Jaishree Misra - Secrets and Lies

‘After all these years? I don’t think so somehow.’ Zeba’s voice rose as a new thought occurred to her. ‘Do you think they might have found some new evidence, and they’re doing a kind of reconstruction thing?’

Sam couldn’t help a small laugh at that. ‘What, like they do on TV? Hoping someone will crack?’

‘Don’t laugh—what if someone does crack, as you put it, or remember something and it all comes out? Ugh, so macabre.’

Sam considered the possibility. It wasn’t entirely nonsensical and Zeba had a public reputation to consider. This was the kind of story those film rags would fall upon with relish, poor Zeba. Poor all of them—nobody needed something like this when life was already so complicated. ‘Murder will out,’ she said softly, remembering Miss Lamb explaining the nature of guilt in one of her Macbeth lessons.

‘Don’t! You’re really scaring me now,’ Zeba implored. ‘But, really, if you think about it, Sam, we’ll all be gathered together in almost exactly the same circumstances. It’s a well-known ploy used by the police the world over. Agatha Christie always did it.’

‘But why now? All these years on?’

‘Maybe she wants to see justice done before she dies, see the guilty brought to book once and for all’.

Sam, unable to keep up her casual tone any more, started to weep at that, lunging for her bedside tissues and pressing a wad against her mouth. Sam had always been one of Miss Lamb’s favourites, never achieving the top marks Anita achieved in Lamboo’s subjects of English and History, but unfailingly making class monitor year on year, simply because the principal had trusted her so implicitly. Now, with stinging recognition, she realised how grievously she had betrayed old Lamboo’s trust in those last few weeks at school. Worse, she had not even attempted any sort of reparation, never once returning to visit either the school or its old principal.

‘Sam?…Sam? You okay?’ Zeba’s voice echoed distantly down the line.

Sam gathered herself together. It wasn’t just Miss Lamb and Lily. There had been so much to deal with that terrible winter, but perhaps Zeba had—in the midst of her present glitzy life—forgotten the dreadful events of that year. What Sam needed now, quite desperately, was to end this conversation. ‘Yes, I’m fine, Zeba. Look, I gotta go now. I’ve been out all evening and need to put Heer to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow…’

‘Oh God, I’ve upset you now, haven’t I? You aren’t crying, are you? Sam?’

‘No, no, I’m fine, Zeba,’ Sam mumbled, managing to keep her voice steady. ‘Look, stay in touch. I’ve told Anita and Bubs that we need to keep each other’s spirits up.’

‘Too right,’ Zeba agreed. ‘Yes, I’ll stay in touch too. You’d better go and sort Heer out now. Call me when you can. And try not to think about this if possible, Sam. We’ve all got our lives to live.’

MUMBAI, 2008

The following morning, Zeba managed to drag herself out of bed and get to work on time, despite having caught only five hours of sleep. Getting out of her car, she straightened her back and walked into the studio, knowing she was already getting full marks from the assembled crew for not making them hang about all morning like some of the other stars did. There were some things about her father’s strict upbringing that she did have to be grateful for.

She looked around the Filmistan sets in amazement. This was good even for Shiv Mirchandani, whose hand was clear in the attention to detail. The fake marketplace had everything: the ration shop, the post office, the vegetable vendor with his trolley full of shiny aubergines and damp bunches of spinach. Zeba suddenly realised that she had not actually seen the inside of a real market for years, merely expecting the fridges and fruit bowls in her Juhu house to be well-stocked at all times. She’d even forgotten who in her domestic retinue had been delegated to oversee all that! But, from her childhood memories of accompanying Ammi to INA market every Sunday, the set designer had got this exactly right.

What a pity that it had all been put together only to be blown apart. Today’s shoot was the bomb-blast scene, which she wasn’t looking forward to at all. The mess and noise, the acrid smoke and smells—horrible. Then she’d have to be rushed to make-up for them to put the grime and blood on her face and clothes for the rescue scene. Zeba stopped short, remembering that her co-star on this film was Neel Biswas, a man with the most horrendous bad breath. She shuddered, imagining submitting to halitosis fumes as she lay in a swoon ready to be gathered up in her distraught lover’s arms.

Zeba sensed someone sitting down gingerly on the seat next to her and turned to see a grinning young girl—probably one of the extras. She felt her hackles rise. She really did not want to be bothered with useless chit-chat when she was sleep-deprived and trying to gather her thoughts for her scene. She had learned method acting the hard way, living as she did in a world where no one else even knew what the term meant. Perhaps she should cock an eyebrow at her maid or assistant to signal to them that they ought to be keeping fans at bay. There was a time and a place for adulation. But Zeba could spot nobody familiar in her immediate vicinity and reluctantly turned back. She’d be cool and distant—Zeba knew from experience that would send the girl scurrying off. No harm in being polite, though—you never knew when the press would descend in disguise, and those Starworld journalists were always looking to find something on her that would bring all her hard-won success crashing down.

‘Yes?’ she said with a plastic smile that she knew was not quite reaching her eyes.

‘Madam Zebaji, I am your biggest fan,’ the girl breathed.

Zeba nodded. She couldn’t help softening at the sound of those words, but she’d heard them so often that they had long ceased to really thrill. ‘Hmm, how nice to know that,’ she said, trying to sound pleasant but with scant success.

‘Madam, if you don’t mind…I am writing a book about our Bollywood industry and want to ask you…’

Zeba had been offered that excuse so many times that it wearied her. Did these people really think that writing books about the film world was easy? How silly they were to imagine that actors would ever stop acting for long enough to reveal their real selves to anyone? It was all an act, she wanted to shout at them sometimes, even the casual chats and confessional-style interviews. How on earth could anyone imagine otherwise? And who was this chit of a girl to offer the world her wisdom on Bollywood anyway? When people like herself, Zeba Khan, had slaved for years to make their way up its labyrinthine, treacherous corridors. Zeba’s beautiful face closed up. ‘Why don’t you make an appointment with my secretary for an interview. He will…’

‘I will most certainly, Madam. But I saw you sitting here, and if I can just ask you one or two things now. Just some basic questions…’

Zeba darted another look around her before nodding reluctantly—where was bloody Gupta, or her PA, or Najma even. Her status allowed her to have as big a retinue as she wished on set, but what a strange way they all had of vanishing when you most needed them. ‘Well, you know, I have just one or two minutes before going on the set…’

‘Don’t worry, Madam, I will not take up much of your time. Just one question…’

Zeba took a deep breath. This was one of those brazen ones who would not be shaken off. Some of these people had no shame, really, no sense of privacy . There were laws to protect the rich and the famous in other countries, but here in India, no bloody chance! Zeba put on her polite but resigned expression and nodded again.