Читать книгу Secrets and Sins - Jaishree Misra - Страница 12

Aman walked up the metal stairs to board his flight for Dubai. He was impressed by the sheer bulk of the massive Airbus A380, remembering a letter he had recently received, signed by Sheikh Al Maktoum himself, which contained all sorts of lavish promises to revolutionise the whole concept of luxury air travel. But even Aman Khan, for whom luxury was now a byword for existence, found himself impressed with the private suite the air hostess was now ushering him into. He looked around with pleasure, feeling comfortably cocooned, as the air hostess hung up his Armani coat in a small closet. Since becoming a star, he had learnt the value of privacy, but air travel had remained the one arena in which no amount of money could buy this precious commodity. He had toyed many times with the idea of a private jet, but had not taken it any further because of his fear of small aircraft. Sitting down in a capacious seat, Aman resolved to get his secretary to write to Sheikh Al Maktoum and thank him for coming up with the idea of private cabins on board flights. He kicked off his Loake loafers and settled himself down. After the rigours of the publicity hoopla for his latest film release in London, the air hostess’s standard patter about his seat converting to a flat bed was unobtrusive and reassuring. Adopting his usual method of tackling long-distance air travel, Aman asked for lime juice with soda and angostura bitters.

‘No, nothing to eat, thanks,’ he insisted, ignoring the anxious expression on the woman’s face. The food earlier in the evening at the Mayfair house of the Bindra brothers had been the usual rich Punjabi fare and was still sitting heavy in his stomach. The Bindras were the biggest distributors of South Asian films across Europe and a visit to their home had become compulsory on his London trips; which wouldn’t have been too trying, were it not for the fact that Mrs Bindra always assumed he must miss Indian food terribly when he was travelling abroad. And she sure went to town on all those ghee-laden gravies, when all he really wanted was some soup and toast.

After the air hostess had left, closing the door to the suite softly behind her, Aman strapped himself into his chair, feeling his spirits lift as the behemoth he was ensconced in started to trundle down the runway, picking up speed before it pulled upwards into the eastern sky. Very civilized, he thought, fiddling with the technology around him after his drink had been served. Aman picked up the in-flight magazine and leafed through to the entertainment section. He had over a thousand films on demand – and only seven hours to watch them in! He decided to order a second drink before turning the privacy button on, which, as the air hostess had explained, meant that he would be left alone to watch as many films as he liked until ten minutes before landing. ‘Except in the very unlikely case of an emergency, of course, Mr Khan,’ she had said, smiling. He had smiled back, not voicing aloud the passing thought that, in his current bleak state of mind, the idea of an emergency was not such a worrying proposition.

He looked out of the minuscule window at the empty vastness beyond, dark and purple at its edges…Who would ever imagine that an unsatisfactory marriage could bleed so much of the happiness out of life?

Still, he had many other things to be grateful for. Aman picked up the remote control to search for one of those…Ah, here it was, the Bollywood selection, including eight films in which he played the lead! He scrolled downwards to the earliest of them – Krodh – and clicked on it. He watched his younger self appear in a few fragmented black and white shots under the opening credits. Only the tie he was wearing was imbued with colour, glowing an arty fluorescent red. Very James Bond, he thought, breaking into a sudden grin. He sat back as the film started and watched himself appear on the screen alongside Amitabh Bachchan. As a twenty-something sidekick, in comparison to the great Bachchan, the towering real hero of Krodh, the young Aman Khan was just a boyish young runt! Perhaps it was true what the rags said…Aman had grown better looking over the years, although it wasn’t due to plastic surgery, as some of the magazines had imputed.

Aman leant his head back on the leather upholstery, remembering his excitement at being offered that first big break. It was a year after Aman had returned from England, having decided to give up on university there. And the break couldn’t have come at a better time, when his life appeared to have ground to a complete halt with a failed attempt at a university education and a broken heart. Even now, it wasn’t hard to recapture the gut-wrenching disappointments of that summer.

Aman took a deep breath, searching his memory…Had he imagined Riva’s face in the crowd as he had left BAFTA earlier this evening? He’d always thought of her as a Londoner, an idea he’d picked up from a small newspaper piece he had read in India when she had won that prize a couple of years ago. He had never heard of the Orange Prize before but, from the tone of the piece, it appeared to be something fairly major in the world of books. It had come as no surprise to Aman that Riva had gone on to become an acclaimed author. She had always been so intelligent, even as a teenager, and had diligently read every single book on their reading list in that first year, sometimes helping Aman by giving him compact précis of the more difficult ones. She’d been unfailingly sweet to him during all that time, and Aman had been sure she had been as much in love with him as he had been with her. But in the end Riva had succumbed to Ben’s persistent attentions and Aman had stupidly allowed her to drift away. Looking back now, Aman knew he ought to be kinder to himself. It hadn’t been stupidity that had led to his losing Riva but a lack of confidence; today, of course, he would have dealt with things quite differently. Then Riva had seemed so superior to him, so clever and so smart. It was no surprise she’d chosen the English guy over him really…

Aman looked unseeingly at the pictures flickering on the screen before him. He’d never forgotten that distant past, even though he had firmly walked away from it and not stopped to look back. But this afternoon, he had thought about Riva a lot, his memories sparked by that chance meeting with her sister at the PR firm. The sister had confirmed that Riva did indeed live in London. And – this was the bit that still stuck slightly in his craw – that she had finally gone on to marry Ben. At least, the sister had mentioned the name Ben; it had to be the same guy. It sounded exactly like the kind of golden life Aman would have expected Riva to be enjoying by now. So what would she have been doing lurking among a crowd of his fans at the BAFTA entrance today?

Aman shrugged. As before, he must have imagined seeing Riva in the crowd. It was silly but quite often he imagined he had spotted Riva when travelling in England, seeing her standing on railway platforms or across crowded shop floors. Aman pulled out the small clutch of business cards that was still in his pocket. ‘Kaaya Walia’ was the name printed in a large curly font, flamboyant gold on ivory. Aman had never met Riva’s sister before, and during their meeting this afternoon she had mentioned still being in school when Riva had joined university. She was a good-looking woman, though not a lot like Riva, being harder and far more sophisticated than the teenage Riva of Aman’s memories. But then, Riva might by now have changed a great deal herself.

Aman picked up his drink again, reflecting on how Riva’s success – unlike his own – was completely unsurprising. Even as a first-year student, she’d shown signs of making it big some day, being so bright and focused and determined. And yet she was one of the most gentle girls he had ever met. People like her deserved their success. Unlike him, who had merely got lucky. His own mother sometimes joked that fame had dropped into his lap when he had been half-asleep and lounging on the sofa one lucky day.

Aman took a long swallow of his lime soda, wondering, not without embarrassment, if Riva ever watched any of his films. Perhaps she and Ben laughed at the thought that the shy and rather silly young suitor she had humoured (and Ben had had to fight off) back at college was now a film star. Famous enough to be featured on the cover of Time magazine recently. He looked out of the window and, in its black emptiness, saw his own face looking back. The Time article had described him as ‘handsome’ and ‘aloof’ but what Aman saw when he looked at his own reflection was the rather diffident and uncertain man he had always been. Stardom hadn’t changed him that much. It certainly hadn’t made him any happier.

Aman smiled now, wondering whether he could blame his ‘aloofness’ on his early heartbreak over Riva. If he were honest, he had never completely gotten over her. The easiest explanation was that Riva had been the first girl he had fallen for and maybe it was true what they said about the first cut being the deepest. Or perhaps it was something to do with the fact that she had dumped him – in contrast to all his subsequent relationships where he had been the one to end things. Aman became pensive again. The most likely explanation for the warmth with which he remembered Riva was that his marriage to Salma had turned out to be such a calamity. It was wrong but, every time Salma behaved in a difficult fashion, Aman was unable to stop himself imagining what it would have been like to have married someone as kind-hearted and lovely as Riva instead.

Their becoming classmates had been something of a happy accident. That English degree had been a disastrous choice of subject for Aman but it was all that had been on offer for a green school-leaver from India with unimpressive grades. The course apparently demanded A’s and B’s but his Uncle Naz had been breezily confident about getting him admission, assuring his anxious parents back in Bombay that British universities were now desperate to get full fee-paying international students to join up. ‘Better than having the boy hang around a city like Bombay, getting bored and getting into trouble,’ Naz Chachu had cheerily assured his parents on the crackly long-distance line from Leeds. Aman’s parents had agreed without too much hesitation. Bombay colleges had all closed their admissions, even their second lists. And, after all, Naz himself had once been the family black sheep, whom life in England had straightened out in a way no one would have imagined when he had first left India with a few hundred rupees in his pocket. Just ten years down the line, Naz Chachu not only owned a string of petrol stations, he was branching out into motorway cafés and – three years ago – had shown further good sense in marrying a girl from a moneyed family. In a move that signified his total and complete redemption, he was offering to take the next generation’s black sheep into his home in Leeds to sort him out.

But Aman had arrived in Leeds in the midst of a grey autumn, and he could recall that the only thing that had prevented him from jumping onto the first flight back home was the sight of a pretty young Indian girl in a red miniskirt who had accosted him on his very first day at the university outside the Chancellor’s office to insist that he join the Union’s protest. ‘But what are you protesting against?’ he had queried half-heartedly, not keen at all to spend his very first day at college being thrown out of it. Not after the trouble and expense poor Naz Chachu had gone through.

‘The hike in the tuition fees that overseas students are required to pay! It’s downright shameful,’ the girl had replied, her face frowning and pink with annoyance. And Aman had been too shy to confess that, despite being an overseas student himself, it was an issue he knew absolutely nothing about. Besides, the girl was far too attractive to be disagreed with, and so he had meekly allowed himself to be press-ganged into joining the small band of predominantly brown-faced students, all of whom were carrying placards and shouting a great deal. She had disappeared into the crowd with a pert flash of her skirt after that but, fortunately, soon popped up again, handing Aman a dustbin lid and a wooden ladle with instructions to ‘Make as much noise as you possibly can, okay? Yell, if you must. That’s the only language they understand.’

Even though he did not know whom she was referring to as ‘they’, Aman had obediently made as much of a din as he could, shouting and clanging for all he was worth, all the while keeping an eye on the red miniskirt as it flashed around the quadrangle. Its pretty owner appeared to be quite definitely in charge of events as they unfolded. Aman recalled how, finally, about an hour later, a great cheer had broken out among the protestors as the Bursar emerged from his office. He wore a harassed expression on his face as he beckoned to the miniskirted girl. When she disappeared into his office along with a couple of others, the remaining protestors seemed to lose both interest and momentum and Aman heard the word ‘pub’ mentioned as, one by one, people started to put their placards down and drift away. Only Aman continued to stand there, shivering in his too-thin jacket as the sun set over the roofs of the college buildings and the evening drew in.

When she emerged from the Bursar’s office an hour later, the girl looked startled to see him still standing under the tree, holding the dustbin lid and ladle she had given him.

‘Goodness, you’re not still protesting, are you?’

‘Well, I’m not shouting any more but I had to return these to you,’ Aman said, handing her the dustbin lid and ladle as though they were prize possessions. She took them from Aman, looking around at the empty quadrangle with a huge frown.

‘Don’t tell me they left you here by yourself to decamp to the pub? What utter bastards!’ she declared, looking in concern at Aman’s thin, shivering frame. He nodded dumbly and was astonished when she proceeded to take his arm. The discomfort of the cold autumn evening was instantly forgotten as she beamed up at him and squeezed his arm. ‘Well, our victory makes it all worthwhile, eh? We won! The Bursar’s going to take the matter up with the uni’s governing council so it’s only a partial victory at this stage. But well worth a celebration.’ She took her hand from his arm and added, a little more shyly, ‘Hey, thanks for joining in. Can I buy you a drink for your pains? Least I can do. I’m Riva, by the way.’

Aman leant back on the headrest of his aircraft seat, remembering that long-ago time. No doubt anyone who knew him then would declare that he had changed unimaginably – and not necessarily for the better! Fame had converted his boyish shyness to ‘aloofness’ and his open, trusting nature to cynicism. Even the susceptibility he once had to the sort of kindness Riva had shown him was now transformed into the deepest suspicion of people’s motives. But, back then, he had been so easily touched by Riva’s friendship and the manner in which she had firmly taken him under her wing. That day outside the Bursar’s office, she had marched him into the smoky warmth of the Hare & Tortoise and introduced him to everyone as though he was her best friend. The others had been faintly curious but eventually accepting of him, despite his being a bit of a fish out of water: a teetotaller, fresh out of India and completely clueless about some of the jokes they tossed about so nonchalantly. Looking back, Aman realised that they had all been nice enough – all except for Ben. Aman had soon worked out that the fellow was already madly in love with Riva and consequently jealous of the attention she was showering him with. Ben wasn’t to know that she was only feeling sorry for the lost soul Aman had been back then! In fact, it was probably pity that had led to her first sleeping with him four months later too. But, mere weeks after that, she had gone off him again, and slipped back into her own circle of friends; people who were like her and with whom she would naturally feel more at home.

Aman chewed on a slice of lemon, trying to recall the names of all the others…Susan was Riva’s best friend, a gregarious redhead who had been to the same school as Riva and had joined Leeds Uni too, but in the History department. Her name had stuck in Aman’s head for some reason but, try as he might, Aman could not now remember the name of the medical student Susan had been going out with…a tall, gangly, serious type who talked a lot about joining Médecins Sans Frontières when he had completed his MBBS…Jack? John? No, it had gone…

With all those young faces now floating around in his head, Aman tried to settle into his aircraft bed. But, after half an hour of trying to fall asleep, he was still awake, wondering if, like Riva, Susan had gone on to marry her college sweetheart. They had seemed a well-suited pair, the chatty redhead and her medical student boyfriend who had such a grave and serious air about him. Aman had heard them talk about joining VSO together…Perhaps they had, and were now working side by side in some corner of the world, helping the poor and dispossessed. Some couples were like pieces of a jigsaw slotting in perfectly together, Aman thought as he finally fell into a troubled sleep.