My So-Called Bollywood Life(4)
“Right,” Winnie said with a grin. Some of the pain she was feeling dimmed as Bridget stepped up next to her and grabbed the shovel.
They took turns digging until the hole was at least three feet deep. Then, with some huffing and puffing, they dragged the boxes filled with DVDs, Blu-rays, and external hard drives to the edge of their amateur grave.
Winnie looked down at the contents of her loot. On top of the pile sat the 2007 ten-year-anniversary collector’s edition of the movie Dil To Pagal Hai, the infamous film that had an eerie similarity to her horoscope. Winnie had purchased a copy for Raj when they first started dating.
She ran her finger over the faces on the cover. Shah Rukh Khan, the hero of the movie, sporting a massive mullet, had his arms around the heroine’s waist as she curved against him in her shiny black unitard with matching sweatbands. As far as Bollywood flicks went, it was a classic late-nineties love triangle.
The part of the story Winnie had always loved was when the hero recognized the heroine as his mystery woman from the sound of her bracelet jingling as she walked away. The bracelet in the movie was nothing like the one Raj had given her, though. Maybe that should’ve been a clue that Raj was wrong for her.
Winnie threw the DVD into the hole and flinched when she saw the bright neon, jewel-toned cover lying against the stark brown dirt. Seeing one of their favorite movies like that was harder than she expected.
“Come on,” Bridget said softly. “Keep going. It’ll get easier.”
Winnie resumed tossing the contents, silently saying goodbye to the memory associated with each movie. No more dates, no more dances, no more future together at the same college in New York. She’d just have to do it all alone.
When they finished filling the hole, Bridget wrapped an arm around Winnie’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’re good, right?”
“I really don’t know,” Winnie said after a moment. The whole experience had been a bit cathartic, but like any good movie, there was still a lot of plot left to work through. “Now that I’m done, I should probably start thinking about Monday. I don’t know how we’re going to be co-presidents of the film club if Raj makes things awkward.”
Bridget rubbed her arm. “Don’t worry about that now. Enjoy your moment of revenge. It’ll all be a bad dream when you’re studying at NYU. You’ll be rocking in film school while Raj will still be mourning the loss of the stuff that you bought him. No pictures because you don’t want evidence, but definitely commit this to memory.”
“To memory, huh?”
“Yup, this is the end of something, right?” She motioned to the hole, to the empty boxes and the shovel. “The end of something is like a shooting star. Gone in a second.”
“Okay,” Winnie said with a whoosh of air. “Okay, I can remember this.” Winnie cupped her hands in front of her eyes in the shape of a heart. She saw only images of famous actors and actresses, movie titles, and taglines in a blur of color. She jerked her hands apart, tearing the makeshift heart in two. She was able to see the full picture now: the displaced dirt and the poor condition of the movies. Things were always clearer in panorama.
“Got any last words?” Bridget said.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Fin. After all, this is the end, right? So…Fin.”
Winnie picked up the shovel.
2
WHAT’S YOUR RAASHEE? / WHAT’S YOUR HOROSCOPE?
It’s a new era in Bollywood. Astrologer priests no longer dress in lungis and work in isolation. It’s the 21st century, and sometimes astrologers can look like you and me.
Winnie cracked open her bedroom door and listened for the sounds of her parents settling down in the living room. When she heard the opening music of Indian Idol starting, she knew that they’d be preoccupied long enough for her to have a private conversation.
She settled on the center of her bed with her laptop and clicked on the v-chat icon so she could connect with the username she’d gotten from her grandmother. Even though it was early morning in India, twelve hours ahead, Winnie hoped the famous Pandit Ohmi would take her video conference call. She’d never spoken to the priest directly, but she figured that since her mother talked to him every two months or so, he wouldn’t mind talking to her, too.
She straightened her shoulders and yanked up the neckline of her shirt to cover any exposed cleavage. While she waited for the feed to load, she wondered if he’d be offended because she wasn’t dressed like she was going to temple. Her head wasn’t covered, and her arms and legs were bare. Winnie’s parents hadn’t prepared her for this sort of thing, and she’d never been around to watch her mother talk to Pandit Ohmi. She should’ve checked online. After her conversation, she’d blog about it so other people could know what to wear when telling off an Indian priest/astrologer.
The slender face of a grandfather-like man filled her screen. A long line of red powder streaked up the middle of his forehead from the center of his bushy eyebrows to what would’ve been a hairline if he wasn’t bald. He peered at her through silver metal-framed glasses that looked like they’d seen better days. The hair sticking out of his nostrils flared.
“Is that the young Vaneeta Mehta?” he asked in Hindi. “Yes, it must be you. But yet it is not Vaneeta. Winnie is what you go by. Your grandmother has called you that since you were in diapers, nah?”