Spice and Smoke (5 page)

It was not small-talk, not idle set chit-chat. Priya Roy’s comeback after years away in Kolkata was big news. After her debut film,
Masala
had dubbed her “
Bangal ki gulab
”. The Rose of Bengal. In the industry, caste was nothing but pedigree was everything. She and Priya both had impeccable lineage. Priya’s mother was a playback singer with a voice that rivaled the greats like Asha, Lata and Geeta Dutt. Priya had trained with her mother, even singing one romantic track for her first film, but her passion was acting. Trishna remembered her as being a classic
desi
beauty, with dark eyes and shining hair and a sweet temperament.

“Are you hoping I will be jealous?” she scoffed, making a show of flipping her hair. “We will be fast friends. Don’t you worry. We Bong girls stick together.” Priya was no threat to Trish. Not on the screen and not off it. “I have no rooms open for jealousy, Harsh. Avi and I have filled our lives with other things.”

But Mathur the Monk? What had
he
filled his house with? Charitable works enriched the soul, but she knew his heart, his home, his
bed
must be
bilkul khali
. Totally empty.

“Keep assuring yourself that, Trishna. Maybe it will be true.” Harsh pulled his shirt off the rest of the way, revealing his sculpted god’s body. Impossible, incorrect, for a poor revolutionary but perfect on a man who had access to the best gyms and trainers.

He was damn beautiful…and she was an idiot.

She whirled from the grass, heading towards the wardrobe tent set up just a few meters away, uncaring of the flowers crushed under her heavy footfalls. They could bloody well plant some new ones in their place for the pick-up scenes.

Of course he followed, all soft eyes and concern…concern she’d craved when she was sixteen and love-struck. “Are you okay, Trishna?”

What she wouldn’t have given to have him follow her
anywhere
. But he had been the one thing she couldn’t have, the one person she couldn’t bend to her will.

“I am perfectly fit. Perfectly fine.”

“You don’t look ‘fit’. You don’t sound ‘fine’.” His fingers closed around her shoulder, stilling her, and she forced herself not to quake from the touch.

She turned around, calm and poised, glaring at his hand as though it were covered in cow dung. It was only after he removed it that she trusted herself to speak. “I don’t think anyone expects a beauty queen after a long day of shooting. I am simply tired.”

Alarm flashed across his face. “Why? Is it Avinash? I know he is out at all hours. Is he troubling you? Is he
hurting
you?”

No. Not in the way Harsh thought.
Never
in the way Harsh thought. It was enough to make her chest ache, but she didn’t dare press a palm to her heart and try to breathe through it. “Leave me alone, Harsh.
Main shaadi-shudha hoon.
I am married, and these things are between my husband and I.”

It was one of her most convincing line deliveries, and yet Harsh’s curled lip—curled, sensual, kissable—told her that he did not believe it. “You are married to an idea, an illusion, but not to a man. Avinash doesn’t belong to you. He can’t.”

“But
you
can? Bullshit,” she enunciated icily. English was such a delightfully precise, profane language. “Ten years is too late. What’s done is done. I am not crawling to you just because you finally joined the race of man and got a damn erection.”

It was as good an exit line as any. Trishna gathered the hampering folds of her sari and swept inside the tent.

It felt like they’d been filming for centuries, not just hours. An early morning call was the worst, especially with his increased
daru
and cigarette intake, but somehow Avi had managed to make it through without missing a single mark or blowing a single line.

He felt, rather than saw, Michael approach. It was like his every nerve ending was immediately set on fire. The claustrophobic, traditional drawing room, which would look gargantuan onscreen, suddenly felt tighter. As though all the air had been sucked away, leaving only the heat of Michael…looking like a model from a classic
Vanity Fair
photo spread, suited and booted from head to toe in pale brown linen.

Only his hands fisted in his pockets ruined the clean lines and betrayed that he wasn’t at ease. “Your Hindi’s sounding a bit too
Amrikan
today,” he said, abruptly. “Joshi’s just afraid to tell you, because that last take was near perfect.”

Michael knew just as well as Avi did that it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed in the dubbing booth. But, for some reason, he’d opened the channel of communication. Avi wasn’t about to close it.

“Really, Mr. Punjabi Brit?” He chuckled, glancing down at his dialogue notes. “What am I doing wrong?”

Michael moved just close enough to crane his neck and peer over his shoulder at the pages. “Addressing Mr. Austin as if he’s a girl, for one. It’s ‘
tera
’, not ‘
teri
’, remember?”

Fair point. Remembering the nuances of Hindi had never been his strong suit; not after all his years in the States and his parents constantly speaking English at home. Was it
his
fault that even the verbs had gender? “Well, if we’re picking at it, it’s ‘
aapka
’, but Varun thinks Mr. Austin is a bastard
firang
and wouldn’t use the formal address on principle.”

“What about you, Avi? Do you think I’m a bastard foreigner like Mr. Austin?” It was a question that could go one of two ways: entirely too serious, or completely ridiculous. He chose the latter path.

“
Nahin
,
yaar
,” he scoffed. “I’ve known too many Punjabis.”

Michael’s eyebrows rose as if in shock, but he was already shaking with mirth. “In the Biblical sense? Why am I not surprised?”

“No, in the Vedic sense. Much more spiritual. Much more acrobatic.”

They went on in this fashion for at least ten minutes, until Michael was nearly crying from laughter, bent double in a narrow wing chair. So, Avi should’ve curbed his next impulse, reined in the urge to shatter the easy camaraderie. But Avi Kumar’s lack of impulse control was legendary,
na
? He barreled on ahead, murmuring, “God, you’re even more beautiful when you laugh,” and meaning every word.

Michael stiffened. All traces of amusement vanished, and he rose from his seat like
The Wizard of Oz
’s Tin Man, creaking and in need of oil. “Thanks.” Even
before
the next sentence, Avi knew he wasn’t being thanked for the compliment. “I almost thought we could be friends, that you’d given up the nonsense from the
muhurat
. I won’t make that error again.”

His temper flared. “Oh, get off your high horse. Like your heroines never say how handsome you are?”

Michael looked every inch the English Company man then. So superior. “My heroines aren’t bent on seduction.”

Two could play at that game. Avi knew his arch glare was just as dangerous. “I don’t have to seduce you, Michael. You’ll come to me all on your own.”

“Like Hell.”

“No, Hell is what you’re putting us both through by denying the inevitable.” Avi’s knack for that, too, was legendary. One only had to ask his wife.

But Michael didn’t go and ask his wife. No, his questions were in the here and now, for Avinash’s ears only. “Why are you even interested?” he demanded. “Surely there has to be easier prey, even in the wilds of Bihar. Or is it because I’m providing you with a challenge?”

“No.” Avi, by all rights, should’ve just told the pompous, principled, Michael Gill to fuck off. But, instead, he found himself being more articulate than that. Too articulate. Too honest. “It’s because every time I’ve seen you, whether in a club or at a party or across the room at a
muhurat
, you look totally at ease. It’s because you know the names of everybody in the cast and crew and never shout at a single one of them. It’s because you make wearing clothing look like a crime against the human body.
And
it’s because you’re a challenge.”

Michael turned so pale it was as though Mr. Austin had once again come to life in the old
haveli
. “I only need one reason to dismiss all of those things, Avinash. Her name is Trishna…and she should be
your
reason, too.”

It wasn’t his habit to end up in the bar after a day’s shooting, but since deep tissue massages and a trip to the juice bar were in short supply in this corner of Bihar, Michael found himself sipping at a
nimbu-paani
while Harsh brooded over beer. Quite a
lot
of beer.

“
Yaar
, you know they yelled ‘Cut’, yeah? No need to stay in Alok’s shoes and sigh and moan over Nishta.”

This only served to elicit a sigh. Also a moan. “Haven’t you ever loved anyone?” Harsh asked mournfully.

“Besides my mum?” Michael’s lips twitched as he struggled not to smile. Harsh’s newfound talent for melodrama was better than anything on Zee TV. But he understood where it was coming from. More than he wanted to. “Of course. When I was shooting my first campaign in Milan. I was barely nineteen and mad for this photographer. We shagged for months, and I was nearly convinced I’d be a June bride.” No joke, he’d been looking at rings for a commitment ceremony…until he caught Claude in bed with some Spanish boy—emphasis on
boy
, barely legal. So ended Michael Gill’s brief foray into risking his heart. He’d sworn off entanglements, he’d washed his hands of bad boys. It was why his sudden weakness for a confessed bastard like Avi Kumar didn’t make sense.

He frowned even as Harsh grinned, as though they were on an emotional seesaw. “I was near nineteen when Trishna and I met up at
Handful of Stars
,” he sighed. “
Kitni ziddi thi.
Nothing stood in her way. God, she had such fire, such
tej
.”

The lovesick dreaminess on his face was uncomfortable to behold. It was so naked Michael felt a bit like he was intruding. “She still does,” he reminded, lightly punching Harsh’s arm to snap him out of the moment. “Don’t get burned,
yaar
.”

“But I
want
to burn.” Harsh wore frustration as well as he did everything else. No wonder every film of his was shot primarily in close-up. “I am tired of being made of ice. I’m just a man,
na
? Trish saw that.
Bachpan se.
From the start. She simply saw a boy from the village and claimed him as hers.”

“And that’s what you call love? Her stamping ‘property of Trish’ on your arse? Shit, man, then Avinash Kumar must be the goddamn love of my life.” Michael shoved back from the bar, shaking his head…even as his tongue went thick from the words he’d just spouted.
Avinash Kumar must be the love of my life.
No. Not ever. His first and last charismatic jackass had been Claude. “He’s not. A man like that isn’t my match.”

“But what if he is?” Harsh stopped Michael’s flight from the lounge with a hand on his shoulder, a veritable gentle giant. “What if it is your lot to heal him? To find what’s good in him? He can’t be all bad,
na
?”

“He’s not.” Michael surprised himself with the instant acknowledgement. Avi wasn’t a monster. Like Harsh, he was just a man. “He’s a selfish egotist, but he’s brilliant at his craft. I’ve never worked with anyone as focused when the cameras are rolling. And when he’s not being a total prick he’s quite fun.
Filthy
, but fun.”

“So, what if Avinash Kumar is who
Ishwar
has written in the stars for you?” First love-struck and then stressed, now Mathur the Monk was painfully insightful. “Then what will you do, Michael Gill? You’ll be crying into your Kingfisher like I am.”

“Shove off, Harsh.” Michael pulled a face, shrugging off his grip. “If I
ever
cry, it’ll be into a Heineken.”

Chapter Seven

Avi stood in the doorway of the washroom, broad shoulders nearly spanning its width, staring at her as she rubbed Ponds cream into her freshly scrubbed cheeks. For a moment, Trish could imagine that they were back in their flat in Pali Hill, and he was watching her take apart her carefully constructed façade after some party or another. But then she inhaled the scent of expensive liquor and cheap Bihari cigarettes: two clear reminders that he was obsessed by another. Far more obsessed than she’d ever been with Harsh…for she’d never dared pursue that foolish fantasy, had she?
Nahin.
She’d waited until now…when, suddenly,
she
was the one pursued.

The smile faded from her face, and she turned away from the mirror. That was when her husband joined her, taking her hands in his and rubbing the excess cream into his own roughened skin. “I’m sorry,” he said, the syllables clinking together like ice in a cocktail. “I’m so sorry, Trishna. For everything.”

God, when he spoke to her like this, touched her with such domestic intimacy, she remembered she was just a girl still, not yet thirty and full of romantic ideals. “
Kis kiliye
? What for? I came to this marriage with my eyes open, Avinash. You can’t apologize for being who you are.”

“I can say sorry for hurting you in the process,
na
?” He massaged her hands, her wrists, worked his way up her bare arms. Foreplay for sex he didn’t intend to have. Not with her, at least. Slowly, he turned her back towards the mirror. What a picture they made, her in her nightgown and him in his clothes from the night before…Beauty and her Beast. “You know, I still remember the day we met? Some soundtrack launch thing in Bandra.”