Secrets and Sins. Jaishree Misra
you know me so well, Riva,’ Susan responded, laughing.
‘Well, I have got thirty years’ worth of research on your cake-eating habits,’ Riva joked.
‘Is that really how long you two have known each other?’ Ben asked. ‘I thought it was more like twenty.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Ben, we’ve known each other nearly fifteen years now and Sooz and I go back so much further. South Ealing Primary, that centre of academic excellence – remember, Sooz?’ Riva asked, putting her arm around Susan’s waist.
‘Do I remember? Took you a whole week to stop crying for your mum – and then only because I took you under my wing!’ Susan said, squeezing her friend’s arm.
Ben, who had been counting in his head, interrupted them. ‘Fucking hell, Riva, you’re right, it’ll be fifteen years for us next autumn. 1994!’ He turned to Joe. ‘In fact, you guys met the same year too. We should have a joint celebration.’
‘What a lovely idea,’ Susan cried. ‘Not quite a wedding anniversary because you two pipped us to the marital post by three years. But we could have a sort of joint the-day-I-laid-eyes-on-you sort of celebration, couldn’t we? Couldn’t we, Joe?’ Susan repeated, nudging Joe with her elbow, who was now busy examining the interior of De Hems through its misted glass panes.
‘Hmmm, yes, of course, darling,’ he replied distractedly before turning to Ben. ‘What do you think, old chap, too crowded?’
‘Naah, it’s fine,’ Ben dismissed, though the throng inside the pub was overflowing onto the windswept street.
‘Oh, please, I want to go somewhere where we can sit down. I’ve been on my feet all day in the classroom!’ Susan protested.
‘Let’s go to All Bar One on the other side of the square, that’s usually quieter,’ Riva suggested.
‘Good idea,’ Susan said. The women turned and started to walk back to Leicester Square. Their husbands reluctantly brought up the rear, moaning and grumbling loudly. Susan and Riva ignored them as they walked on, arms linked. Riva fished in the pocket of her coat for some change as they passed an old busker playing ‘Moon River’ on a saxophone, for which she received a huge toothless smile.
As they passed the Leicester Square Odeon, Susan gazed up at the posters that were being pasted on for the Friday show changes. She clutched Riva’s arm. ‘Get a look at that,’ she said, jogging Riva’s arm.
Riva looked up and saw a massive poster for a new Hindi film. The words ‘Iske Baad – Afterwards’ were printed above an image of Aman Khan’s handsome face gazing broodingly into the middle distance.
Susan giggled. ‘Goodness, he’s still a bit of a dish, ain’t he?’
Riva cast a glance over her shoulder, but the men were still engrossed in their conversation and had not noticed the poster. She looked up again and felt her heart do its familiar flip. She had seen this film at the London Film Festival but hadn’t Googled Aman’s name for a while, so did not know anything about its wider release. She couldn’t help wondering if Aman might be in London for the press junket. Perhaps he was just around the corner, signing autographs or cutting red ribbons or doing whatever it was that film stars did of an evening…
Riva did not particularly want Ben to see Aman’s poster for a variety of reasons. Luckily Susan seemed to take her cue, and called out in mock exasperation to the two men, ‘Come on, you two, this ain’t exactly a stroll in the park, y’know! Do let’s get moving, chop chop!’
Two days later, Riva sat in the darkened BAFTA theatre and sneaked another look at the time on her mobile phone, holding it under her pashmina so that its light would not disturb the person sitting next to her. Eight o’clock. Her heart sank. She would need to leave soon as Ben was expecting to meet her by nine at the restaurant.
The film had started half an hour ago, soon after the chairperson of BAFTA had announced that their chief guest was running late, ‘held up by the inclement weather’. Despite her disappointment, Riva had not been able to help smiling at that, remembering what a wimp Aman had been about the English weather when he had first arrived as an overseas student from Mumbai. But surely he didn’t have to worry about the snow in London now, given the fleet of cars and chauffeurs he probably had at his disposal whenever he visited?
The programme on BAFTA’s website had stated that the evening would begin with the Aman Khan interview, followed by the screening of Afterwards – the film that, according to reports on various Bollywood sites, had catapulted him to international recognition, with talk of an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Film. Riva’s plan had been to watch Aman’s interview before slipping out of the hall to make her restaurant rendezvous with Ben. The little porkie she had told about a drink with her agent and publicist couldn’t really stretch her evening beyond nine. Now it looked like she would have to leave without seeing Aman after all. But it was probably worth waiting just a little while more…after all, the BAFTA man had said Aman was on his way. She frowned again at the screen, trying to concentrate…
Although Riva had enjoyed Afterwards at the London Film Festival, and was quite accustomed to watching some of Aman’s films twice, even three times over, she was finding it hard to focus on the screen today. She cast a glance around the darkened hall, wondering if others in the audience were similarly distracted by the imminent arrival of its lead actor. But all she could see were rows of half-lit faces intent on the screen.
Riva sat back in her chair, trying to settle. Pictures were flickering on the screen – they had come to the part where Aman’s character tells a friend he is leaving for Kerala – but, instead of hearing his dialogue, Riva reflected with amusement on the apology that had been made by the hapless BAFTA bod charged with announcing that the film would be stopped as soon as Mr Khan arrived. He had timorously suggested that it would be best not to delay events any longer as heavy snow had been forecast for later tonight. But the crowd had remained cheery and upbeat, someone even whistling very loudly at the announcement, one of those piercing finger-in-mouth toots that had made people turn around in startled amusement. After that, very unusually for a BAFTA screening, the crowd had sung and clapped in time to the song that played under the opening credits of the film, one already popularised by the Asian TV and radio channels. This was a predominantly Indian crowd that had turned up in full force to see one of their biggest stars. Certainly BAFTA would have never seen a fan event like this before: all these Asian women wearing spangly salwar kameezes under drab winter coats, not to mention the air of general enthusiasm and bonhomie. In the crowd was the usual token sprinkling of white faces, most likely movie buffs trying to educate themselves about what they thought of as world cinema.
Aman Khan’s handsome face was filling the screen now in an extreme close-up and Riva, leaning her head back on the seat, remembered the young Aman with sudden sharp clarity. The years had been kind to him. Although she had observed his onscreen persona filling out in his twenties, an obvious new health regime in his early thirties had made him leaner and brought out interesting shadows on his face. Oh yes, still the old Aman, and – as Susan had observed – still quite, quite gorgeous.
Riva sighed softly, sinking down in her seat and trying once more to concentrate on the movie.
But the next few minutes brought a flurry of activity at the door – Aman Khan must have arrived because a wave of excitement was passing through the front rows of the audience. Riva felt the surging collective exhilaration and suddenly…there he was! The real Aman, being escorted onto the stage by Siddharth Jose, the young British director who was due to interview him. The crowd erupted into a tumult of clapping, some people even leaping to their feet to applaud their favourite star. As the film was halted, the BAFTA chairperson walked over to the lit podium while Aman bowed and waved at the crowd. But the applause kept coming, wave upon wave, and the BAFTA man smiled indulgently, turning to nod again