Spice and Smoke (13 page)

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Sam?
Teen hafte
and no calls? My hair is going goddamn grey over here!” Sunny’s voice burst forth from the mic on his mobile with such force that it was like she was standing beside him. She was the only person he knew who had as much vinegar in her veins as he did, and it was that
tejwalli
personality that had earned her a spot hosting a Bollywood talk show. So, going grey after three weeks…it was practically a professional tragedy! He had half a mind to ring her back and suggest her producers go after a hair dye sponsorship: “
Sunny Days, Bollywood Nights
brought to you by Godrej.”

“…and you are an idiot. A poor excuse for a father. Jaidev is more grown up than you are, you sorry
haram zaada
.”

Her message went on, insulting his penis size and his dear, departed parents, until the system cut her off. Sam stared at the now-silent cell phone like it was going to spring to life anew, with
more
criticisms from his ex. His ex. Such stupid, inaccurate terminology. Vikram was his ex. Vikram was the one he’d been building a family with. Vikram was the one who could break his heart. Who could take everything from him. But in the eyes of the world, it was a five-minute marriage to Sunita that mattered.

When the phone didn’t dance again, Sam allowed himself to walk away from it. He moved to the window, peering out the ornate grill to the gardens below. He could just make out two shapes on the lawn, barely obscured by a row of rosebushes. It did not take a genius to guess that Avi and Michael Gill were meeting like a pair of star-crossed
bewakoofs
. It was particularly stupid because they didn’t need to. Their rooms were open to them. Their obvious love story protected by the shield of Avinash’s marriage to Trishna and Harsh Mathur’s unimpeachable integrity. Nobody ever questioned Trish’s influence. Nobody ever looked at Harsh and thought, “Yeah, this guy’s going to fuck up.” They were lucky bastards, all of them. They hadn’t a care in the world beyond stealing about and making love in dark corners. They had no habits to kick, no demons to battle.

As though he’d willed it upon himself, the urge for a drink was sudden, sharp. He felt it gnaw at his gut, burn the back of his throat. But Sam drew a deep breath, reminding himself that he didn’t need Johnnie or Jack.
Nahin
, the only thing he needed was the temporary high of being with Vikram. He’d finish this film, finish their fling, and go be a better father and a better man.

Teen hafte
?
Bas
, forget it. Three weeks was nothing in the face of a lifetime of regrets.

The dancing girl sways her hips sinuously to the strange English words and the techno beat that won’t be invented for at least another century. “You say you want a revolution,” she mouths with blood-red lips, citing how they all wish to change the world. She moves from Varun to Chandu to Alok and back again, warning them that they can count her out if they talk about destruction. She again comes to Alok and stops…as he turns away from her, staring off into the distance…where something, someone, more tantalizing than this sensual goddess awaits.

A techno-
bhangra
Beatles cover?
Hai Bhagwan.
Good God. Viki sent up a silent prayer of thanks to his failure of a secretary for booking him the role of Shankar instead of one of the revolutionaries. He couldn’t imagine taking part in such a ludicrous number. As he backed away from the insane and period inappropriate display—which was, sadly, unsurprising for one of Joshi’s films—he was careful not to trip on any of the coils and cables that snaked across the floor.

Fortunately, the big item number was almost done. They’d filmed the bulk of the song already, only a few close-ups remained. Just as the script had dictated, Sam, Avinash and Harsh were
dhoti
-clad and shirtless. There were at least twenty extras…girls in colorful batik print saris, hiked to their knees in village style. The crowning jewel of them all was Priya Roy. If Trishna was Bollywood’s first lady, Priya was its goodwill ambassador. Sweet, kind, endlessly accommodating and never the center of any drama. She’d been welcomed back to the industry after a few years off, and her beauty and talent had only grown in the interim. He remembered her being baby-faced, curvy. In those early days, she would have been the ingénue, not the item girl. The woman before them now was leaner, somehow harder, but her eyes held the same gentle laughter.

A rustle of movement behind him told him he was no longer alone in his observations. “Do you think she’s more beautiful than me?” Trishna asked, her tone not jealous but instead genuinely curious.

Viki still knew better than to give his opinion. “I like boys, Trish. Do you really think
I
am qualified to answer that?”

“Nice one.
Shabbash!
” She laughed, effortlessly twisting her heavy hair into a ponytail. Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, looking impossibly young, she could almost pass for a production assistant. Except that her grey eyes were distinctive. She could never hide without sunglasses. From how she blatantly stared at Harsh, it was clear that hiding was no longer on her list of things to do. Harsh had returned two days before, and it was a miracle the entire hotel hadn’t heard their reunion. So much thumping and so many vocal theatrics…it was practically its own musical number. And now…now she looked at him as if she wished for an encore. Vikram envied that openness. He craved it.

“It’s crazy, but it’s beautiful,
na
?” Trishna murmured…and though she was speaking of the song, he had to agree on a whole different level.

“Yeah. It’s definitely crazy and beautiful.”

They weren’t the only ones watching the filming. On the other side of the room were Michael Gill and Rahul Anand. Truth be told, Michael was more beautiful than Trish and Priya combined. He was the kind of man whose very existence made the case for public nudity being legalized. He was good and kind and easygoing. Viki would have counted himself lucky to have gotten serious with such a man…except that his tastes ran more to the short, wiry, headache-inducing type. Rahul Anand was somewhere in between. Typical good-looking
desi
boy; curly dark hair, smart smile. His father was an acclaimed director, and he’d started out acting but quickly moved behind the camera himself. In fact, if Viki remembered correctly, Rahul’s first and only film had been Priya’s first, too. They’d been launched together, to moderate box office success.

“
Kya jodi!
” all the industry trades had said. “What a pair!” Dubbing them the next superhit blockbuster couple. Only, they’d never worked together again. Rahul had assistant-directed his father’s next picture, and Priya had nearly snuffed her rising star by going home to Kolkata. The crew gossip vine was right. There was a story there, no doubt.
Ek
epic
kahani
.

For a moment, Rahul and Priya’s eyes locked, and Viki was stunned by the intensity of it. Even from across the set. He’d seen the same misery, the same longing, in the mirror every day for three years. Trishna followed the direction of his gaze, but it was clear when she spoke that she misunderstood its focus…she thought he was looking at Michael, not their producer. “My husband and I do love each other. But we know that we can’t give each other everything.”

He snorted. As Sam might say, he had a pretty good idea of what
exactly
Trish couldn’t give Avi. He turned the rude noise into a cough, the lewd speculation into an honest question. “How did you live with that? With knowing there was something Avinash wanted more than you?”

It was Trishna’s turn to make a noise of amused disbelief. “You do realize that wanting men and wanting drugs are two different things,
na
?”

Yes, he realized that all too well. But before he could tell her, his mobile buzzed in his pocket. “Sorry.
Ek
minute.” He stepped out into the hall to check the display.
Jai
, it said. Sam’s Jai. There was no question, he had to answer. “Hello? Jai?
Sab tik tho hai?
Is everything okay?”

“Viki Uncle!” The boy’s voice burst forth from a host of static, just beginning to deepen like a man’s. Vikram almost didn’t recognize it. “Papa’s not answering his phone! Is everything okay there?”

“
Haan
,
haan.
Don’t worry, Jaidev. Sam’s been on set all morning. They’re filming a song,
na
?”

Jai’s sigh of relief was palpable, even across the line, and Viki closed his eyes, repressing a shudder. How he remembered these moments…worried whenever Sam didn’t call, fearing he was in a gutter somewhere, or in emergency care.

“He’s fine,” he assured, softly. “Jai,
woh bilkul tik hai.
He has not fallen off the wagon. He’s doing so good.
Better
than good. You should be proud of him.”

“Thank God, Viki Uncle. Tell him to ignore my six voice messages, okay? I have to go back to my tuition. Maths.” Jai made an elaborate, theatrical choking noise. It figured drama would run in his blood, given who his father was.

“Okay.” Vikram chuckled ruefully. “
Apna khayal rakna.
Take care, Jai.”

“Jai?”

The single word came from behind him. Laced with deadly fury. Sam’s face was bleached of all color, like he’d soaked in Fair & Lovely cream for hours. But there was nothing lovely about his anger. “What are you doing with my son, you son of a bitch? Talking about me behind my back?”

Viki flinched, the mobile phone hanging loose in his fingers. “Sam…” It wasn’t as though Jai called him often. Just enough. Perhaps six or seven calls over the years. But instead of saying that, he was instantly defensive. “I broke up with you, not him. He’s allowed to talk to me if he wants.”

“
You
broke up with
me
? Is that what you’re calling it? Bullshit. You fucking abandoned me, that’s what you did. You
ran
,” Sam accused. “That does not give you the right to keep up a relationship with Jai.”

“I
left
because you were a junkie, and it was too much for me to watch you kill yourself.” But he wasn’t going to talk about that. He couldn’t. He couldn’t go back to those awful, terrible months. “When you were in rehab that first time, Jai couldn’t talk to you, he couldn’t talk to his mother…so he called me. Sometimes he still calls me. For birthdays and Diwali and questions on how to box a bully’s ears.
That’s all it was.”

“Jai’s all I have. You can’t take him from me.” Sam was, if possible, even paler. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. Away from the lights, the sweat was no doubt cooling on his skin.

Vikram wanted nothing more than to reach out for him. Instead, he balled his hands into fists, fingers clasping his phone hard enough to break the buttons. “Sam
, I’m n
ot stealing anything from you. Jai is your son. He will
always
be your son.”

Sam’s laugh was bitter, ragged, and his kohl-lined eyes closed as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “He is the only thing keeping me sober. Don’t you get that?”

Sam really believed that? “No, he’s not. You know he’s not. You haven’t touched a drink or smoked hash since you got here…and that’s all your power, your strength.”

“No, it’s my goddamn weakness. Because I swapped Mr. Johnnie Walker for Mr. Vikram Malhotra. You’re an addiction, too, Viki. That’s nothing to be proud of.
Samjhe?
Understand?”

It was like being hit. Chandu and Shankar tussling in the dirt once more. “Is that all you see me as? Your new drug?”

“What else am I supposed to see you as, Vikram? Huh?”

“As the man who’s been in love with you for years. I love you
.
But that was never enough of a high, was it?”

“Fuck you. You are so goddamn superior!”

They were shouting now. Viki was aware that a crowd had gathered. Spot boys, a few cameramen. Joshi, Rahul, their costars. This was no drag-out fight in their dressing rooms.
Nahin.
It was all out in the open, for the world to see. Trishna was staring at them with a mixture of pity and empathy.

“You do realize that wanting men and wanting cocaine are two different things,
na
?” she’d asked him. She had her answer now, didn’t she?

“I’m not superior, Sam. You’ve just assured me that I’m nothing.
Shukriya.
Thank you for that.” Vikram tucked his mobile phone back into his jeans and walked off set.

Chapter Nineteen

Mr. Austin shoves the last of his papers into his case, trying to ignore the distant sounds of rifle shots. He had not known that coming to this humble little district would cause so much pain, so much discord. It is time to go back to Calcutta, to step into line like a good company man and pretend he’s never seen suffering, never known that British progress could be so unwelcome…and so destructive.

But there is one vision he will never forget. One sight that will haunt him for the rest of his natural life: Nishta, screaming for the man she loves, fighting for his life…for his life and for, it seems, his very soul.

Sam slumped against the parapet, sucking furiously on his fourth cigarette. He ignored, or at least tried to ignore, Michael Gill. But the man had snuck up on him, and was now leaning against the stone barrier, arms sprawled out along the top like he was posing for a calendar.

“When did you know you were gay?” Michael asked, as if they were having some sort of heart-to-heart conversation.