Jaishree Misra - Secrets and Lies

MUMBAI, 2008

Miss Lamb’s letter to Zeba Khan had been delivered to the film star’s Juhu address the previous week, but it would be another few days before Zeba herself would see it. The letter had nearly got lost, nestled as it was alongside many others in the customary gunny bag. The local post office, accustomed to receiving fan mail addressed sometimes just to ‘Zeba, Bombay’ , had taken to using a pair of large sacks to deliver her mail. That day’s load had been an exceptionally heavy one and Zeba Khan’s secretary, Gupta, had already spent an extra hour trying to clear it. He resisted the temptation to throw the last rubber-banded clutch into the bin so that he could finally leave to catch his train to Ghatkopar. It was his main task every day to wade through his employer’s fan mail, answering each one with a standard letter of appreciation, a photograph of the film star showing just a hint of her famed cleavage and a carefully forged signature. Gupta sometimes wondered about that signature of his, the carefully crafted Z, the flourish as the A ended in a small cross, musing over its many grateful recipients. One persistent correspondent had even written back to say that he kissed the signature every morning before leaving for work as a porter at Victoria Terminus, convinced that it gave him strength.

Gupta picked up the last letter, eyeing the cheap envelope and handwritten address, resisting once again the urge to hurl it into the trash can unopened. Madam received all sorts of invitation cards: premieres, parties, even weddings and baby-naming ceremonies, as though her fans really thought she was as sweet as her roles made her out to be, and very eager to drop by their family function if she happened to be passing. He knew, of course, better than anyone else, that Madam rarely stirred out of bed for anything less than five lakh rupees these days. He sighed deeply as he slit open the envelope. She had maintained an uncanny knack of finding out if he had shirked any of his tasks and, having no wish to receive one of her verbal lashings, he surveyed the letter before deciding how to respond. This was an unusual one, not the kind of thing Gupta had ever had to deal with before. Certainly not a request that could be fobbed off with a signed photograph showing some cleavage. He held the letter briefly in his hand, reading it again more carefully The address and postmark looked authentic, and this Miss Lamb apparently knew Zeba Madam well. He could not assume that Madam would not want to reply to the letter herself, or perhaps despatch a box of her trademark spray of orchids to its sender, for that was what she sometimes did when she wanted to turn someone down without making it too blatant they were being turned down.

It had become obvious to Gupta over the years that Madam was not in touch with anyone from her Delhi childhood, not even her family, so this was rather intriguing. And she was, in fact, due to be there in December for the annual Film Awards, for which they already knew she was receiving the Best Actress prize. This might be the kind of distraction from her routine that she would enjoy, it would perhaps even present some good PR and photo-shoot opportunities. Gupta remembered having once, in his early and more enthusiastic days, suggested to Zeba Madam that her fans would probably love to know more about the kind of school she had attended and people she had studied with, that being the kind of insignificant information that usually thrilled her silly admirers no end. But she had flown at him in a sudden rage, dismissing his idea as being ‘stupid’ and ‘thoughtless’. Gupta had never again strayed into what was clearly sensitive territory.

He looked at the letter again, deciding to leave it casually on Madam’s bedside table. She would not miss it lying there when she returned later tonight from Zurich, where she had gone to shoot a song sequence.

LONDON, 2008

Despite the tumult of painful memories that had been sparked by the arrival of Miss Lamb’s letter, Sam managed to get through the rest of her day maintaining her normal placid demeanour. It was nearly two when she finally managed to speak to Bubbles, but her friend was uncharacteristically reticent about explaining why she hadn’t taken her calls. Bubbles too had received Miss Lamb’s letter, and Sam could tell, from what sounded like a blocked nose, that Bubbles had been crying. Not wanting to discuss it on the phone, Sam merely told Bubbles the time and place that had been agreed with Anita before hanging up.

Luckily it was time to collect Heer from school, and Sam left her house with relief, pulling on a cashmere cardigan as protection against the stubborn chilliness in the air. She looked up at the watery sun as she closed the gate behind her, trying to take pleasure in its rare appearance. What a dismal summer it had been so far, even the daffs that had struggled to emerge in the back garden a month ago had turned brown and soggy and collapsed within days. It was as if life itself was fighting to cope against all odds.

Sam turned as she heard a familiar voice hail her and saw her neighbour emerge from her driveway.

‘Hey, Franci,’ she said pleasantly, although she couldn’t help taking in the sight of Francesca’s trim legs beneath her summer dress with a rush of envy. Francesca had clearly worn such a short dress on a cold day only to show off her tan. She was maniacal about her fitness regime and had certainly earned every inch of her fabulous figure, but it was enviable to Sam, whose battle to curb her burgeoning weight was now taking on epic proportions.

Francesca took Sam’s arm in her usual friendly fashion and they walked down their leafy road together, meeting up with another pair of mums who were also school-bound.

‘Oh goodness, I’ve got to show you something,’ Francesca said as the group reached the school. She fished out her iPhone from a small Purdey shoulder bag. ‘Piccies from our half-term hols,’ she explained, giggling as she clicked through a few photographs. Francesca turned her phone around to show the one she had picked for Sam and the others to see. They peered at a picture of Francesca’s husband, Tom, normally an immaculately clad banker, wearing a pair of baggy swim-shorts and beaming inanely as he struck a ridiculous muscleman stance with a surfboard on a Mustique beach. The women fell about laughing but Francesca said, ‘That’s not the half of it. There’s a real corker here somewhere. Ah, this one.’ The next picture was of Tom standing in the kitchen of their villa, still bare-chested and this time holding a large gleaming cucumber up against the crotch of his swim-shorts. The droll expression on his face made everyone scream with merriment and Sam forced herself to join in, feeling something catch at her heart. How greedily she always gathered up particulars of the kind of relationship Francesca took so much for granted and that would never be hers to have. It wasn’t that Akbar was a bad husband, but they certainly seemed to have a lot less fun than couples like Francesca and Tom did. Sam could not, in fact, recall Akbar ever having done something absurd purely to make her laugh, and had put it down a long time ago to her own taut demeanour; to the fear that lurked deep inside her, always half-expecting things to go wrong if she enjoyed herself too much.

Fortunately the school bell was now ringing and everyone was distracted by the emerging children. Sam didn’t think she could bear looking at more of Francesca’s happy holiday pictures.

They walked back home together, nevertheless, chatting companionably and carrying their load of colourful jackets and bags, the children tumbling ahead of them.

‘Coffee?’ Francesca asked as they reached her gate.