Bollywood and the Beast (Bollywood Confidential) by Suleikha Snyder

called Rangpur, was three kilometers away. Easily a hike for someone who only really walked on a treadmill at the gym, but nothing at all to the two weathered, loincloth-clad men who brought fresh milk and eggs every morning. There had been water bearers, too, Ashraf told Rocky, before their great-grandfather arranged for indoor plumbing and fed pipes from the small river that supplied the village.
    Though the haveli seemed, and felt, isolated, the Khans weren’t the only landowners in the area. A far more prosperous family—featuring a few local politicians and the magistrate—lived on the other side of Rangpur in a newly refurbished mansion that nearly dwarfed the tree line as they drove past to Delhi. “The Saxenas,” Ashraf confided during one drive. “They have enough money and influence to line pockets and buy the pockets also.”
    He was surprisingly forthcoming about all kinds of things and happily answered her questions about the area, the customs and even dialect quirks. He was game as long as she didn’t stray too far into the personal. But there was one thing she couldn’t resist asking. One thing she could only broach when she had a captive audience, and Ashraf’s only means of escape would be tossing himself out onto the open road.
    Because his brother had planted the seed, and it had grown and grown in the back of her mind, twisting around like a vine. Like a penis-shaped vine. “How much mobility does Taj actually have? Can he walk?” On some level, Rocky knew what she was actually asking— “Perhaps I am half a man in more ways than one” —but she didn’t dare say any of that aloud. It was too embarrassing. Too intimate.
    Ashraf’s suddenly thunderous expression made her think he wasn’t going to answer. Or, worse, that he was going to tell her off for being so nosy. But, after a few seconds of what must’ve been one hell of an internal debate, he just sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “There was no spinal cord injury. Only very broken legs. Kamal came to help him with medicine and also physical therapy. Can he walk? Yes. Will he? I don’t know. Bhaiya ’s secrets are his own. His cage is different from mine.”
    The description was a cue she couldn’t ignore. Like the way his mouth tightened and his dark eyes grew even more shuttered. “You have a cage, Ashu? What do you mean?”
    Then he did opt for silence, instead making a show of glancing out the window. After a few moments, he made some inane comment about the lack of a cavalcade of stalkers trailing them.
    But the paparazzi and peril she was supposed to take so much care in avoiding didn’t seem to be an issue at all. No cars followed them to the set. Their locations only had the standard circles of gawkers and assorted photogs. Everything felt… normal .
    Until the phone started ringing.
    It was the house’s landline, connected to ancient rotary phones set up all over the house, and the harsh brrrrrrr -ringing was enough to scare anyone used to a mobile on vibrate right out of their skin. Whenever anyone picked up, all they got was a dial tone. Taj swore like a trucker the few times it happened to him. Kamal, who Rocky caught with the phone once, simply sighed deeply, set the heavy receiver back in its cradle and walked away.
    After her third hang-up call in a row, Rocky stopped frowning at the phone like it was an offending object and went in search of Usha. The older woman wore what Rocky was beginning to think of as her standard uniform—a plain, pastel sari with a solid border—as she bustled around between the two stove burners and the island heaped with diced vegetables and cookware.
    “ Kya hain , Rocky Mem ?” Usha spoke slowly, already used to her lack of Hindi proficiency.
    Rocky sighed, trying to figure out how to phrase the question with her limited vocabulary. It took a combination of gestures, hilarious mispronunciation and a good deal of encouragement on Usha’s part to get the job done. “