Busted in Bollywood (12 page)

Faking a yawn, I sat up straighter and reached for my bag, rummaging in it for any weapon I could find. My choices were limited: stab him with a Sky High Curl mascara wand, clamp him with an eyelash curler, or gloss him with Glam Shine.

Fight wasn’t an option so I prepared for flight, not that my heels had anything on the Nikes I kept in storage back home. Before I could spring/leap/dash like I’d seen Cameron Diaz do in
Charlie’s Angels
, I sensed movement and braced for the Lone Ranger’s lasso.

“Excuse me, but I had to tell you I’m your greatest fan, Miss Rai. I know you must hear this all the time but your work far surpasses anyone else’s and your screen presence alone brings joy to my heart.”

A polite stalker. Who would’ve thought?

Ready to settle this confusion once and for all, I deliberately voided any expression from my face and turned toward him.

Yep, it was the guy who’d stared at my window that night and probably the same one who’d delivered the stinky note. The Lone Ranger in the flesh, complete with Stetson shading his face.

Though his body could’ve rivaled Mr. Universe, his face was nothing to rave about: average brown eyes, average nose, and thin lips. In fact, everything about his face read average, which probably helped in his line of work: Stalking 101.

“Sorry, there’s been a mistake. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not an actress. Never have been, unless you count my pathetic rendition of Sandi from
Grease
in high school and—”

I came to an abrupt stop, realizing I was babbling and the Ranger’s eyes gleamed now that his supposed idol had deemed to talk to him. Not that I wasn’t the teensiest bit flattered. He thought I was Aishwarya Rai Bachan, a former Miss Universe and stunning screen star. If he had to confuse me with someone, she was a glamorous start.

His lips stretched into a scary smile, underscoring the fanatical glint in his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend with me. The minute I spotted you at the airport, I knew who you were. I saw that you’ve left your husband and are staying with some relative, doing your best to act poor, but I’ve seen you’ve reverted to taking limos, as you should. You deserve the best and hopefully, someday soon, you’ll realize I can give you that.”

The guy was seriously loco, and, worse, he’d been watching me. At the airport, at Anjali’s place. I knew I’d seen him when I’d entered the limo. And what about the other times I’d glimpsed that hat… yikes! I remembered: the guy who’d bumped into me near the terminal when I’d first arrived, then again when I’d visited Film City first time around and rushed to Anjali’s aid.

Shit, the guy had Stalking 101 down pat. A thousand bizarre scenarios ranging from kidnapping to chloroform flashed through my mind, and I knew I had to end this right here, right now.

“Listen, buster. You’re way off base. I’m not Aishwarya Rai
Bachan
.” I stressed the star’s married name, which he’d probably deleted deliberately in his delusional state. “And if you want proof, hang around ’til my aunt gets back. She’ll set you straight.”

Knowing Anjali, she’d probably take one look at the Lone Ranger’s body and start interviewing him as prospective husband material.

For the first time since we’d started talking, his dazed, starstruck expression gave way to fear mingled with admiration. “I saw what she did to Kapil. She’s quite a woman.”

My panic bordered on hysteria and I calmed my voice with effort. “You were stalking me the other day, too?”

“Stalking? This isn’t stalking. This is destiny.” He drew out the last word, the apparent fear at what Anjali might do to him replaced by a hopeful expression.

“Destiny my ass,” I muttered, tired, grumpy, and craving New York like I never had. At least the psychos there settled for mugging you, not pledging their undying love. “Does Miss Rai star in films made here?”

I used her well-known single name so I wouldn’t rile him un-necessarily.

“Yes, you do. I’ve worshipped you from afar for too long so when fate intervened and I saw you at the airport without that stupid husband of yours, I knew I had to make my declaration. Being so close to you, yet not having contact, has acted like an arrow through my heart.”

Nice. He was taking the Western theme to poetic extremes now.
Being so close… uh-oh
. “You work here?”

Didn’t places like this have screening tests for psychos?

He nodded, puffing out his pecs with pride. “I’m an extra. I play bad guys because of my body. I’m very good.”

Risking a quick glance at his broad chest, I took his word for it.

Inspiration struck. “I’m filming today?”

He looked at me like I’d sprouted horns. “Of course, that’s why you’re here. Luckily, I’m in the same sequence, too, and we get to be onscreen together for the first time. Told you it was destiny.”

I had two options. Wait for Anjali and Desiree to return and go through the rigmarole of convincing him I wasn’t Aishwarya—which he probably wouldn’t believe because he thought Anjali was in on the hide-my-identity thing—or go with him to the set and show him the real actress.

No-brainer.

“Speaking of filming, you better hurry,” he said. “You need to get into costume. I’d be honored if you accompanied me to the set.”

Nodding, I stood before he could offer me a hand and tried not to look too indecisive. Knowing the Ranger’s one-track mind, he’d probably take it as another red herring I was throwing to my adoring public.

Thankfully, the set wasn’t far and we reached it without incident. This guy must be seriously blind not to realize I wasn’t the stunning actress. Apart from the occasional smile from people who passed, no one fell at my feet, thrust an autograph book in my face, or begged for a photo.

“It has been a privilege.”

Before I could react, he’d taken hold of my hand and bowed over it, the rim of his Stetson colliding with my fake Fendi, which I hung onto for grim death. If nothing inside it was weapon-worthy, the gold clasp might prove useful to take out an eye if swung in the right trajectory.

With further protests wasted, I waited for him to release my hand, then spied a woman exit a nearby tent, followed by an entourage that would’ve done the president proud. I couldn’t see her face, cloaked in a chiffon veil. Or her body covered in a billowing cerise sari. But the phalanx of foot soldiers around her was a dead giveaway.

I turned to the Lone Ranger. “You still think I’m Ms. Rai?”

He nodded, his guilty expression indicating he was tiring fast of me refusing to acknowledge the truth. I’d give him the freaking truth.

“Then who’s that?”

He followed my line of vision and, thank you God, his eyes bulged as he registered his object of lust and computed it wasn’t me. “B-but—but—”

“Butt is right,” I muttered. Butthead. “Now do you believe me?”

Eyes wide and stricken, he stared at the movie star and her entourage disappearing onto a set. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Sorry. Please don’t report me. I’ll atone for my mistake. I’ll offer up many prayers. Please, I beg you.”

I should’ve kicked his sorry ass to the studio gates for being an obsessive weirdo, but I knew what it was like to lust after someone only to have the veil ripped from your eyes. I frowned, putting on my best disgruntled face. “Next time a woman tells you something, believe her. As for Ms. Rai, quit stalking her. She’d be less forgiving than me and have you arrested, capish?”

He nodded, his mouth downturned, and as I walked away I’m sure I heard him mutter, “Destiny is dead.”

…

Only one thing could distract me from my brush with a lunatic. Retail therapy.

In the car on the way to Crawford Market, I listened to Anjali rave about the music scores she’d been privy to for the latest blockbuster thanks to Senthil. She loved showbiz and I waited a while for a lull in conversation to tell her about my stalker.

When she took a breath, I said, “Remember that hand-delivered letter?”

“From the handsome young man?” She held her arms a yard apart. “With shoulders this big?”

I nodded. “That’s the one. Turns out he was stalking me. Thought I was Aishwarya Rai Bachan.”

She laughed so hard, kohl streaked her cheeks.

I narrowed my eyes. “Glad some crazy guy following me is so amusing.”

She patted my hand, the odd chortle escaping. “Men are so stupid.”

“Why? Because he mistook me for a gorgeous movie star?”

She shook her head. “No, because if he liked you, why not approach you directly rather than skulk around?”

Not appeased, I mock frowned. “But you laughed at the case of mistaken identity.”

She sighed. “Shari, dear, any fool would know you’re not Aishwarya. You’re living in my house, you’re driving around in a battered Beamer, and there’s no sign of Aishwarya’s gorgeous husband anywhere.”

I forgave her for the raucous laughter, considering she hadn’t mentioned I was nowhere near as beautiful as the stunning Aishwarya Rai Bachan.

She made odd clucking noises with her tongue. “Shame, though, he could’ve been good husband material for you—”

“Is that the market?” Happy for the distraction as Buddy stopped the car, I pointed at the huge building, which looked like it’d been transported from Paris to Mumbai.

Anjali nodded. “Not what you were expecting?”

Stunned, I noted the artistic blend of Norman and Flemish architectural styles, the clock tower adorned with beautiful Victorian carvings, and the impressive frieze over the main entrance depicting peasants in wheat fields.

“Wow,” I mouthed, as we stepped from the car and Anjali took my elbow, her proud strut making me smile.

As we entered the main pavilion, a heady wave of aromas washed over me. Pungent, freshly ground spices—cumin, coriander and garam masala—interspersed with tangy lime and succulent mango and petite Lady Finger bananas.

I inhaled and my stomach grumbled. Looked like I’d caught Anjali’s ravenous disease.

Demonstrating an uncanny ability to read food thoughts, Anjali tugged my arm. “This way. You must try the
falooda
.”

For once she’d get no protest from me. I barely had time to glance at the hundreds of stalls piled high with fresh fruit and vegetables, cheeses and chocolates, plastic flowers, electrical appliances, kitchenware, crockery, and every knickknack known to man before we stopped at a stall and she ordered the sweet drink.

“Do they sell clothes here?”

She looked me up and down. “Not the kind you’d wear. We’ll head to Fashion Street and a few malls later.”

Unsure whether she’d insulted or praised me, I accepted my soda fountain glass and gratefully drank. The smooth rosewater-flavored milk, tapioca balls, and rose jelly slid over my tastebuds. Delicious.

After I’d spooned the last scrumptious morsel into my mouth, I glanced up to find Anjali staring at me with a wide grin. “What?”

“You’re starting to enjoy your food, it’s good to see.” She patted my cheek, her affection wrapping around me like a cozy duvet. I loved her blunt honesty, her forthrightness, her lust for food. Anjali was genuinely enchanting and I’d miss her when I returned home. “Ready to shop ’til you drop?”

I nodded. “Clothes, shoes, and jewelry are on my hit list.”

That little financial problem I had considering my unemployed status? I’d deal with it back in New York. Time enough for a dose of reality. For now, had credit card, would travel. Thankfully, Mumbai loved Visa as much as I did.

A woman after my own heart, Anjali took me to three malls, gushing over my choices and exchanging sizes without complaint.

She didn’t question my frenetic pace or my dithering over patent leather or suede. She held up scarves and earrings, pronouncing royal blue to be my color and that lemon leeched my glow. She approved my conservative choices and frowned at skimpy.

Best of all, she complied with a smile, as if her endorphins were flowing as freely as mine. Because that was the real reason behind my shopping frenzy. I needed to do something comforting, something familiar, in the lead-up to my final confrontation with Mama Rama.

In New York, I would’ve fortified with a mojito or two. Here, I settled for shopping to calm my frazzled nerves.

Three hours later, weighed down by countless bags, we staggered into the house, our feet aching, our souls replenished. Nothing soothed like retail therapy.

And nothing intimidated me more than an upcoming encounter with Anu. My post-shopping glow faded at the thought of facing off Mama Rama one last time.

…

“Do I have to do this?” I whined the next evening as the Rama house came into view and Buddy drove up to the front door.

“You’ve done your best by Rita and Rakesh. Kept her reputation intact while agreeing to a chance meeting between the two.” Anjali smiled and patted my hand. “After this farewell dinner you’re home free. You can wave the cow good-bye, secure in the knowledge you’ve pulled the hay over her eyes and the grass out from under her feet.”

“If I make it out of the paddock.” I shuddered, managing to smile at Anjali’s metaphors. “Last time I could hide among a hundred guests. A dinner party with only family present? She’ll eat me alive.”