Busted in Bollywood Read Free Page B

counteract the calories?
    My very own Mumbai Mojitos.
    Take a bite, get happy.
    Eat two, get ecstatic.
    Eat a dozen, get catatonic and forget every stupid reason why I’d traveled thousands of miles to pretend to be someone else.
    Great, perpetuating this scheme had affected my sense of humor, along with my perspective.
    Hoping my duty-free liquor had survived the road trip from hell, I perked up at the thought of my favorite drink (to be consumed on the sly as Rita reminded me a hundred times, in case I forgot I wasn’t supposed to drink while impersonating her) and climbed the stairs behind Anjali, trying not to focus on her cracked heels or the silk sari straining over her ample ass.
    “Hurry up, child. The ayah has outdone herself in preparing a welcome meal for you.”
    Wishing I had a housemaid-cum-cook back home, I fixed a polite smile on my face as Anjali launched into another nonstop monologue, this time about the joys of grinding spices on a stone over store-bought curry powders. While she chatted I surreptitiously loosened the top button on my jeans in preparation for my initiation into India’s national pastime—after cricket, that is.
    “I hope you enjoy your curries hot, Shari. Nothing like chili to put pep in your step.” Anjali bustled me into a dining room featuring a table covered with enough food to feed the multitudes I’d seen teaming the streets earlier. “Eat up, child. Men like some flesh on their women. Perhaps that’s your problem?”
    With an ear-jarring cackle, she proceeded to show me exactly how attractive men must find her by heaping a plate with rice, Goan fish curry rich in spices and coconut milk, baigan aloo (eggplant and potato), chana dahl (lentils), pappadums (deep-fried, wafer-thin lentil flour accompaniments resembling giant crisps), and raita (a delicious yoghurt chutney).
    Had she noticed I hadn’t said more than two words since I arrived? If so, she didn’t let on, happily maintaining a steady flow of conversation while making a sizeable dent in the food laid out before us. With constant urging, I managed to eat a reasonable portion of rice and curry, leaving room for the inevitable barrage of sweets, wondering if I could sneak up to my room for a fortifying rum.
    However, like most of my dreams in this world, it wasn’t to be.
    “Excuse me, Missy.” Buddy shuffled into the room, his dusty bare feet leaving faint footprints on the polished white tiles. “There’s been an accident.”
    Rather than looking at Anjali, Buddy darted glances at me with frightened doe eyes.
    “Spit it out, man. What’s happened?” Anjali spoiled her attempt at playing the imperious master standing over her servant by stuffing another ball of rice into her mouth with her curry-covered fingers and smacking her lips.
    Buddy stared at me, panic-stricken. “It’s the missy’s bottles. They broke. Leak everywhere.”
    “Bottles? What bottles?” Anjali paused mid-chew, her plucked eyebrows shooting skyward.
    I rarely swore. In fact, the F-word made me cringe. However, with my stomach rebelling against the onslaught of food, my nerves shot by the drive here, and my secret duty-free mojito stash now in ruins, all I could think was fuuuuuck .
    …
    I wanted to sleep in the next morning but Anjali didn’t believe in jet lag. She believed in breakfast at the crack of dawn.
    “Eat more, my girl. Idlis will give you strength for the day ahead.” She pushed the tray of steamed rice cakes toward me along with the sambhar , a lentil soup thick with vegetables.
    Not wanting to appear impolite on my first morning here, I spooned another idli onto my plate and ladled a sparrow’s serving of sambhar over it. “What’s on for today?”
    “I’ve planned a grand tour of Mumbai especially for you.” She held up a hand, fingers extended. “First stop, the Gateway of India.”
    One finger bent.
    “Second, a boat cruise on the harbor.”
    Another finger lowered.
    “Third, Chhatrapati Shivaji