. The more Ramola nagged, the more distant he grew. Things soured after her twenty-eighth birthday, when, after living with him for a couple of years, she realized he had no plans of ever leaving his wife. The frequency and intensity of their quarrels began to rise. Ramola had taken to drinking heavily. She couldn’t sleep unless she had drunk herself into a stupor.
She was tired of his excuses and he was sick of her possessiveness. The more he yielded, the more she bickered. Ahuja could see the writing on the wall and knew it was only a matter of time before they split up for good.
One evening, after a massive row, he gave her the ultimatum. Stop nagging or get out of my life. His words had had the impact of a slap. To his surprise, she neither argued nor clawed. The next afternoon, when he came back from the shooting, she was gone. Ahuja was relieved. He had not expected it to end so smoothly. Bollywood was brimming with young and beautiful girls; he didn’t need the almost-thirty woman in his life.
Soon, Ramola began refusing movie offers with him. Initially the news didn’t worry him but soon, very soon, his complacence was shattered. His movies stopped making the mark and dropped off the charts while Ramola went from strength to strength. She had become his nemesis. The queue of producers at his house dwindled to a trickle while the one to her house grew longer.
From then onwards it was downhill for him. Wistfully, he thought of what could have been. I could have divorced my wife and married Ramola. We could have continued to make hit movies together. But destiny couldn’t be undone and time couldn’t be turned back. She is no longer a star nor am I. It will be nice meeting her after all these years.
IV
Friday, 3 p.m.
At about the time Ahuja was nearing his destination, Subroto Sen had just begun his journey from Pantnagar. He looked at his expensive Rolex for the eighth time in the last one hour.
A cup of coffee is what I need, he muttered. Impatiently, he glanced at the pine trees lined up like sentinels on the sides of the winding road, their dark shadows blotting out the sun completely.
The strike called by the Hanuman Sena had altered his plans. There had been instances of arson and looting, and hoodlums had brought the city to a halt. Barely a day before he was to begin working on the movie edits, his technicians had joined the strike. He knew it was impossible to get any work done while this unfortunate state of affairs lasted. The alternative loomed bright and clear. He would attend Ramola’s party, Sen decided.
She’ll pester me for a role in my next movie, the director smiled smugly as the car carried him towards his destination. In his mind he replayed clips of the movies they had done together. Those were the days when he excelled in churning out masala movies – two a year. Ahuja and Ramola had acted in three of his movies. The roles were tailor-made for the woman. Pouting, pirouetting, sobbing, laughing, dancing and oozing oomph, she sailed through the movies, wooing and wowing the audience effortlessly.
Sen had exploited her. He didn’t deny it. Most directors exploited their stars. The casting couch existed. As long as there were eager men and women willing to trade their bodies for roles, the couch would continue to exist. She had been willing to be exploited. She was desperate for stardom. If it hadn’t been for me, she would never have reached the heights she did, he justified his actions.
The director had kept his word. He was the first one to give her a break in a big-budget movie. He took a big risk when he cast her opposite Vikram Ahuja, the reigning star. He ignored Ahuja’s bellyaching to make her a star. Hit pairs are made by movie-goers and directors, Sen had told the star. This girl is star material and I will prove it to you.
Sen transformed her from a gauche girl to a glamorous star, gave her a new name and a new image. A grateful Ramola was only too happy to warm Sen’s bed. Their relationship was over the day she became a star. There was no unpleasantness, no bickering, they parted amicably. It was the natural outcome of a relationship driven by a motive. They wished each other well.
Sen changed tack and switched to making meaningful cinema. Ramola became the top star. She had surprised the industry by working until her mid-thirties. In an industry that rejected women past thirty, that was no mean feat. Retiring at the peak of her career, she refused to succumb to the lure of the small screen. Although they parted ways, he had faithfully followed the media news on her, more out of interest in his protégé’s career graph than any other reason. That was till she disappeared from the media radar and he lost touch with the woman.
It will be nice to see her again, he smiled.
V
Friday, 5 p.m.
Dusk was hovering on the fringes of the cone-carpeted forest as Arif’s car purred towards Charmwood Cottage. The sun had begun to move in slow motion towards the horizon, spreading a medley of colours on the sky.
He was not normally given to poetic thoughts but something touched his steely heart as he watched the sun disappearing behind the rolling hills. Shadows lengthened and the trees turned into amorphous silhouettes in the distance. The cacophony of birds flying back to their nests flooded the forest as twilight’s darkness descended over the landscape.
The effect was magical. Arif sighed. He had never had the time to take a vacation or notice the beauty of nature. Life had been a struggle and continued to remain so. Unlike Rohan, he had opted for a flight to Pantnagar, where a car had been waiting to take him to Ramsar.
‘How much longer?’ he asked the driver.
‘Just a little more time, saab. We are almost there.’ Arif grunted. The driver had been mouthing the same words for the past two hours.
Bloody idiots, the hill folk have no concept of distance and time. The don closed his eyes, his balding head drooped, exhausted after the long day. He chuckled as his mind turned to the woman he was travelling to meet. The delight in her eyes when she saw him would more than make up for the uncomfortable journey.
A pretty girl with lofty ambitions, that’s how he remembered her. He could recall the evening when he first met Ramola. Accompanied by his mistress, he had just entered an upscale diner. The girl who worked as a hostess in the restaurant, had flashed a brilliant smile at him as she led them to a corner table. All his life he had believed himself immune to syrupy emotions but her smile thawed his heart. Back then, she was known as Roopa Patel.
The nubile girl was exactly what he fancied; Arif liked them young and innocent. Young she was, innocent, no. He was to discover that much later. After the meal, as they reached the parking lot, he had rushed back into the restaurant on a lame pretext, leaving his companion in the car.
‘How much does this job pay you?’ he was blunt in his approach.
Taken aback for a moment, she countered, ‘Why should I tell you?’
‘It will be of advantage to you if you do.’
She weighed his words and after a moment’s deliberation, she quoted a modest amount and waited for his reaction.
Experience had told him that she was giving him an inflated figure. Shrugging, he presented his card and asked the girl to meet him the following day. I’m offering you a job in one of my restaurants at double the salary, he had told her. If she was surprised, the girl didn’t show it. That was another thing he liked about her – the cool, calm, collected composure.
It took him less than six months to get her into his bed. Her hurry to make money compounded by her family circumstances made her an easy target. Roopa’s father, Keshubhai Patel, a fairly affluent stockbroker, had jumped from the top floor of the stock exchange after losing everything on the bourse during the stock market crash. Faced with bankruptcy, a few men like him had taken the easy way out, leaving their families to deal with the consequences.
Within a couple of months Roopa’s family found itself destitute, floundering in a morass of debts and disgrace. Her mother, Meenal, struggled to keep the boat afloat. With two children to bring up and no family support, the woman was unable to cope. Her inter-caste marriage had not been forgiven by her clan.
From a comfortable apartment, they moved into a tiny, single-room dump and settled into a monotonous existence. Keshubhai’s insurance money helped them survive for a couple of years.
It wasn’t long before Roopa’s mother sank into a depression. She was ill-equipped to handle the complexities dealt by a remorseless destiny. Saddled with a depressed mother and a younger brother, the girl transitioned from a child into an adult in a flash. Immediately after passing her twelfth grade, Roopa found a job as a hostess in a restaurant. While it offered her an escape from drudgery, it didn’t stop her from dreaming of acting in movies.
‘Main tujhe actress banaoonga,’ Arif promised the girl on one wild night after a hectic session in bed. And that was all Ramola needed to turn into his slave. Arif Bhai was known to be a man of his word.
With his Bollywood connection, it was not difficult for the don to introduce her to a director. The industry, which often turned a blind eye to the source of the finance, was quick to oblige its financiers. Arif Khan, flush with black money, had contributed his bit to the industry. He introduced his protégé to Subroto Sen and that set the ball rolling.
Arif was furious when he learnt that Roopa had warmed the director’s bed for the role. Even as he contemplated breaking Sen’s bones, Roopa had become an overnight sensation in Bollywood. The moment she attained stardom, the girl broke free from him. Arif was livid. He was not used to women walking out on him.
‘I’ll kill her,’ he seethed. ‘A bottle of acid on her face and her career will be finished forever. She will never be able to attract a man ever again.’
His first begum intervened at this juncture. She knew each one of her husband’s mistresses. They came and went as soon as their goals were achieved.
‘Let her be, miyan, bacchhi hai,’ the woman counselled. ‘Woh ab Roopa nahin, Ramola hai. Ek kaamyaab film star. Tumhe aur mil jayegee.’ The world is full of young and nubile girls. True to her words, Arif soon found another exquisite creature to fill the other side of his bed.
It’ll be nice to see her again, he sighed, it’s been such a long time. Sinking into the upholstery, he succumbed to exhaustion. The tingling ache in his lower spine bothered him. The party was already in full swing by the time the don stepped out of the cab, bone-weary after the journey.
He stretched his arms and shrugged his shoulders to ease the numbness in his limbs. He paused and stared at the lit- up bungalow with its vast grounds. It was unlike anything he had imagined. Charmwood wasn’t a small cottage, it was an impressive villa. Arif took a moment to compose himself before walking into the large hall filled with guests. All eyes turned towards the don and the babble ceased abruptly.
Ramola, resplendent in a deep green designer dress with gold trimmings, hastened to greet him. She wore no jewellery; she needed none. The don was struck by her glowing face. Not a wrinkle creased the peaches and cream complexion. He did a quick mental calculation. The woman was almost forty.
The charming blush on her cheeks was not the effect of a blusher and the sparkle in her eyes was natural. The relaxed life in the hills had worked its magic on her. Her eyes twinkled excitedly as she executed a graceful salaam.
‘What a pleasant surprise,’ she kissed him on the cheek. ‘I knew you would come.’
He felt the stirring of desire as he looked at her dress with a slit that went up to the thigh. His body tingled as he recalled the smoothness of her skin. Ramola’s silky hair tumbled down her shapely back and the dark sexy eyes were glinting mischievously. She had not forgotten the art of making men drool.
‘You are looking beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘More beautiful than ever.’
‘You are very kind,’ she returned, a thousand-watt smile lighting up her face.
The hall looked warm and inviting. His eyes scanned the room, studying the people scattered around the room. A few faces were familiar. Arif remembered some of them from their pictures on Page 3 of the Mumbai newspapers.
Arif’s eyes settled on Vikram Ahuja, a face on almost every hoarding until recently. Subroto Sen, the much-awarded and fêted director, was standing beside Ahuja. The director had been the one to oblige the don by giving a role to Ramola, but that was eons ago. Ramola’s betrayal had driven an irreconcilable wedge between them. There was also the politician, rumoured to incite riots wherever he went.
A group of middle-aged men huddled by the electric heater. Locals, Arif mused. They look as though they have too much time on their hands. His eyes swept over the chattering women and settled on the young girl standing near them. She was beautiful.
‘You must be tired,’ Ramola’s voice interrupted his scrutiny.
‘I want to freshen up before joining the party animals.’
‘Let me introduce you to the guests before I show you to your room. You can come down when you are ready,’ Ramola whispered, leading him towards the guests.
She clapped her hands to attract everybody’s attention before announcing: ‘Friends, this is Arif saab, the famous restaurateur from Mumbai.’
Some of the guests came up to shake hands while others waved from the comfort of their seats. A few minutes later, he followed his hostess to the upper floor.
‘I hope you find the room comfortable,’ she said, opening the door to his room. ‘Rohan and Ahuja are on the ground floor but you have Sammy, Sen, Tia and me for company on this floor.’
Ramola had allocated the rooms after careful consideration. All her guests, except Rohan, who had been put in the library, had a room to themselves. The extra couch and flowers in the library made it a cheerful and cosy space. Durgabai had grumbled incessantly as she aired and dusted the rooms. The gardener had supplied the flowers that brightened each room.
‘It will be more comfortable if you join me tonight,’ Arif winked, putting his arm around her waist. ‘You look good enough to eat.’
‘Now, now, don’t be naughty,’ she slapped his hand away from her waist and slipped out of his embrace. ‘Join us when you are ready.’
Her stilettos clicked on the floor as she walked away, her hips swaying. She is sexier than before. Life at Ramsar suits her.
Half an hour later he came down the steps, freshly showered and refreshed. The pulsating rhythm of Caribbean music hit his ears as he walked into the hall. Arif smirked as he remembered Ramola’s large collection of Jamaican and Caribbean music. It was obvious that she was in charge of music for the evening. Whatever else might have changed, her taste in music surely hadn’t.
The centre of the hall had been turned into a dance floor and the guests were shaking a leg to calypso. Amused, he took up position in a corner of the room and watched them gyrate.