He turned down Kargil and saw the role go to his rival Salman Khan. His image was trashed. Having been a hero for so long, he had developed the habit of referring to himself in the third person, shortening himself to his initials, a fan’s affectionate nickname. But was ‘R. R.’ now to be the villain? Slumped in front of the giant plasma screen at his Juhu bungalow, he found relief in a sequence from High School Hearts, a film he had ignored when it was released the previous year. As the heroine learned her boyfriend had been killed in a traffic accident, her stricken face filled the frame. It seemed to radiate vulnerability, trust, a need to be protected. He groped for the remote, replaying the sequence again and again. The girl’s face turning, her eyes sparkling with glycerine-drop tears… He found himself in tears too, crying for innocence and purity, everything that had vanished from his own life. Everything this girl would surely be able to replace.
He told Aziz that the actress he wanted for Tender Tough was Leela Zahir.
The bathroom had an echo, but there was something else, electronic interference on the line, fragments of voices.
‘Isn’t this a matter for Iqbal?’ he asked, trying to concentrate on Aziz’s murmuring, which seemed to fade in and out of the interference.
‘This is your film, Rajiv-bhai. I have promoted it for you, out of consideration for your interests. If it collapses because of this silly girl you chose as your heroine, I think it’s obvious who should take the consequences.’
‘I know she’s being difficult, but what can I do? It’s out of my control.’
‘You must persuade her. She was your choice. The mother is coming. The two of you will have to work together.’
‘She won’t listen to anyone.’
‘If you feel you can absorb these costs, then so be it.’
‘Absorb — what do you mean?’
‘If this film does not happen, you must bear the burden. Iqbal will be able to give you an estimate.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
Down the line came a stabbing sound which might have been laughter. Rajiv balled his fists, looking for something in the hard-surfaced bathroom to punch.
‘So you will persuade the girl.’
‘Yes, of course I will. I’ll make sure. Yes.’
There was a logic to Arjun’s decision, if only the kind produced by vending-machine coffee, bacon-flavoured corn snacks and the hard 3 a.m. strip lights of bus-terminal waiting areas. It went like this: They think you’ll be going north. So what if he’d made a mistake? Instead of retracing his steps, he would carry on. Instead of north, south. Instead of Canada, Mexico. Log cabin goes to adobe hacienda. Find and replace.
It was the kind of tactic that had worked for Rajiv Rana in Run from Injustice. In Bend he bought a ticket for the next southbound bus, and, as night turned to day and then faded towards night again, he watched the strip of America by the side of the interstate change from green to brown and back to green, until the sky closed down to a misty grey and drops of moisture streaked the safety glass and suddenly there were whitecaps on open water and they were driving across the Golden Gate into San Francisco. In that city he ate a microwaved quesadilla which wilted its plastic plate and purchased a newspaper which concentrated on sports and freak weather occurrences, making no mention of either Leela or him.
He stood in a long line at the ticket office, where harassed clerks were issuing tickets by hand, then boarded a bus headed for San Diego. Hour by hour California lost its trees and flattened itself into a dusty plain lined with strip malls and fields of bright green lettuces through which Latino pickers moved in ragged gangs. In some places the crops were grown under glass or covered with plastic sheeting that glared in the sunlight, passing the window in blinding flashes which persisted until the sun went down and the disposable settlements and tentative landscapes vanished, leaving only illuminated franchise signs and a constant stream of headlights, as if the rest, the physical, was supplementary to the reality of still and moving light.
He never knew the name of the place where they made the rest-stop. It looked like every other bus terminal in America. It was long after midnight. The concessions were shuttered up, and the Traveler’s Aid booth unattended. In one corner a video-game arcade chirped and growled. Rows of plastic contour chairs faced bays into which the arriving buses pushed their noses; above each was a monitor displaying arrival and departure times. Some of the chairs had coin-op TVs bolted to the armrests, and here and there people were feeding them money, receiving tiny black-and-white flickers in return. Arjun’s eye for American class distinctions had sharpened. Many of the waiting people were obese, the paradoxical sign of poverty in this paradoxical place. Others, dirty and ill cared for, slept with their arms wrapped tightly round plastic sacks of clothing. A man with a beard and a cap saying ‘Mustache Rides 5c’ called out hey baby hey at every woman who went by. Another jogged his legs up and down, his bird-like head darting nervously from left to right as if searching for an attacker.
Arjun picked up his bag and went to the rest room, where he washed his face and changed his shirt. There were ten minutes before the bus was due to leave again. He went to the bank of telephones on the wall and was about to dial his calling-card number when he realized it was early afternoon in India and Priti would still be at work. He dialled anyway. Malini picked up, sounding excited to hear from him. Then someone else took the receiver away from her.
‘Bro? Sweet as! Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling.’
‘I–I’ve been away. I’m not at home now.’
‘I’ve got so much to tell you. Hey, everything is totally chaotic at work. All our systems went down. The entire place. It was madness! My manager would have been tearing his hair out if the old baldie still had any. I told you about him, right? The baldie? You must be working hard hard with all this virus business. But guess what — I’m not! Are you jealous? They had to give us the day off.’ She lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘I spent most of it with Ramu. Oh, Arjun, so much has happened. I haven’t even told you about Ramu. I will but you have to promise not to say anything to Ma and especially not to Pa.’
It was all too much, the happiness in her voice, the excitement. He held the receiver away from his face so she would not hear him crying.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said, and he heard the sounds of her shutting herself in a bedroom.
‘Ramu is — you know he’s not like anyone else. He’s intelligent and he’s kind, and he’s not an idiot like most of the other guys at work. He’s so funny. I know you’d like him. And his brother is in Australia. Actually in Australia. He lives in Bondi, next to the beach. What do you think of that? If we went, we could go surfing. Arjun? Are you there?’
He tried to control his ragged breathing. ‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Arjun, I think I love him. We want to get married.’
‘What?’
‘He’s spoken to his father and they’re going to come and talk to Ma and Pa.’
‘Married?’
‘What do you say, Bro? Are you happy for me? Arjun?’
‘Where’s he from?’
‘Kolkota. They’re Chaudhuris. Arjun, don’t talk like Ma. Aren’t you even a little happy for me?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, you could sound more like it. When we get married, Ramu wants us to move to Australia. Actually to go and live there.’