The Bollywood Breakup Agency Read online

  The Bollywood Breakup Agency

  Naina Gupta

  The Bollywood Break-up Agency © Naina Gupta 2011.

  Published exclusively worldwide by Prospera Publishing 2011.

  e-edition ISBN: 978-1-907504-15-0

  Paperback edition ISBN: 978-1-907504-25-9

  All rights reserved in all media. This book is a work of fiction, any resemblances to persons, places, companies or other organisations etc is unintentional and purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any way whatsoever, including forwarding or copying via email or internet. The placing of this book in part or in its entirety on a shareware or similar site is expressly forbidden and in doing so a site owner acknowledges liability for copyright breach. The downloading of any free copy of this book will be considered a breach of copyright by the publisher.

  Chapter One

  ‘I WANT TO MEET YOUR PARENTS.’

  Neela Solanki stared at her boyfriend of two years in horror. ‘I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Kiran Acharya ran his hand through his shock of dark hair, something he only did when he was nervous or upset. ‘We have been together for ages. I think it’s about time, don’t you?’

  ‘You see that car parked over there?’ Neela pointed towards a battered Fiat Punto haphazardly parked in front of her Harrow home. ‘That is just the latest in the long line of potential husbands considering me for a wife.’ She frowned. ‘And judging by that car, he is as stupid and useless as all the others they have paraded me in front of.’

  ‘You’re getting married? You could’ve told me. I thought we had, well, you know, a good thing going.’

  Neela flinched at the cliché. ‘Of course I’m not getting hitched, but my parents think “it’s time”.’ She held her fingers up in mock quotes. ‘You know how it is with the whole arranged marriage thing. The boy’s parents look the girl up and down - what she looks like; how she serves the tea; whether she can cook and then in under two hours they have decided if she is good enough for their precious son.’

  Kiran didn’t buy it. ‘You could have told them about me, couldn’t you? What the hell is wrong with me as a son-in-law?’

  Neela grabbed his arm. Her numerous bracelets jiggled crazily.

  ‘Oh baby, you’re great and brilliant fun. It’s just that you just don’t really fit my parent’s criteria, do you? It’s something I need to keep in mind.’

  ‘What?’ The tone was increasing in volume and Neela cast a glance towards her house. God help her if her father came and discovered her with a boy. And an unsuitable one at that!

  In spite of Kiran’s anger, Neela avoided continuing the conversation. Even if she loved him, and she wasn’t sure she did, it wasn’t like her parents were going to accept him into the family with open arms. A reputation for fighting; being thrown out of his prep school; then expelled from sixth form college. Sure he was on the straight and narrow now, but Indian parents won’t forgive four police cautions and two nights in custody for brawling. Especially her parents – mother an ex-school teacher; father a prominent and overly religious solicitor. Nope, someone with a dodgy past would not be considered suitable son-in-law material. Even though Kiran rationalised it by saying the other guys had deserved it, and that he’d changed, Neela was pretty sure that her mum and dad would be more likely to convert to atheism than allow the match.

  ‘It’s your past,’ she said. ‘They’ll flip.’

  His handsome face clouded with something resembling anger, but he quickly checked himself and forced a more earnest expression. ‘But Neela, I’m not that person anymore. I’ve got a good job; I’m studying accountancy part-time. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Kiran, forget it, okay. Why can’t we just enjoy our own company; leave our parents out of it?’

  Her refusal to even contemplate introducing him finally annoyed Kiran so much that he just turned and walked away, giving up on the whole subject.

  ‘Fine. Whatever you want, Neela. As usual.’

  Neela sighed as she dragged herself back to the towering Victorian home her mother had carefully gutted and turned, from the inside at least, into a Gujarati wonderland. This wasn't the first argument they had about their relationship and her family. Kiran had asked her too many times to meet his parents, and begged to meet hers, but she’d always had an excuse. Parents were in India; parents were in Leicester; Dad fell down the stairs and broke his leg; Mum had food poisoning from Neela's attempt at a potato curry; her grandmother was in shock after the latest episode of PAL, an infamously stupid Indian soap opera. The excuses were getting worse and worse.

  Neela sighed again. And again. Well, now Kiran knew the truth about why he had never met the Solankis; why she hardly ever answered the phone when he called her at home, and when she did, why she would always speak in a low whisper. Neela hadn’t foreseen a problem because she figured she would eventually have to marry someone else anyway. Someone more suitable. But in her mind, that event was years away, when she was thirty or so.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t realised Kiran was far more invested in the relationship than she was.

  She turned back to see him leaning on his car, staring at her.

  ‘Come on don’t be such a girl,’ she called after him, but he jumped into the driver’s seat and tried to start his souped-up four-year-old Polo Hatch, complete with tinted windows, spoiler, lowered suspension, and privatised number plate. It started on the fifth go and he shot her a parting scowl and then was gone, the car back-firing as it jugged its way along the road.

  That was probably that, then. At least until he calmed down.

  Neela searched for her keys as she mounted the steps to her front door. Once inside, she closed the stained-glass oak slowly and quietly in the hope that her parents and whoever the hell was inside sucking down tea and sweets wouldn’t hear.

  Too late. Her father Rishi, a large, jolly man, dressed in a casual white shirt and grey trousers, and still handsome despite the impressive girth around his middle and balding black hair, was waiting just inside the living room door. He darted out, motioning for her to come meet the latest, soon-to-be rejected geek who they’d probably unearthed from some place overseas. Or Leicester.

  Mouthing that she needed the loo, Neela wandered into the newly-renovated kitchen and flicked the TV remote. The graphics for the older Solanki women’s favourite soap PAL, from the Hindi word meaning ‘moment’, appeared. They were also, conveniently, the initials of the super couple of the far-fetched tale: Payal and Lohit. And like all Indian soaps, it actually had a ridiculously long name ‘PAL – Payal aur Lohit ki Kahani’, or the story of Payal and Lohit. Bollywood simply wouldn’t contend with one and two worded titles, such as Eastenders, Coronation Street, or Hollyoaks.

  ‘Not this rubbish,’ Neela muttered to herself, looking about for something to eat. Ah, fresh chapattis. Grabbing one, she was about the flick to E4 when the day’s events in some over-furnished hall in Mumbai began.

  Payal and Lohit were sitting side by side in front of the wedding fire. They caught quick glimpses of each other as the festivities happened around them. They did not need to speak – these shy glimpses were powerful enough for them to know that they were going to be together forever.

  Far behind the congregation, but still in full view of the camera, was another woman. One who looked exactly like the bride, but with a plaster over her forehead.

  It was the real Payal, who was assumed dead. The Payal sitting next to Lohit had returned three months after a supposed fatal accident, where she was crushed under a freak avalanche while driving past a building quarry. According to her, she had slowly overcome her amnesia and spent months searching
for the man she loved. But everyone had been fooled – the woman about to marry Lohit was just Payal’s lookalike. A former maid, the impostor had undergone extensive and remarkable plastic surgery, with seemingly no legitimate source of funds, to claim the wealthy Lohit.

  As the real Payal stared at the love of her life, who was casually about to marry someone else, her own mother passed by. Just as she was about to catch sight of her true daughter’s face, the real Payal covered her right eye with her sari. Luckily, the mother was called away by someone off-screen and turning quickly towards the shout, didn’t realised she had almost come face to face with her real daughter.

  Looking out over the proceedings, Real Payal, who had returned from the dead a month after her lookalike showed up, put a shaking hand over her mouth. The wedding had to be stopped before her darling Lohit married the wrong woman. This impostor was not the woman he had fallen in love with at the beginning of the series, five years ago.

  ‘Neela, what are you doing. Come in here this instant!’ Her mother Soorbhi’s voice was louder than it should be, and whoever was waiting in that living room must have felt pretty uncomfortable at being snubbed.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Soorbhi said as she came into the kitchen, dressed in an elaborately patterned sari, gold earrings and beautifully crafted bangles that made dainty jingling sounds as she walked.

  ‘Just getting something to eat.’

  ‘There are things inside to eat . . . Oh, is this PAL?’ Her mother should have known, since she was more accurate than the TV guide regarding the soap’s daily schedule. Soorbhi had probably already watched this episode when it aired earlier in the day, but it didn’t stop her from fixing her eyes on the screen.

  Suddenly, Rishi appeared again. ‘First she doesn’t come in, and then you disappear. What is wrong with you two?’

  Realising he was competing with the TV, Neela’s Dad grabbed the remote and the image vanished. ‘What will our guest think, huh?’ Rishi crossed his arms and glared.

  ‘Alright, alright.’ Neela allowed herself to be shuffled into the ‘good’ front room, only used for extended family, religious festivals and, of course, set-ups.

  She entered to find an ugly, middle-aged man – thin, yet with a podgy belly. Whatever was left of his hair was oiled back and Soorbhi’s ornate crystal lights bounced off the sheen. He smiled at her, revealing the blackened teeth of a lifelong tobacco chewer. Horrified that her mother would even contemplate handing her over to this feral creature, Neela stood open-mouthed, unspeaking.

  ‘Neela, this is Mr Trivedi, he wanted to meet you for his son,’ Soorbhi said quickly, reading her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, his son?’ Neela asked, feigning interest. Marginally better, but not much. Neela stared at the grim spectacle in front of her and saw her future. If this was the father now, it was the son in twenty years – ten if she was really unlucky.

  No way! Neela had standards and this guy and whoever his son was did not fit the bill. She was a catch, and she knew it. Rich family aside, Neela was slim, with long, slick dark hair and amazing almond eyes that flicked up at the sides, creating an exotic look that men loved. Plus, she was a UCL graduate, for God’s sakes.

  ‘Um, I don’t think so,’ she said as politely as she could, and walked out. Once the door closed, she recounted the reflection off the oil on what was left of his hair and burst out laughing. Just when she thought the line of losers couldn’t produce someone grosser than the rest, out pops a Mr Trivedi.

  There was silence from the good room. Neela imagined it would be about five minutes before the ‘shock’ of her behaviour wore off the older Indians - particularly Daadi-ji, her grandmother. As usual, Daadi-ji had been sitting quietly in the corner on her recliner, a flowery pink sari draped exactingly around her and greying hair tied into a bun with gold hair pins, surveying the proceedings like some kind of Indian-style Godfather. Or Mother.

  Then there would be another five minutes for Mr Trivedi to remove himself from the house.

  She was right, Ten minutes later to the second her parents found Neela slowly chewing a chapatti and began berating her.

  ‘This is too much! Seven people have been here and you have said no to all of them!’ Rishi shouted, leading her back into the good room.

  ‘Well,’ objected Neela, ‘I don’t ask you to invite these losers over. Freaks – each and every one. Where do you find them? An Indian circus?’

  Her mother clapped her hands to her face at the rude retort.

  Rishi continued. ‘Do you know how embarrassing that was, young lady?’

  Soorbhi’s eyes were wide. ‘You are lucky that his wife was too ill to come. And that the son was still in India!’

  Neela couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘What? You wanted to marry me off to some guy who is still waiting to get off the boat? Or is it on the boat? Whatever! What is he marrying me for? My passport? It’s definitely not for my cooking abilities, is it?’ Neela was the worst cook of her generation, although it was a case of ‘won’t cook, therefore can’t cook’. As much as she loved a good curry, cooking anything that made her clothes smell was out of the question, and garam masala and garlic had a habit of doing just that.

  ‘Don’t be silly, he will arrive on the plane, and he is from a good family. He is a– ’

  ‘A what? Sponger? A loser and a sponger. Thanks a lot.’ Neela crossed her arms and stared down her family.

  A loud cry from the corner caused them all to turn. Daadi-ji was like a character in PAL. Omnipresent for no apparent reason. ’What have I done in my life for God to punish me like this? My arthritis, oh my arthritis.’ her grandmother cried melodramatically. According to Daadi-ji, everything in life was a result of divine intervention. The constant diatribe on God was accompanied by a rundown of the a multitude of illnesses that she had accumulated in her old age – leg pain, back pain, blood pressure, mild heart problems and some diabetes to complete the set.

  Neela, ignoring the wailing, cast an angry look at her father. ‘How can you bring me up here in England and then expect me to marry someone from over there? And besides, judging from the look of the hideous father, his son is bound to be someone who should be researched in a clinic for the criminally ugly.’

  Soorbhi tried the placatory route. ‘But he has good family in Wembley; you’ll still live near us.’

  ‘That’s just as bad, I hate these little Indias. At least in actual India people can speak English. Plus, they have bigger houses.’ Neela scowled. ‘You are deluded if you think I am going to be auctioned off to some reject just to uphold the family name.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that!’ Rishi yelled.

  ‘We have to find you someone, beti,’ Soorbhi said, trying to be the calm voice in the room. It was difficult; Daadi-ji was still gesturing to the heavens for assistance; her father was grumbling loudly under his breath about ingratitude. ‘You are twenty-six, and nearly going onto the shelf.’ Her mother pursed her mouth into a woe-is-me expression. ‘I want to be able to see some grandchildren before I die.’

  Ah, grandchildren. The real purpose of marriage. In an arranged marriage, the pressure to start a family would begin on the wedding night, the moment the groom ritualistically observed their names written in the mehndi on the bride’s hands. In a Western marriage, the choice would have been Neela’s and her husband’s alone. Well, maybe.

  ‘Mum, you’re fifty-six! And you’re going to have to wait a while if you keep bringing total losers to meet me. I am not marrying some specimen who was too ugly to find his own wife.’

  ‘Why God, oh why? First the diabetes, now this!’ Daadi-ji had one eye on Neela to see if her words were having any effect at all, which they weren’t.

  ‘But we have heard so much about him,’ Soorbhi persisted. ‘He is actually a very handsome man, successful, and willing to ignore the fact that you cannot cook yet.’

  ‘Handsome? Successful? Not with that circus-freak of a father, and you lot, finding him a wife. I told you, n
o way am I going near that family.’

  Having stayed quiet for all of two minutes, Rishi suddenly began shouting. ‘That’s it! Enough of that tone. If you cannot respect me then you can just leave.’

  Daadi-ji and Soorbhi stared at him in horror.

  Neela groaned. This was rich. She refused to marry some ugly loser’s son and they evicted her. ‘Come on Dad, that’s not fair. You can’t make me love someone.’

  ‘But you are determined not to love anyone. When will you understand, marriage isn’t like those silly films that you watch. Love grows. You start off with no feeling and then you power through.’

  He had to be kidding. Neela sank onto the sofa and put her head in her hands.

  ‘You must get married, this is the way that God wants it for us.’ Daadi-ji assured her, her words complemented by a jabbing finger upwards.

  Neela raised an eyebrow.

  Rishi’s voice was so loud now, Neela feared for the windows. ‘You are just spoilt and obstinate and it’s about time you discovered how the real world works.’

  ‘What, you’re really kicking me out?’ Normally she would continue the sarcasm but Neela felt genuine concern; her father sounded so serious. And all because of the shrivelled Mr Trivedi and his likely-to-be equally shrivelled son.

  ‘Rishi, no!’ Soorbhi stared at him imploringly.

  ‘Yes, yes. Enough is enough.’

  Daadi-ji almost fainted in her chair, and then began to chant Hindu prayers.

  ‘I fear for your mother’s health,’ his wife told him.

  At the look, Rishi quickly capitulated. ‘Well, maybe you can stay, but I will cut off all your money. And take your car. You have one last chance. If you cannot cooperate with us then you will have to move out. Until then, no money, nothing. ‘

  Chapter Two

  NEELA SOLANKI WAS USED TO LIVING the good life. Well, as good as it can get in Harrow. Rishi had worked hard at being a property lawyer (even if all the hard work meant he was hardly ever home) and gave his family a large and overly renovated house, new clothes from the best high street boutiques every year, a Mini for Neela’s 21st, and every three years, a new, top of the range Mercedes for him and his wife to share. Recently, however, the work pattern had changed – a day off here and there; early home on Fridays – no doubt so that Rishi could spend more time finding losers to hitch to Neela.