BOLLYWOOD ISHTLYE

He woke up in the middle of night. Again, the same dream…over and over again. The tall, exquisitely beautiful woman, so beautiful that it hurt too look at her. Walking away from him, a baby in her arms, the white pallu of her sari fluttering.

He was sweating. He was hungry, there was an emptiness, a longing in the pit of his belly. He turned to the sleeping girl beside him…

Later, he lay amidst sweaty and tangled sheets, the darkness blinding him. The muffled voices of his neighbors, arguing, punctuated the heavy, stuffy silence. He lit a cigarette, and watched the darkness flee, briefly, from the lighted match. The girl sighed.

“The same dream?”

He nodded.

She turned to the other side. A train rolled past overhead, and the walls of the inconceivably tiny apartment shuddered.

He cursed aloud. The girl kicked him under the sheets. He pushed her away, roughly.

He hated this. This one-bedroom apartment. His job. The girl lying next to him, her face sweaty and flushed, the stench of sex clinging to her body.

But what else was there?

Flashback. He remembered his childhood, living with an alcoholic father, who used him as a punching bag. His mother had left his father years ago, pregnant with another man’s child. So he had learnt. Ego bruised, pride wounded, his father had taken revenge on his wife through the only thing she had left him, his son.

He had missed his mother. In his mind, he had fashioned an image of her, sculpting her into the perfect, the ideal woman. Eyes like Manisha Koirala like Preity Zinta’s, a body like Mallika Sherawat’s. But always clad respectably, in a pure, simple white sari.

He had come to Bombay two years ago. For the first time, he had dared to hope – dreaming of films, of jobs, cars and money…and then, two years later, still stuck in the same dreary job, hope had gone sour.

The morning light filtered dimly through the small window. He hadn’t slept the whole night. He arose, got dressed slowly and left. The girl slept on.

The milk-bottles rattled in the basket suspended to his cycle’s handlebars. He peddled slowly up the hill, daydreaming. A tall woman walked past, white sari flapping in the sea-breeze, like the woman from his dreams. Stunned, he stopped in the middle of the road to turn around. There was no woman. A truck, driving towards him, swerved, missing him by hair’s breadth. He jumped back, and the truck turned, crashing into a car driving up the hill.

Jai watched, horrified. He let go of the cycle. It dropped to the ground, milk-bottles shattering. Already, the sound of police sirens sounded faintly in the distance.

He started running.

And somewhere, someone yelled “CUT!”