Murder in Bollywood Read online

  ‘The unveiling is in exactly fifteen minutes,’ Tiwari explained, leading Mallika towards the ballroom. ‘Then there will be a brief press conference in which you will have to say something nice about Viktor Van Zant watches and how they epitomize the independent and successful Indian woman of today. After that, you will wear the watch they present you and pose with it for a couple of pictures. Then you will be joined by Mr Marcus Van Zant, who is the CEO . . .’

  ‘I need to go up to my suite to powder my nose. Tell them I’ll be down in about thirty minutes,’ Mallika suddenly said, cutting him mid-sentence.

  ‘But there’s no need. You’re looking great. In fact, you’re looking better than great,’ Tiwari reassured her.

  ‘I said I need to powder my nose. Tell them I will be down in thirty minutes,’ Mallika firmly reiterated, then turned towards the elevator.

  ‘I know exactly what powder you use, Mallika, and believe me, it’s not going to do your complexion any good,’ Tiwari replied with uncharacteristic candour.

  ‘Listen, Tiwari, you might be my husband’s best friend-cum-secretary, but to me you’re just a secretary. Always keep this in mind and do exactly as you’re told, otherwise I can always find someone else to take your place,’ Mallika shot back angrily.

  ‘Well, Mallika, it’s good to see that you are finally coming out with what’s really on your mind,’ Tiwari smiled and said. ‘Did you seriously think I wouldn’t come to know about the meetings you’ve had with Shanaya Raichand behind my back? Did you think I wouldn’t hear that she’s starting her own talent management agency, and you’ve verbally agreed to become one of her clients? Mallika, you and I go back ten long years. During all this time, I’ve worked hard for you. I’ve always been loyal and I’ve always looked out for your best interests. Then why, Mallika, why? Why are you treating me this way? After all these years, what have I done to deserve this?’ Tiwari questioned, moved to tears.

  ‘I am tired, Tivs. I am just very tired,’ she replied. ‘I am tired of doing the same old things day in and day out. I am tired of seeing the same old faces around me all the time. Heck, I am even tired of being the same old person. What I want is a change, Tivs. I want everything around me to change. I want to reinvent myself and start afresh, because if I don’t, I fear I will stagnate, and others will race ahead of me. You understand where I am coming from, don’t you, Tivs? You will support me on this, won’t you?’ Mallika asked wistfully, gently touching his face.

  ‘Sure, Mallika, I understand. I understand everything. I understand that this place isn’t the Hindi film industry any more. It’s called Bollywood these days. And in Bollywood, the days of star secretaries are over. Today, it’s all about management agencies and high-profile business managers doing whatever it takes to turn the star into a brand and the brand into a money-making machine. So I understand that a plodder like myself, who ran around collecting your instalments from producers and maintaining your date diary, has today become obsolete. But don’t worry, I will survive. Nikhil will never leave me. Shanaya Raichand made him the same offer she made you and he turned her down. That’s loyalty. Your husband, the great Nikhil Kapoor, taught you everything you know. It’s a pity he didn’t teach you this. Now run along and powder your nose. I’ll go tell them you’ll be thirty minutes late. But try not to use too much powder, my dear. It could be the death of you one day,’ Tiwari stated bluntly, unafraid for the very first time, and then simply walked away in the direction of the ballroom, while Mallika looked on silently, stunned, no doubt, by her secretary’s tone and choice of words.

  At exactly eleven, Mallika entered her suite on the twenty-fifth floor, accompanied by her bodyguards, who immediately conducted a thorough search of the place to make sure it was secure, after which they stood guard in the corridor, closing the door behind them, leaving the superstar all by herself in the Egyptian-themed living room, decorated with exquisite silk, entirely in ebony and gold. ‘You’ve come a long way, baby. Right to the top,’ Mallika told herself, staring out of the window overlooking the sea and the narrow stretch of road, at the dozens of cars still making their way into the hotel, which, from where she stood, seemed more like ants or similar insignificant things, moving forward in a single file, as if towards a destination far greater than themselves. Once she had tired of that view, Mallika turned around and went over to the suite’s state-of-the-art music system and rummaged through the tall rack of CDs lying right next to it, until one particular album, titled 70s’ Disco Hits, caught her fancy; she popped it into the player and turned up the volume. As the strains of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive erupted over the speakers, Mallika kicked off her stilettos and danced to its rhythm with gay abandon, singing along at the top of her voice; then she popped open the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling close at hand and poured herself a glass. ‘You played a dangerous game all your life, you naughty girl. It had to catch up with you some day. Why, Manjeet? Why can’t you just let it go? I beg you, Manjeet, please let it go . . .’ Mallika, suddenly sombre, whispered to herself, then sipped her champagne. It seemed that a terrifying thought from which she was trying to escape had made its way back into her mind. Just a few feet away on the living room’s centre table lay Mallika’s evening clutch. She went over to it and opened it with an excited tremble in her hands, removing from inside a mother-of-pearl-encrusted cigarette case, at which she stared with her eyes shining bright, as if it contained a magic potion which would make all her troubles disappear just like that.

  Meanwhile, exactly at that moment, a fresh-faced college boy named Lucky got out of his chauffeur-driven BMW, talking loudly on his cellphone, and entered The Crown Palace Hotel, where he promptly disappeared into the men’s room. Once inside, Lucky removed his crisp white shirt to reveal a black waistcoat concealed underneath, which he wore on top of his shirt this time around. After this, he reached into the pocket of his jet-black trousers and removed from it a necktie of the same colour, wearing it around his collar immaculately. Having completed these tasks, Lucky admired himself in the mirror, nodding appreciatively, secure in the knowledge that phase one of his plan had been accomplished, which was entering the hotel and dressing up as one of the waiters of the ballroom, where the watch launch was taking place. Thoroughly chuffed with his transformation, Lucky got out of the men’s room and headed straight for the ballroom to put the second and final phase of his plan into action, which was to crash the party disguised as a waiter in order to get close enough to superstar Mallika Kapoor—so that just for one evening he could be in the same space as she, for the lady was indeed the woman of his dreams. In fact, so besotted was Lucky with Mallika that the idea of hanging around in the hotel lobby like a regular fan and getting his picture clicked with her the moment she arrived was simply unacceptable, as that would be a meeting which would last for just a second, whereas he wanted it to last a whole lot longer; that was why he had devised such an elaborate scheme. Why, even the chauffeur-driven BMW, which he hired for the evening to make a grand entry, was an integral component of his plan, as was talking loudly on his cellphone while entering the hotel lobby, as these two acts made him come across as important and moneyed, which helped him blend in with the city’s elite, enabling him to rise above suspicion and scrutiny. As Lucky entered the jam-packed ballroom, he felt a nervous chill run down his spine, followed by a deep, foreboding of personal danger, on account of the sudden realization that his elaborate charade could fail and the ramifications would be disastrous. Terrified by the thought of this possibility coming to, Lucky stood rooted to the spot, staring at the distinguished gathering like a deer caught in the headlights, not knowing whether to move forward or turn back. Precisely at that moment, he felt a tap on his shoulder and, as he turned around, he saw Mr Roiston Francis, The Crown Palace’s seniormost waiter, standing before him, who gave Lucky a firm reprimand for admiring the celebrities in attendance instead of doing his job; he then handed him a trolley laden with spectacular food, along with a set of key instructions w
hich made all of Lucky’s dreams come true. ‘Take this to Mallika madam in the presidential suite. Her secretary, Mr Tiwari, had instructed that a light meal be served to her exactly fifteen minutes before she comes downstairs for the unveiling. It is common knowledge that Mallika madam never dines in public,’ Roiston informed snootily, and then proceeded to explain what each item on the trolley was exactly. ‘Over here we have the crema di patate ed erbette selvatiche. Right next to it is the insalata caprese rivisitata alla moda del mostro chef. Then there is the carpaccio di menzo, pinzimonio, pesto, d’erbe e mascarpone and finally, we have the filletti di triqlia con belga all’arancia e rosmarino. And for dessert, there’s zabaglione e amaratti, zuppa inglese and chef Luigi’s signature torta cioccolato.’ Roiston rattled off the names of all these delicacies in an accent which would have made even the staunchest Italian proud, even mentioning as an afterthought that Italian was Mallika madam’s favourite cuisine. He then put his arm around Lucky and dragged him with his trolley towards the service elevator, issuing some last-minute diktats along the way. ‘Now, remember, when you lay the food out in front of Mallika madam, you must explain to her each and every dish just as I have explained it to you. After this, you will make a polite inquiry if madam wishes to be served. If she answers in the negative, you will bid her bon appétit and exit the room without turning your back towards madam, as it is considered rude and not in the tradition of The Crown Palace Hotel. However, if madam wishes that she be served, you will do so in courses, beginning with the crema di patate, followed by the insalata, then the carpaccio and finally, the filletti, after which, you will serve the torta, the zuppa and the zabaglione in that order. But keep in mind to serve each and every dish in bite-size portions, more like a selection of salty and sweet amuse-bouches, as Mallika madam never eats more than a spoonful or two of anything. Also, remember that under no circumstances are you to start a conversation of any kind with madam; so any talk about you being her biggest fan, or telling her how much you enjoyed her last film, or even asking for her autograph will get you sacked on the spot. And just so that you know, the time is twelve minutes past eleven which gives you exactly three minutes to deliver Mallika madam’s dinner to her suite, for at The Crown Palace Hotel, we take great pride in our punctuality.’ Roiston beamed, then bundled Lucky into the elevator. Standing all alone in that metal cubicle, Lucky was in a tizzy, not on account of his impending rendezvous with Mallika Kapoor, but because of all those instructions and hard-core Italian food names which Roiston had fired at him at breakneck speed the moment he entered the ballroom. In fact, even the array of beautifully plated dishes lying on the trolley before him didn’t make any sense, as Lucky’s understanding of Italian cuisine began and ended with spaghetti in white sauce, served with a side order of garlic bread, followed by the ever-popular sizzling brownie with vanilla ice cream and hot-chocolate sauce, which, as his friendly neighbourhood eatery would call it, was an authentic Italian dessert. As Lucky stood scratching his head, trying to comprehend chef Luigi’s culinary brilliance, the elevator abandoned its ascent and its doors parted with a sharp metallic clink, as if to announce that the twenty-fifth floor had arrived. At the end of the corridor to his left was the presidential suite, its door guarded by four impossibly large men wearing dark grey safari suits, staring in his direction ominously. Lucky took a deep breath and moved forward pushing the trolley as he whistled a popular tune in a deliberate effort to display great normalcy and calm, the absence of which would expose his frightened inner self and give the game away.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ inquired a gruff-sounding bodyguard as Lucky approached the suite with the trolley.

  ‘Taking Mallika madam her dinner. Tiwariji instructed it to be delivered to her room by eleven-fifteen. You can call him to confirm this,’ Lucky replied confidently. At this response, the bodyguards gathered around the trolley and began examining its contents. From the look on their faces it was obvious that everything seemed less Italian and more Greek to them, so after a quick word among themselves, one of the bodyguards turned around and knocked on Mallika’s door, informing the superstar that her dinner had arrived. Lucky stood transfixed with bated breath, breaking out into a million beads of sweat, his heart beating ten times as fast inside his chest, but the beauty he so desperately seeked refused to reveal herself just yet. Anxious at getting no response from the other end, the bodyguard knocked on the door once more, calling out a little louder, but yet again there was no reply. Soon, the other bodyguards joined in as well, banging the door, their voices raised, while Lucky dashed off to the ballroom to fetch Tiwari, even as the other guests on the twenty-fifth floor began coming out of their rooms, one by one, to see what the racket was all about. By the time Lucky returned with Tiwari, accompanied by the hotel’s chief of security, a large crowd had gathered outside the presidential suite, with some among them speaking in whispers, trying to make sense of the proceedings, while the rest looked on intently in the direction of the bodyguards, who were doing their level best to elicit some sort of response from Mallika, but all of it in vain. Finally, the chief of security stepped in with a master key, and the moment the door was flung open, Lucky charged into the room ahead of everyone else, because of which he was the first to scream in horror, but the only one to turn around and flee, screaming just the same. Can’t blame the young man entirely. After all, it isn’t every day that a lovesick fan discovers the woman of his dreams lying dead, with her face resting on an Egyptian-style centre table, buried in a small pile of pure white cocaine that she had probably carried in the mother-of-pearl-encrusted cigarette case, which lay open by her side. How ironic, one might say, for, in the background played that 70s’ hit I Will Survive. No doubt, when Tiwari gathered himself and lifted her head, she was found with white eyes and foaming at the mouth. No doubt, everyone in that room believed that the ethereal Mallika Kapoor, Bollywood’s reigning queen, had died of an accidental drug overdose. But no one in that room was aware that at the other end of town, in a place called Gulistan Studio, her equally celebrated husband, Nikhil Kapoor, also lay dead and, just like his wife, he, too, was felled by a tragic accident.

  No doubt, superstars Mallika’s and Nikhil Kapoor’s funeral would have been the Bollywood event of the century, besieged by media from all across the globe and graced by the entire film fraternity, along with captains of industry, political bigwigs and even erstwhile maharajas. Without a doubt, their final journey from their palatial home in Pali Hill to the nearest crematorium would have unleashed a flood of humanity on the streets, bringing parts of the city to a grinding halt, causing buses and trains operating in that vicinity to be rerouted and rescheduled until the last rites of the power couple were performed, and the multitude in attendance, celebrities and commoners alike, had returned to their homes. But, alas, none of this came to be, as the funeral never took place. This was on account of a statement issued by the Mumbai Police, claiming that they suspected foul play in the deaths of both Mallika and Nikhil Kapoor, as the two of them ending up dead on the same night seemed highly suspicious and merited a thorough investigation, at the completion of which, their bodies, which were being counted as material evidence, would be released. In fact, owing to the high-profile nature of the case, it was awarded top-priority status, and instead of assigning it to the crime branch’s newly formed Special Case Squad, the commissioner’s office itself decided to look into the matter. During the course of their investigation, the police learnt that Mallika and Nikhil, who had married ten years ago, were both in their thirties and hailed from non-filmi families. They didn’t have any children of their own, just an adopted son, Rohan, who was nineteen years old. As far as their friends were concerned, Mallika was often seen in the company of socialite Shanaya Raichand and fashion designer Kiki Fernandez. She was also very close to the much-respected doctor couple Bimal and Rushali Seth, whose fundraisers and charity events she would attend regularly. And yes, Mallika was very open about her dislike for the sensuous
Nyra Oberoi, who in a very short span of time had become one of Bollywood’s leading actresses and was widely regarded as the future number one. As far as Nikhil was concerned, his only friend in the entire film industry was his secretary, Ram Prasad Tiwari, perhaps because they were the same age and had started their careers at around the same time. And lastly, Nikhil was known to share a love–hate relationship with two famous gentlemen—Ishan Malhotra and Sameer Ali Khan. The former, one of the biggest film producers in the business, and the latter, Bollywood’s reigning superstar. However, all of this information which the Mumbai Police gathered painstakingly could have been downloaded by anyone off the Internet, which meant it was all rather trivial and commonplace; therefore it came as no surprise that even after five days of the double tragedy, the investigation was going nowhere and the case itself, in the absence of any concrete leads, had all the makings of a mystery which would never be unravelled. Then, on the morning of 30 December, the police held a press conference at their headquarters in South Mumbai, during which their spokesperson read out this official statement: ‘After carefully examining all the evidence, we have reached the conclusion that the untimely deaths of both Mallika Kapoor and Nikhil Kapoor were tragic and unfortunate accidents, coincidentally transpiring on the same night and devoid of any foul play. The chief minister and deputy chief minister have already been briefed with regard to our findings; so with this, case number 27427, which was earlier thought to be a double homicide, is now closed.’