The Accidental Apprentice (14 page)

Yes, today is the big day when Priya Capoorr graces our showroom as the brand ambassador for Sinotron TVs.

Two days ago, a pushy woman named Rosie Mascarenhas, the actress's PR manager, came to the store to select an ‘attendant' for Ms Capoorr. The requirements were very specific. ‘It has to be a girl. She must be able to speak excellent English. And she must have a soft voice and good manners.' All four salesgirls were paraded before her and she chose me. I will undoubtedly provide the best contrast to Ms Capoorr's fair complexion, allowing her to shine more brightly. The change in my status from ‘flight attendant' to just ‘attendant' is deeply galling, but the entire store is behaving as though I have won a lottery. ‘So you'll get to spend some quality time with a star. How lucky,
yaar,
' Prachi moons. ‘Who knows, she might even offer you a bit part in her next movie.'

I enjoy watching Hindi films, but I'm not a great fan of Priya Capoorr. She has no real talent; she's just a glamour doll whose only claim to fame is that she is the scion of one of Bollywood's most enduring dynasties. And this mindless celebrity worship nauseates me. I don't envy celebrities: I pity them. They are abnormal human beings, sad clowns dancing to entertain others, condemned to live their lives in a fishbowl, ogled by their legions of fans.

The fans are even more pathetic. These vapid, starstruck fools who blindly follow celebrities, seduced by the fake intimacy of their tweets, need to have their heads examined. Take Swati, our store clerk, for instance. She says she feels closer to Priya Capoorr than to her own mother!

Most celebrities are so insecure that they take superstition to a whole new level. Priya Capoorr herself is a perfect example. The name she was born with was Priyanka. When her debut film bombed, she shortened her name to Priya, on the advice of an astrologer. Then she changed her surname from Kapoor to Capoor. And finally, on the urging of her numerologist, she added another ‘r', so that now to pronounce her name you need to purr like a cat. That is not all. If the rumours doing the rounds in Tinsel Town are to be believed, she has had more cosmetic surgery than Pamela Anderson, getting her lips stuffed with collagen, her bust size increased and her nose tucked. As a result, she looks like a freaky, plastic Barbie, older than her twenty-six years. Nevertheless, she has given three superhits in a row and is now ranked among the top four heroines in Bollywood.

Her visitation is scheduled at twelve noon, and we have been working round the clock to get everything ready. The entire store has been decorated with balloons and streamers. Advertising posters for Sinotron TVs adorn every wall. A makeshift stage has been created on one side of the main display hall, against a giant backdrop of the actress's face, while dance anthems from her hit films blare from loudspeakers, creating a disco-like mood.

At 11.30 a.m., the front door is opened and the crowd are allowed to come in and settle down. Within seconds, every inch of space in the main hall, the foyer and aisles is filled with people. Their anticipation and eagerness is palpable. ‘Priya! Priya! Priya!' someone begins chanting. Pretty soon others join in, heightening the atmosphere to a fever pitch.

Priya Capoorr arrives fashionably late at 1.30 p.m., an hour and a half behind schedule. She doesn't come alone. There's a whole entourage with her consisting of six burly bodyguards, PR manager, makeup man and even a hairdresser. She comes in through the rear entrance, and is whisked into the back office, which has been cleaned up and converted into a holding area. Our owner, Mr Gulati, and his son Raja are there to personally welcome her, together with a Chinese-looking man named Robert Lee, the marketing head of Sinotron Corporation.

I have to admit that in real life Priya looks just as glamorous as she does in films, only a bit shorter. Her light-brown hair is styled into ringlets that frame her oval face and cascade down her shoulders in soft, somewhat rebellious waves. Years of squinting, grimacing, simpering and smirking on screen has turned the corners of her doe-shaped eyes into a predator's steely stare, unsettling and intense. Dressed in a white ruffled shirt and a brown jacket, complemented by skin-hugging jeans, leather boots and a Birkin handbag, she carries herself with the cocksure confidence of an imperious diva who knows exactly her own worth. Raja Gulati almost goes down on his knees in his attempt to offer her a bouquet of roses.

‘Thank you,' she mouths, wearing the blank smile of a woman at a party she can't wait to leave.

Within minutes of her arrival, the entry to the back office gets jammed with employees craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the actress. They stand in awe, heady with the thrill of seeing a movie star in the flesh. Normally, I would be the last person to get flustered by the idea of being in the presence of a celebrity, but, seeing the way the others are behaving, I find it difficult not to get caught up in the drama of it all.

The bodyguards eventually shoo away everyone from the holding area, leaving Priya Capoorr with just her PR manager, makeup man, hairdresser and me. They sit around a work table. I stand deferentially in the background, ready to offer tea, soft drinks and sandwiches, which are all at hand.

‘The tournament is less than four months away and you have still not identified the team,' I overhear Priya tell Rosie Mascarenhas. My ears prick up. The Cricket World Cup is less than two months away, so she is probably referring to the Indian Premier League, which begins in April.

‘I'm working on it,' the PR lady says.

‘I don't care which team, but I simply have to be seen at the IPL.'

The actress takes no notice of me as the makeup man applies a powder puff to her forehead. For her, I am just part of the scenery. Witnessing her lording it over me (and everyone else, for that matter), I am filled with the same burning indignation that I felt in Chandangarh village. There was a caste system back there, but there is a caste system at work in Bollywood, too. A system that confers undue advantage on a privileged few – the sons and daughters of film stars and producers, who piggyback their way to fame and fortune without often having either looks or talent. People like Priya Capoorr are born with golden spoons in their mouths, destined for success even before they have learnt to walk. She never had to slave like an extra, dancing in geometric formations on a beach with a group of scantily clad girls, as the hero and heroine cavorted in the sea. She knew she would commence her career as a heroine and then inevitably become a star. But for every Priya Capoorr there are thousands of aspiring actors who land on the shores of Mumbai every day and never get a lucky break. No one has ever broken out of the ranks of faceless extras to become a famous star, with the possible exception of Salim Ilyasi. And even he had the financial muscle of industrialist Ram Mohammad Thomas behind him.

In fact, at one time Priya had a torrid romance with Salim Ilyasi, which had sparked rumours that they might soon marry. But then she found greener pastures in the form of Rocky M, son of billionaire coal baron Laxman Mudaliar. The two of them have been going steady for the past couple of years, and there are reports that Rocky has already proposed to her. If this is true, Priya has not only secured her present, she has also shrewdly insured her future.

Once her makeup is done, she opens her Birkin handbag and extracts a diamond ring, which she slips on the ring finger of her left hand. I can see that it is loose: it does not grip the finger very well. Priya adjusts it a couple of times, keeping it centre. It is clear she wants to flaunt it. And why not? I've never seen a diamond this big. It must be at least four carats, probably more. Under the harsh strip light, it sparkles like a brilliant star in a sea of gold, its dazzling radiance casting a rainbow of colours in my eyes.

Rosie Mascarenhas raises a finger. ‘Are you sure you want to wear this here?'

‘Yes,' says Priya. ‘It's high time.'

‘People will talk. The media will go into a frenzy. They'll come after you like a pack of hungry dogs thrown an unexpected bone.'

‘I know how to handle dogs.'

‘I'm not very comfortable in this setting. I'd rather we did an exclusive with
Filmfare
on the engagement.'

‘I don't want any further discussion on this. I'll do it the way I want to do it,' she says, raising her voice just enough to let the PR manager know who is calling the shots here.

The hairdresser, a northeastern girl with small, doleful eyes, gently touches up Priya's curls. The actress takes a final look in the mirror held up by the makeup man, and then rises from the chair. ‘Okay, let's get this over and done with.'

Just as she is about to head into the main hall, Raja Gulati comes running in and asks her to wait. ‘Sorry, madam, we're having some trouble with our PA system. It will take another ten minutes to repair.'

I can see Priya getting impatient. ‘Why didn't they keep a backup ready?' she grumbles. To while away the time, she pulls out her BlackBerry and begins texting. But her heart is not in it. She puts it down after a while, looking visibly bored.

‘Are you on Twitter?' I ask her, just to break the silence.

She looks up, as if noticing me for the first time. Rosie hurriedly introduces me. ‘This is Sapna, one of the salesgirls in the store.'

Priya eyeballs me from top to bottom, sizing me up. ‘No, I'm not on Twitter, and I don't want to be on Twitter,' she answers, fluttering her hands in a theatrical manner. ‘You see, I am a star and a star by definition has to be mysterious and distant. Too much familiarity kills the mystique. A successful brand must be unique and exclusive and I am a brand now, am I not?'

It is a rhetorical question; she doesn't expect me to answer. I answer nonetheless. ‘Salim Ilyasi says the same thing in the new biography out on him. Have you read it?'

‘I don't read,' she says flatly. ‘I hardly have the time, and, quite honestly, books bore me. Why waste a week reading a book, when you can watch its film version in two hours? And these days we are making a lot of films based on books.'

‘What did you think of
Slumdog Millionaire?
'

‘I thought it was quite good. But, just because a white man made the film, our people got jealous.'

Even as she makes these unguarded revelations, her face does not soften one bit. She is merely indulging me, not inviting me to get closer. ‘Which was the last film of mine you saw?' she asks me suddenly.

I think about it. The last film I saw with Priya in it was
Murder in Mumbai
and it was execrable. I couldn't even sit through it. ‘It was
City of Dust,
' I lie.

She raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows. ‘That came out two years ago.'

‘Yes, but I saw it on cable just a couple of days ago.'

‘And what did you think of it?'

‘It was good, quite good. You essayed a rather non-glamorous role, for a change.'

She nods, becoming more animated. ‘Yes. It was a real challenge playing a simple village girl, but I pulled it off. I almost got the National Award for it.'

‘I must say I was a bit confused by the ending.'

Her cold stare tells me I am treading new waters. ‘And what exactly did you not get about the ending?' she asks frostily.

‘Well, almost the entire film is a sensitive, postmodern critique of materialist culture, but then near the end we suddenly get this over-the-top dance number with you in harem pants. I found it a bit jarring, that's all.'

She flicks me a sardonic look. ‘You just didn't get it, did you?'

I gaze at her blankly.

‘You said you watched the film two nights ago, right?'

I nod.

‘I recommend you mull over it for five more days.'

‘Beg your pardon?'

‘You see, this movie was meant for the elites, not the masses. People like you need to analyse it for at least a week to understand it fully. That's how long it normally takes for the tube light in your brain to switch on.'

A surge of anger flares within me. ‘People like you—' That phrase rankles like an egregious insult that cannot stand unchallenged. But Rosie Mascarenhas is already giving me a warning glare to shut up. ‘Why don't you serve us some tea?' she interjects.

‘Yes, tea would be nice,' Priya agrees, seconding the idea, putting me in my place even more firmly, telling me that she is the celebrity, and I am merely an attendant. People like me serve tea, and people like her drink it. I pass her the cup, with self-pity oozing from every pore of my being.

She does not deign to speak another word to me after that. In any case, the PA system is soon fixed and she goes into the hall. I follow her, watching from the back rows.

She gives an accomplished performance, launching into a practised spiel about the superior features of Sinotron TVs, modelling in front of their top-of-the-line flagship units and posing for the shutterbugs.

When the Q&A session commences, the reporters show scant gratitude for Sinotron's hospitality. They have no interest in plasma TVs and LED panels. Their eyes are fixated on Priya's ring finger, and there is only one question on their lips: ‘Is this your engagement ring?'

‘Yes, it is,' Priya answers, proudly showing off the ornament to a chorus of groans and sighs from the male members of the audience and mesmerised stares from the females.

‘How many carats?'

She holds up five fingers, drawing oohs and ahs all round.

‘When are you getting married to Rocky M?'

‘We're in no hurry. Certainly not for the next two years.'

‘How expensive is the ring?'

‘Priceless.'

With a final flourish she brings the session to an end, having floored reporters and audience alike. I marvel at her business acumen, how she has managed to extract acres of coverage for Brand Priya Capoorr, even from a boring product launch.