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tiny fishing hamlets. They write in broken
Hindi and pidgin English, in faltering sentences and
floundering syntax, wanting simply to share their dreams
with me and asking me for advice, assistance, and sometimes
money. Most letters are accompanied by photographs in
which they preen and pout, simper and smoulder, and try to
compress all their wonderment, longing, commitment and
desperation into a freeze frame which they hope will melt a
producer's heart. But however hard they try, their rough
edges cannot be hidden by the indiscriminating lens of the
camera. Their essential crudity and vulgarity spills out of
the poses which proclaim not only the silliness of their
subjects but also their abject helplessness.
    I find the letters from the girls especially disturbing.
Some of them are as young as thirteen. They want to run
away from their homes, forsake their families, for fifteen
minutes of fame. They have no idea what it takes, what it
costs, to make it in Mumbai. Even before they made it to
the casting couch, they would be lured by some grubby
photographer or smooth-talking agent to a steamy massage
parlour or sleazy brothel. And their brittle dreams of
stardom would crumble against the nightmarish reality of
sexual slavery.
    But I take a leaf out of my own life story and do not
respond to these girls. I have neither the inclination to
intervene in their sorry lives, nor the power to alter the
trajectories of their doomed destinies. It is the law of the
jungle. Only the fittest will survive. The rest are consigned
to the dustbin of history. Or the trashcan of society.
    16 June
    Vicky Rai called again today. He has been pursuing me for
the last two years. A real pest. But Rakeshji says I should
humour him. He is a producer of sorts, after all, and he does
have clout.
    'Why won't you talk to me?' Vicky Rai asked.
    'Because there is nothing to say,' I replied. 'How did you
get my new mobile number?'
    'I know you change it every three months. But I have
my sources. You have always underestimated my power,
Shabnam. There is much that I can do for you.'
    'Such as . . . ?'
    'Such as getting you a National Award. My dad can pull
a few strings in government. Now don't tell me you don't The Actress 33
want a National Award. These Filmfare Awards and Hero
Honda trophies are OK, but eventually every good actor
and actress craves a National Award. It's the ultimate
recognition.'
    'Well, I am not interested in awards at present.'
    'OK, how about if I offer you a part in my next film?
It's called Plan B . I've already signed Akshay for it. It's going
into production next June.'
    'I don't have any dates free in June. I will be shooting in
Switzerland with Dhawan saab.'
    'If you can't spare a month, can you at least spare a
night? Just one night?'
    'What for?'
    'I don't have to spell it out now, do I? Just meet me in
Delhi and everything will be taken care of. Or would you
prefer me to come to Mumbai?'
    'I would prefer you to end this call, and not bother me
again, Mr Vicky Rai,' I said firmly and switched off my
mobile.
    What does the bastard think, that I am a saleable
commodity? I hope he gets convicted for the murder of
Ruby Gill and rots in jail for the rest of his life.
    30 July
    Jay Chatterjee is so frustrating; I want to tear my hair out.
Arguably the most brilliant director in the industry, he is
also the most eccentric. He met me at RK Studios today
and said that he had decided to cast me in his new film.
    I started trembling with excitement. A Jay Chatterjee
film means not only a mega hit, but also plenty of awards.
He is the Steven Spielberg of Bollywood.
    'What is it going to be about?' I asked, trying to control
my palpitations.
    'It is about a boy and a girl,' he said.
    'What kind of girl?'
    'A very beautiful girl, from a very rich family,' he said in
his usual dreamy manner, fingers playing an imaginary
piano. 'Let us call the girl Chandni. Chandni's parents want
her to marry an industrialist's son, but Chandni happens to
fall