Bollywood Confidential Read Free

idea.
    Griffin persisted. “Raveena? Hello? Are you listening?”
    She looked over at her parents who, instead of looking at each other, were watching the diners at the next table.
    Maybe it was a good time for her mother to begin opening presents.
    â€œLook, Griffin,” she said quickly. “I’ll call you back. I’m in the middle of—”
    His voice rose in volume. “We can’t talk later. We’re talking leading role here! We’re talking major film! You’re up for it! In fact, you’re perfect for it!”
    Her mouth dropped open.
    â€œClose your mouth, Raveena,” her mother scolded. “Otherwise, you look slow.”
    Raveena turned away and pressed the cell phone close to her ear. Excitement began to thud inside her. “A leading role?” It couldn’t be. After all these years…“Who’s the director? The producer?”
    â€œRandy Kapoor is producing and directing,” Griffin said.
    She was puzzled. “Randy? I’ve never heard of him.”Raveena thought she knew all the Hollywood players of Indian descent. She belonged to a group called the South Asian Representation Society or SARS.
    Sidenote: They existed before the global disease.
    She jogged her memory. “Oh wait. Is this the guy with Buddha Tree Productions? The one making the Tibetan film with Richard Gere?”
    Visions of co-starring with the gorgeous Gere swirled through her head, and she nearly floated out of her chair with giddiness.
    Griffin cleared his throat. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. This isn’t a Hollywood film.”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œIt’s Bollywood.”
    She promptly fell back to Earth. “Bollywood?” she shrieked.
    â€œBollywood?” Her father echoed.
    Leela’s eyes lit up and she smiled for the first time all night. “Bollywood?”
    Maybe Raveena had just given her mother the birthday present of a lifetime.

Chapter 3
    After dinner Raveena returned in a daze to her small Santa Monica condo.
    She parked her Toyota Prius—the hybrid of choice for all Hollywood types—and let herself in.
    Pouring a vodka and Red Bull, she retreated to the living room—a mere three steps—and curled up in her favorite purple velvet chair.
    Staring at the praline-colored walls, decorated with framed posters of her favorite movies like Roman Holiday, The Godfather and Raiders of the Lost Ark, she thought about the Bollywood offer.
    Bollywood.
    Even as a kid she hadn’t been able to stand watching Indian movies.
    The bloodstains on the heroes’ clothes always looked like ketchup. The heroines wore too much makeup. And just when you thought you’d finally figured out how the hero could possibly leap across an entire row of supply trucks inhis white loafers with three-inch heels, the entire cast would abruptly break into a song-and-dance sequence.
    Leela—an avowed Bollywood fanatic—didn’t appreciate her daughter’s continuous critical commentary and pointed out that some of Raveena’s favorite movies were musicals like Grease, The Sound of Music and Moulin Rouge .
    Raveena’s response was to thrust out her pelvis and begin shaking her hips in imitation of the Bollywood babes on screen.
    Before tonight, Raveena would have thought Bollywood had as much relevance to her world as the Kabbalah did to a devout Muslim.
    Downing her drink, she rinsed the glass and placed it in the dishwasher. Then it was time to begin her nightly ministrations.
    Securing her hair with a headband, she sat down in front of her bedroom dresser and began removing her makeup. She followed that up with a sugar-based exfoliating scrub.
    A tedious ritual and one she’d only just begun.
    Sometimes Raveena wanted to say to hell with it and jump into bed, face dirty, teeth un-flossed, but then a vision of Angelina Jolie or Kate Winslet would surface in her head, and she’d remember the