Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood (13 page)

Dad sits in the living room with his feet on the coffee table, his fingers knitted together behind his head. His entourage hovers around him, competing for his attention. Someone wants him to approve an outfit for a photo shoot. Someone else wants him to look at a shooting schedule. The third person wants to know if he can attend the opening of an exhibition. And the fourth one begs him to attend the wedding reception for the daughter of the minister of broadcasting.

I want to spend alone time with him. I can’t say that though. It would sound so lame.

Dad sees me slink into the room and sit on the rocking chair in the corner. I could be a fly on the wall. I catch my breath after my literally hair-raising ride. Dad fends off the demands, saying yes, no, and maybe without faltering.

Maybe it’s years of practice. I take longer to decide which top to wear with my jeans. “No to the wedding. It will take me two hours to get there in Mumbai traffic,” he says. Then he calls, “Abby!” and draws attention to the fly.

“Everyone,” he looks at Thomas, Salima, and the rest of the gang and says, “I’m taking the evening off. Yes,” he cuts off the groans and protests with a slicing wave. “I’m taking my”—he stumbles—“Abby out to dinner. Work will have to wait.”

I think he almost said “my daughter.” I swear. My heart skips a beat.

He walks over to me, puts his arms on my shoulders, and looks into my eyes. “Abby, give me ten minutes to freshen up. We’re going to the Taj for dinner. Thomas, tell Shiva I plan to drive myself.”

Dad’s dejected entourage files out of the room.

I grin as if I’ve won the first prize in a talent show. “I’ll go change too.”

My book told me that the Taj is a famous, grand old hotel, and I want to look appropriate. I also know by now that wherever Dad goes, paparazzi follow. I want to look nice.

Grandma Tara looks as pleased as a mama bird that caught a worm when Dad and I say bye to her. “Naveen,” she says, “show her the Gateway of India and maybe take

her for a boat ride on the harbor. Abby, I want you to have a good time,
beta.
”

I know
beta
is a term of endearment and that it literally means son, but it’s used for both sons and daughters. Grandma Tara has been using it to refer to me for the last two days. Shiva smiled when Grandma first said it to me. Once I knew its meaning, I smiled too when she said it.

Having said our good-byes, we get into Dad’s Mercedes. What a day it’s been. First the movie with Shaan, then the ride with crazy Jay, and now this dinner with Dad. If the rest of the days are this eventful, I could pack a lifetime of excitement into this trip.

As we drive, I realize this is the first time that Dad and I are completely alone since the short drive the first day I spent in Mumbai. Strangely, I’m tongue-tied. While I miss home and Mom, I feel like a dry sponge absorbing everything I could. Making up for lost years.

My mind whirls like one of those diagrams of brain synapses in my biology book. Zing, zing, zing! Thoughts, words, feelings all clashed and collided and I’m mute and a bit choked up. I can’t cry! No way.

Dad puts in a CD and startles me with the sounds of Beethoven’s
Concerto no. 5
.

I stare at him in surprise. I didn’t know Dad likes Western classical music.

“I know how much the violin means to you, so I bought some CDs,” he says.

He’s taking an interest in
my
music—for me. “Thanks, Dad,” I say.

Our eyes meet. “You’re welcome,
beta
,” he says. I get goose bumps. “Abby, I wanted to talk to you about this secrecy.”

“It’s okay. It’s fine,” I interrupt, not wanting to spoil the moment.

“No, no it’s not,” he says, his hands clenched on the steering wheel.

Silence. The violin swells in the car. In spite of myself, I smile. No one could have planned a better sound track if they tried. Seeing me smile, my dad smiles too. He exhales as if he’s been holding his breath. The car is at a traffic stop and he mimics playing an intense piece of music on an invisible violin. I pick up my imaginary violin and join him in the crescendo. Is there a term for air violin like there is for air guitar? Well, we’re doing a heck of a job air violining to Beethoven!

What seemed like a million people cross the street. The traffic light turns green. Dad puts down his imaginary violin and so do I. We grin at each other as if we’re the only two people on this planet that matter. I’ll never forget this moment for as long as I live.

We drive on the Worli Sea Link, picking up speed. The Sea Link is a brand-new twenty-first century toll road suspended over the ocean. We stop at the tollbooth. The man almost falls off his perch when Dad rolls down the window to pay.

“Naveen Kumar!” he says in a choked voice and elbows his partner. Without looking, the partner says, “Naveen Kumar? In your dreams!” but then sees that it is indeed Dad. He leaps to attention and salutes Dad as if he were a general. Dad chuckles as we drive off.

“Abby.” He takes a deep breath. “Your mom and I have been discussing how best to reveal that you’re my daughter. I have to be the one who makes the statement. I’ve scheduled an interview and photo session with
Film World
on Friday. The editor is a friend of mine and has been supportive from the beginning of my career. I told her you are my daughter but not that we just met. That is too personal and nobody’s business.”

I’m not sure how to react.

Dad continues. “The editor promised that she would handle the story as respectfully as she can without distorting it. The issue will hit the stands a week after that.”

“I’ll be home by then. Will you mail me a copy?”

“You know I will,” he replies. “My film premieres this weekend. Abby, for the first time I’m responsible for the entire film. It’s a subject close to my heart. The hero is a TV

reporter who investigates and uncovers corruption. I want the attention to be on my work, not my personal life.”

“And I don’t want the attention and neither does Mom.” “I understand, but it can’t be a secret forever. And I don’t

want someone else to discover and distort the truth.” We’re both silent as we realize this has to be done.

“Your mother and I will figure out the details in case anyone tries to contact her. I’m sure she needs to tell some of her friends and family too.”

I still hate the idea of the press trying to contact Mom. It didn’t strike me that someone could twist our story, my story. I’ve watched my share of
TMZ
and
E! News
at home. The hosts of the show are always wondering about the personal lives of stars.

Will Brad and Angelina marry this summer? Which Kardashian is having a baby this year?

I guess there’s an equivalent of
TMZ
in India and I might be the subject of its speculation. Why did I never think of that? The hosts could announce:

Why did Naveen Kumar hide his teenage daughter?

I shudder.

Dad looks over at me. “Abby, you understand, right? I don’t want this to be made ugly and sordid.”

I nod.

Why did Naveen’s girlfriend hide his child from him?

Is she really even his child?

More disgusting headlines creep into my mind like roaches crawling out of the sink. Dad sees me wince and says, “Abby, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. It’s why I was hesitant to tell people. I want to be in control of how it’s spun.”

Now I feel like an ignorant brat for ever doubting the reason Dad wanted to hide my identity from the press. He’s trying to protect me.

We’re driving through a part of Mumbai with old Victorian buildings from the British era. Some are lit up and the coconut trees around them wish they’re as tall.

“The old Churchgate Station, Flora fountain,” Dad points out. They are magnificent and centuries old, which I’m not used to. America is such a young country in comparison.

Dad swings the car into the foyer of the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel across from the Gateway of India and hands the keys to a valet who gapes in surprise and recognition. The last speck of sun lazily lowers into the ocean. The Gateway stands tall and majestic, with its turrets and latticework, its stone lit by the sinking sun.

Impulsively Dad grabs my hand, “Let’s go see the Gateway. I haven’t gone up close in years.” He slides on his sunglasses as if to hide his face.

We cross the street, leaving behind stunned onlookers in our

path. I can hear the whispers of “Naveen Kumar” echo around us. We run through the pigeons and tourist photographers. The Gateway official recognizes Dad and waves us through. We read the plaque:
The Gateway was built to commemorate the visit of King George V and Queen Mary in 1911.

“And when the British left India, the last ships to leave for England also left from the Gateway,” Dad adds. “I’ll have to tell you about India’s history and colonial rule sometime, Abby.”

The words are a promise that we’ll know each other for a long time, and I almost skip along. I haven’t been sure how my relationship with Dad would be. There are kids who don’t see their fathers in years. I’ve been living in the moment, afraid to imagine a future with Dad, but now, who knows? He’s said other stuff, how he’d like to come and be at my orchestra concert sometime. Maybe we’ll visit each other.

Maybe he’ll come to Houston. I can just imagine introducing Dad to my friends and to Grandma and Grandpa Spencer. I pinch myself. How crazy and fantastic would that be?

A small crowd has gathered. Dad whispers, “I think we better head back inside before the crowd grows too big.”

Dad poses for a few photographers and asks one of them to take a picture of us against the backdrop of the Gateway. Then, Dad and I manage to weave out of the gathered fans

and run across the street. I can’t help waving at a few of the fans who are waving at us.

The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel with its stone façade looks over at the sea. We walk in and enter a palace from another time. Soft sitar music pipes through the hotel. My string quartet joins in. A fusion concerto.

The air is hushed and air-conditioned. Marble floors and exquisite murals make me glad I changed my clothes from what I’d been wearing on the back of the motorbike. This is as different from the back alleys as McDonald’s is to a five-star meal. I remind myself that my book said that Mumbai is India’s wealthiest city and that it’s ranked higher than Shanghai, Paris, and Los Angeles on the number of billionaires who live here. In a matter of hours, I’m seeing both sides of the city and I feel like Alice in Wonderland when she goes from being miniscule after drinking potion to huge after eating cake.

We stand at the host stand and a manager walks over, beaming. Her sari rustles and she greets us with a dazzling smile.

“I hope I can get a table at the Shamiana,” Dad says,. “I don’t have a reservation.”

“You are always welcome, sir,” she says and whisks us away to a table. Dad and I feast on kebabs and naan and every other delicacy possible. The chef comes out to suggest

items on the menu. We’re treated like royalty. Dad orders dishes he thinks I’ll like. He makes a point to tell the chef that he and I are allergic to coconut and asks him to make sure that none of the curries have coconut milk and that coconut is not used as a garnish.

A shared dinner. A shared allergy! Shared interests? A shared life?

When we’re alone, Dad says, “Abby, would you like to go shopping to prepare for the photo shoot? Or you can wear your jeans and I could match you?”

“I want to buy an Indian outfit for Priya’s birthday party.

Maybe I could wear it for the photo shoot too?”

Dad laughs. “As many as you want,
beta
. I’ll have Salima take you. Or maybe Rani, if she has the time.”

My stomach flip-flops. Shopping with Rani? Seriously? “Grandma Tara would love to take you but I don’t think

she is up to it,” Dad adds. “Though she has recovered much faster since you’ve been here.”

Can a meal last for three hours? Yes. If you have a lifetime of things to talk about. He wants to hear all about me getting stitches in my arm in kindergarten and the blueberry pie at Slice of Muse, my grandparents, my violin, and my friends. He tells me about his years in Dallas. The conversation is spectacular but I miss Mom and wish she were at this table with us.

“Abby, I wish I had stayed in touch with your mom. I do. But I moved to Delhi with a new job and then films happened to me. I was thrown into the deep end of the pool. Fame is not easy to deal with. And before I knew it, years had flown by. I did think about trying to contact her but I thought she was probably married and had a husband, kids, job…”

He trails off. What would have happened if Dad had picked up the phone and called her? How would my life have been different?

I guess we’ll never know.

His voice takes me out of my thoughts. “You and Shiva are becoming friends he tells me.”

“We are. Did you know Shiva makes rotis and we feed the dogs in our neighborhood?”

Dad takes a sip of his coffee and signals for the check. “One day we will do more. We’ll build a place to help animals and call it Abby’s Place.”

Is it another promise of tomorrow?

On the way out, we stop at the gift shop. Wow! The choices. I wasn’t going to buy anything; but, finally, on Dad’s insistence I choose presents for everyone back home—mugs, table mats, scarves, pottery, and a kurta—a tunic shirt—for Grandpa. I leave the gift shop with more bags than I can carry. While driving home, Dad stops the car on Marine Drive.

He motions out the window. “These lights are called the

Queen’s Necklace, Abby. I loved coming here with my father when I was little.”

The lights look like diamonds on a choker, encircling the pitch-black ocean. I hug the thought that he’s shared them with me.

Chapter 17