The Strange Disappearance of a Bollywood Star Read online

  “I’m sure the millions living in our slums might say you were living the dream.”

  “Every dream sours, Chopra. And there’s a high price to pay for this particular one.” She grimaced. “I can’t afford for this movie not to be successful. You know, I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment in Dombivali. My father was a rickshaw driver, my mother a seamstress. We were just one step up from living in a slum. I had six brothers and they were all worthless. I promised myself I wouldn’t end up like my parents. As dirt on the shoes of the rich and powerful. I studied hard in school, and as soon as I got out into the real world I worked. I took whatever job I could get, just so I could make enough money for acting classes, dancing classes, singing classes. Then I started auditioning. That’s when I first understood how the world really works. You see, if you don’t have a sponsor or a famous parent, breaking in is almost impossible. It was a bitter pill to swallow, to realise that it didn’t matter how well I acted, how well I danced. My only real assets were this,” she pointed at her face, “and this,” she waved her hands over her figure. “And so I used what God had given me. If I told you the number of times I’ve had to close my eyes and let greedy hands paw at me…” Her face became still, lost in the past. “But I don’t regret it. I did what I had to. It got me my break, and once I was in, there was no stopping me. You hear nowadays that such-and-such a star was made by so-and-so a director. No one made me, Chopra. I made me. Some say I’ve had a good run, that I should get married and slide off into the sunset. But I’m not ready to lie down and die. I had to fight for this role. The producer wanted someone younger, but I convinced him. Oh, how I convinced him.”

  Chopra heard many things in the actress’s voice—a violin note of bitterness, with a side order of sadness; but beneath this there sounded the undying clarion call of her own future. He found himself admiring her tenacity, her ambition, her willingness to do whatever it took to achieve her goal. In some respects, she reminded him of himself.

  He changed tack. “Are you aware that Vicky was receiving threats? Through the mail?”

  “So what’s new? I get a dozen such letters a week. Mostly from men who think I’m a bad role model for their wives. A woman who thinks, a woman who isn’t afraid of her sexuality, a woman who isn’t afraid of being who she damn well wants to be.” She leaned forward, her face suddenly drawn. “If you’re asking me did Vicky have any enemies, then the only person I can think of who might have genuinely intended him harm was our beloved producer sahib.”

  “P. K. Das?” Chopra was astonished. “But he is… P. K. Das!”

  P. K. Das was a living legend, one of the most powerful men in Bollywood, a visionary renowned for delivering hit after hit over the past thirty years through the auspices of his studio Himalayan Productions.

  “Hah! Don’t be fooled by his public persona. The man is a goonda, a thug.”

  Chopra felt as if he had wandered into an alternate reality.

  P. K. Das, recipient of the Kirti Chakra for services to film, noted humanitarian and all-round much-feted number-one gentleman… a thug?

  “A few weeks ago I walked into Vicky’s trailer. Das and Pyarelal were with him. Have you met Pyarelal? He’s Das’s muscle. Pyarelal had Vicky up against the side of the trailer, his forearm across Vicky’s throat. Vicky’s tough, but he’s no match for Pyarelal. Now, there’s a man who scares me, I don’t mind telling you. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without his sunglasses. Anyway, as soon as they saw me, they stopped. Das laughed and mumbled something about ‘rehearsing for a fight scene,’ and then they left. Afterwards, I asked Vicky what it had all been about, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

  Chopra considered this revelation. It seemed at odds with everything he had ever heard about Das… But then again, wasn’t the whole of Bollywood a façade of smoke and mirrors? The ultimate manifestation of maya—worldly illusion.

  “No matter how foolish Vicky is, I don’t think he would have vanished of his own accord. He knows what’s at stake, for all of us. He knows I would kill him if he ruined this for me!” Panipat blew out another cloud of smoke. “You know, with the right lighting you could be an actor. You have the aura for it. A serious man. And you sound like you actually care. Unlike the rest of us, who’ve been faking it for so long we’ve forgotten what caring means.”

  Chopra emerged from the trailer to discover that Ganesha had vanished.

  A momentary panic gripped him until he located his ward among a crowd of adult elephants, mahouts, and extras dressed as Mughal warriors. The little elephant was staring round-eyed as they rehearsed, charging at each other, clanging fake swords and maces against round shields and studded breastplates. The elephants—gloriously decked out in brigandine steel plates and chain mail, tusk swords and skull masks—were urged into action by their overzealous mahouts, themselves masquerading as Mughal bowmen in the howdahs affixed to their mounts’ backs.

  The earth trembled as the elephants thundered up and down, bugling loudly and clanking their armour.

  Chopra was impressed.

  The elephants appeared to be better actors than the actors.

  “Come on, boy,” he said, patting Ganesha on the crown of his head. His mind was still deliberating on the conversation with Panipat. Vicky’s co-star appeared to have no idea where he was. Furthermore, Panipat seemed convinced something untoward had happened to the young actor.

  Chopra himself was steadily moving towards that conclusion.

  A knot of stuntmen in tattered chain mail and sporting bloodied wounds had gathered around the little elephant. “He’s a little small, isn’t he?” said one, folding his arms around an arrow protruding from his chest.

  “Maybe he’s only got a bit part,” joked another.

  Ganesha huddled closer towards Chopra, perhaps sensing that he was being made fun of.

  “He is not part of the cast,” said Chopra stiffly.

  “That’s a pity,” said arrow-man. “I’d rather a pipsqueak like him charging at me than one of those brutes.” He jerked a thumb at the war elephants. “The mahouts keep telling me they’re only acting, but has anyone told them that?”

  “You can see why the Mughals prized them so highly, though,” mused his companion. “Akbar was obsessed by all accounts. Had five thousand of the beasts. Used to wheel them out at any opportunity. Loved crushing the heads of his enemies under an elephant’s foot. Squish.”

  “Thank you for the history lesson,” said Chopra stonily.

  He turned and led Ganesha away.

  THE QUEEN OF MYSORE

  The building that Anarkali took Rangwalla to was familiar to him in name only. Known locally as the Red Fort, the ramshackle three-storey tower in Marol had long ago been condemned by the municipal authorities. In another place this would have meant demolition and gentrification; in Mumbai it merely paved the way for a clandestine deal. An enterprising eunuch chieftain had offered an undisclosed sum to stay the demolition order. The offer had been accepted, and a tacit understanding arrived at, codified in no official document, yet one that had stood the test of time.

  Each year the “invisible lease” was extended by an annual payment that grew in direct proportion to the decrepitude of the premises it paid for. But the eunuchs handed over the gratuity without complaint.

  Rangwalla understood why.

  Though the eunuchs of India laid claim to a history that stretched back almost four thousand years, and had, at times, been valued, even feted, as harem guards, manservants, trusted messengers, and even privy counsellors, the simple fact was that for the most part their existence had been marked by hatred, prejudice, mistrust, and abuse.

  Many years earlier he had investigated a case where one of the victims had been a eunuch. He had seen for himself how, in the modern world, they had been increasingly marginalised, forced into the shadows, both of society and of the cities they inhabited. In Mumbai, the eunuchs lived in communities known as “deras,” dotted around the city, usually in slums. L
andlords in better areas would not offer rooms to eunuchs; where they managed to get rooms, they were often hounded from them by their neighbours.

  In this ocean of hostility, the Red Fort served as a welcome bastion, home to at least one hundred eunuchs, a clan that prospered, instilling in its members a sense of self-worth and self-determination.

  The Fort was run by a eunuch who had become a legend in the city: the Queen of Mysore.

  As Anarkali led him through the Red Fort’s wooden entrance doors he was struck by a twinge of unease. He had never been particularly comfortable around eunuchs—though he had to admit Anarkali was a useful informant—and had never met the Queen; but he had heard the stories.

  The Queen had been linked to organised crime for years. She ran her coven with an iron fist, a tyrant whose past was shrouded in mystery. Some said she hailed from the state of Punjab in the north, others from the south. It was said that she had murdered three men as a teenager and that a warrant was still out for her in Mysore. For this reason she had been christened the Queen of Mysore.

  Myths and legends surrounded her—there was no way of knowing which contained a grain of truth. In the city of Mumbai, she reigned as the queen of the eunuchs, lording it over her vassals from her seat of power.

  Anarkali led Rangwalla through an anteroom smelling powerfully of jaggery and incense in which a number of eunuchs in saris sat in cane chairs, chatting and drinking tea, and into another room where eunuchs were hunched behind foot-treadle sewing machines stitching clothing.

  Anarkali ordered Rangwalla to wait, and then ducked through a bead curtain.

  Raised voices from an adjoining room tempted him to crane his neck around the doorframe—he saw eunuchs sitting at desks, writing in notebooks. A female teacher—a non-eunuch—translated a Hindi sentence scrawled on the blackboard into English. Some of the eunuchs wore jeans and trousers, he couldn’t help but notice.

  Anarkali returned. “The Queen will see you now. Remember, do not offend her. And call her Maharani Bibi.”

  They ducked through the bead curtain and entered a large room, red lit, with the curtains drawn. Rangwalla smelled incense and hashish, mingled with the scent of lotus blossom. A Bollywood song played on a CD player. He recognised it as the soulful lament from Pakeezah, a sorrowful tale of a doomed courtesan’s trials and tribulations. The film was reputed to be the Queen’s favourite.

  The Queen of Mysore sat on a raised divan, smoking from an ornate jade hookah inlaid with lapis lazuli. He saw that she was even larger in person than her reputation had given her credit for—even larger than Anarkali—with a substantial heft about the shoulders, and a girth to match. Her skin was darkly lustrous, even in the gloom. Her face was broad, with a heavy chin and sloping brow. But the eyes… the eyes were beautiful, full of intelligence and light, as if twin genii had become trapped inside them and were now looking out at the world from within.

  The Queen was wearing a sequinned mustard-coloured gaghra-choli—the tight-fitting choli bodice was filigreed with gold thread, and the gaghra, the long pleated skirt beneath, was bunched up around her. Heavy jewellery completed her ensemble: nose rings and earrings; bangles and anklets; signet rings, and a cascade of gold and silver necklaces.

  Beside the Queen sat a young eunuch, cross-legged, with a red ledger open on her lap. She wore a staid white kurta pajama, and had a modern bobbed haircut.

  “Welcome,” said the Queen.

  Rangwalla licked his lips, wishing, once again, that his boss were here in his stead. “Anarkali said that you wished to see Chopra,” he said, and then, recalling his instructions, added, “Maharani Bibi.”

  This courtesy seemed to please the Queen and she smiled broadly. “Indeed, I did. But he has not seen fit to grace my court.”

  The tone was more amused than angry, Rangwalla decided. “He is tied up with another case. Perhaps I can help. What is the problem?”

  “The problem?” The Queen toked on her hookah. “The problem, Rangwalla Sahib, is all around you. People say we live in the modern age, but the minds of men are locked in the past. All over this country of ours my sisters and daughters are cast out from their homes, stripped of dignity, forced into lives we would not wish upon our worst enemies. And why? Because they were born different. But we are all creations of the Almighty, are we not? For us too, He must have had a purpose.”

  “Times are changing,” said Rangwalla, defensively.

  The Queen laughed, a hollow sound that bounced off the walls. “Yes, this is true. The High Court now rules that a third gender exists. And then the Supreme Court decrees that our natural urges are ‘against the order of nature.’ You give with one hand and take with the other. Let me ask you, Rangwalla Sahib, how many eunuch teachers are there? How many doctors? How many politicians? Last week one of my girls was hounded from a train, the week before another was denied entry to a mall. ‘Dogs and eunuchs not allowed,’ the security stooge told her. We are more untouchable than the untouchables.” The Queen shifted her bulk on the dais. “But let us talk about problems that we can do something about. I require assistance, the type of assistance that Anarkali informs me your agency may be able to provide.”

  “We will help if we can.”

  “A few weeks ago a limousine arrived outside the Red Fort. This was nothing new, you understand. We are accustomed to wealthy clientele. Not all of my girls choose to offer their charms, but those that do are much in demand. The driver said that his master wished to contract a number of eunuchs for a visit to his mansion. He would not say where—indeed, it was a condition that we would not be told the location of his master’s home. He was willing to pay cash in advance and assured me that they would be treated well. I allowed the girls to consider the offer, though I was hesitant—these are troubled times and one must be wary of clients who come without recommendation. At any rate, my girls agreed to the deal. The driver took them to the mansion and for three days they were fed, watered, and looked after. And then they were returned.”

  “So, what is the problem?”

  “The problem is that nothing happened.”

  “What do you mean ‘nothing happened?’”

  “My girls spent three days there without meeting either the master of the property or any guests. Instead, they were asked to participate in meaningless games—poetry recitals, dance competitions, singing performances. And then the driver brought them back. The same farce has been repeated three weekends in succession. Each time a different set of girls has been requested.”

  “Were you paid each time?”

  “Yes.”

  “I still don’t see the problem. It seems to me a very good deal. Payment for services not rendered.” Rangwalla permitted himself a small smile.

  “This is no laughing matter,” scowled the Queen. “I do not like unexplained situations. Human nature is predictable in its unpredictability. I am afraid that sooner or later this client’s true motives will surface and the whole farce will end in tears.”

  “Perhaps he is just eccentric,” speculated Rangwalla. “Perhaps he is one of those men who merely like to watch?”

  “My girls say there is more to it than this. They cannot put their finger on it, but something is not right.”

  “Then simply do not send him any more girls.”

  “I told you I do not force my girls into anything. Don’t believe everything you hear, Rangwalla. I am not quite the tyrant I am made out to be. Besides, I could not stop them if I tried. The money is extravagant. This man is clearly wealthy. The girls earn in three days of doing nothing what would take them weeks to earn doing many things, not all to their tastes. They will not say no.”

  “So how can I help?”

  “If he sticks to his routine, the driver will be back tomorrow evening for the next batch of girls. I want you to go with them. I want you to uncover the identity of this man and his reasons.”

  “But I have not been invited!” protested Rangwalla. “Besides, the driver will want eunuchs. He
will not take me.”

  The Queen waved a dismissive hand. “I leave it to you to decide how to conduct the investigation. All I want are the answers.”

  “I cannot agree to such a thing without talking to Chopra.”

  “I will pay what you ask.”

  “I will still have to talk to him.”

  The Queen toked on her hookah, bubbling the water in the base as she drew smoke through it. “Then go. And be sure to return tomorrow. The car will arrive precisely at seven.”

  HIMALAYAN STUDIOS

  P. K. Das’s Himalayan Studios were located in the eastern Mumbai suburb of Chembur, just a stone’s throw from the city’s most famous production house, namely, the legendary R. K. Studio.

  The latter had been inaugurated a year after Independence, the brainchild of the man many called the godfather of the Indian film industry, Shree Raj Kapoor, and thus enjoyed a unique place in the annals of Bollywood, having churned out hits for half a century. Many of these seminal works embodied a healthy dose of social commentary, as was Kapoor’s wont. For this reason Chopra had always harboured a secret admiration for the larger-than-life maestro.

  As a young man P. K. Das had worked closely with the great Kapoor, before eventually charting his own course. For a while the two men had been rivals, but the rivalry had been a friendly one, with each studio pushing the other to better its own efforts.

  Das’s Himalayan Studios sprawled over a magnificent estate that backed on to the fairways of the Bombay Presidency Golf Club, the oldest and most prestigious sanctum of the city’s golfing elite.

  It was rumoured that P.K. himself had one of the lowest handicaps on the circuit.