Busted in Bollywood Read Free Page A

managed a nod as she pulled away and held me at arm’s length.
    “That naughty girl Amrita didn’t tell me how beautiful you are. Why aren’t you married?”
    Great. I’d escaped my mom’s Gestapo-like interrogations only to have Anjali pick up the slack. I mumbled something indecipherable, like ‘mind your own business,’ and smiled demurely. No use alienating the one woman who was my ally for the next two weeks.
    “Never mind. Once this Rama rubbish is taken care of, maybe you’ll fall in love with a nice Indian boy, yes?” Anjali cocked her head to one side, her beady black eyes taking on a decidedly matchmaking gleam.
    I don’t think so! I thought.
    “Pleasure to meet you, Auntie,” I said.
    Rather than quiz me about my lack of marriage prospects she beamed, tucked her arm through mine, and dragged me toward the exit where another throng waited to get in. “Come, I have a car waiting. You must be exhausted after your flight. A good cup of chai and a few ladoos will revive you.”
    Uh-oh. The sweet-stuffing tradition had begun. Ladoos were lentil-laden balls packed with ghee , Indian clarified butter designed to add a few fat rolls in that fleshy gap between the sari and the choli , the short top worn beneath. Mom’s favorite was besan ladoos and I remembered their smooth, nutty texture melting in my mouth. Despite my vow to stay clear of the sweets, saliva pooled and I swallowed, hoping I could resist.
    Exiting the terminal equated with walking into a furnace and I dabbed at the perspiration beading on my top lip as Anjali signaled to a battered Beamer. “My driver will have us home shortly.”
    I didn’t care if her driver beamed me up to the moon, as long as the car had air-conditioning.
    While Anjali maintained a steady stream of conversation on the way to her house, I developed a mild case of whiplash as my head snapped every which way, taking in the sights of downtown Mumbai.
    Cars, diesel-streaming buses, motorbikes, bicycles, and auto-rickshaws battled with a swarming horde of people on the clogged roads in a frightening free-for-all where it was every man, woman, and rickshaw driver for themselves.
    The subway on a bad day had nothing on this.
    Anjali—immune to the near-death experiences occurring before our eyes—prattled on about parathas, my favorite whole-meal flatbread, and her Punjabi neighbors, while I gripped the closest door handle until my fingers ached. Our driver, Buddy (Anjali had a thing for Buddy Holly and thus dubbed her man-about-the-house Buddy, thanks to his Coke-bottle glasses), maintained a steady stream of Hindi abuse—at least I assumed it was abuse, judging by his volume and hand actions—while his other hand remained planted on the horn.
    Pity I hadn’t held onto those earplugs from the flight. Would’ve been handy to mute the Mumbai melodies. I squeezed my eyes shut for the hundredth time as a small child darted out after a mangy dog right in front of our car. On the upside, every time I reopened my eyes, something new captured my attention. Fresh flowers on street corners, roadside vendors frying snacks in giant woks, long, orderly lines at bus stops. Bustling markets and sprawling malls nestled between ancient monuments.
    Amazing contrasts—boutiques and five-star restaurants alongside abject poverty, beggars sharing the sidewalks with immaculately coiffed women who belonged on the cover of Elle , smog-filled streets while the Arabian Sea stretched as far as the eye could see on the city’s doorstep.
    When Buddy slowed and turned into a tiny driveway squeezed between a row of faded whitewashed flats, I almost missed the frenetic Mumbai energy that held me enthralled already.
    “We’re home.” Anjali clapped her hands. “Leave your luggage to Buddy. Time to eat.”
    As I followed Anjali into the blessed coolness of her house, my hands shaking from the adrenaline surging through my system, I had an idea. Maybe soaking ladoos in white rum and lime juice would