Bollywood Dreams by Short Stop Press an Imprint of A&A Book Publishing

INCLUDES READER NOTES

I already have a part in a movie being shot in Mumbai. My only problem is that my stupid father won't let me go. Can you believe it? He’s forcing me to go with my family to Australia. He thinks that once we are living in Sydney I will forget all about my dream. Well, he’s wrong! I’m going to hate everything about Australia, I know it. But that’s okay because I won’t be there long. I have a plan...’

Wendy Fitzgerald is a Sydney-based author and teacher who enjoys writing about cross-cultural themes. She was inspired to write Bollywood Dreams after a trip to India in 2005. Wendy has a Diploma of Teaching, a Graduate Diploma in primary music and a Master of Arts in children’s literature and literacy. She lives in Sydney with a wonderful husband, two fantastic kids, a couple of small dogs, one piano and lots of books. She has had short stories published but this is her first novel. Fiction / Young Adult

ISBN 978-0-9805055-1-1

9 780980 505511

Wendy Fitzgerald

Bollywood Dreams is about finding your passion and living your dreams. It’s about one young girl's struggle to find where she belongs. It’s about resilience and optimism. It’s about how even just a tiny taste of Bollywood magic can change your life.

Bollywood Dreams

‘My name is India Singh. I’m sixteen and I’m going to be a famous Bollywood star!

INCLUDES READER NOTES

ISBN 978-0-9805055-1-1

9 780980 505511

Wendy Fitzgerald

Bollywood Dreams

‘My name is India Singh. I’m sixteen and I’m going to be a famous Bollywood star!

Wendy Fitzgerald is a mother and a teacher. She knows itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to be a teenager, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not easy being a parent either...

d o o w d y o l l o o w B y l l Bo mss Drreeam ld Weennddyy FFititzzggeerraald W

SHORT STOP PRESS An Imprint of A&A Book Publishing admin@aampersanda.com www.shortstoppress.com www.aampersanda.com First published 2009 Text © Wendy Fitzgerald 2009 All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Every effort has been made to contact people mentioned in this book. The publishers would be pleased to hear from anyone who feels he or she has not been acknowledged. This book is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968 and subsequent amendments, no part may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means or process whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publishers. Photograph of Wendy Fitzgerald by Graham R Johnson Photography Cover design, text design and typesetting by David Andor / Wave Source Design www.wavesource.com.au National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Author: Fitzgerald, Wendy. Title: Bollywood dreams / Wendy Fitzgerald. ISBN: 9780980505511 (pbk.) Subjects: Girls,Indian — Fiction. Teenage immgrants — Fiction. Dewey Number: A823.4

Thankyou to all my family and friends for their encouragement and support.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Chapter 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Chapter 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 Chapter 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Chapter 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Chapter 10 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Chapter 11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Chapter 12 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Chapter 13 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Chapter 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 Chapter 15 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Chapter 16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Chapter 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 Chapter 18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Chapter 19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Chapter 20 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 Chapter 21 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169 Chapter 22 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

Chapter 23 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 Chapter 24 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 Chapter 25 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 Chapter 26 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207

Readerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217

chapter one

in Darjeeling is like living inside a Bollywood movie set. My family is the cast; I am the director. We have all the pathos, the emotion, the terrible over-acting, the music, the colour, the drama and the dancing. It happens naturally and I’ve seen enough Indian movies to know that my father is my problem. He wants to lock me in until he thinks I’m old enough to be a real person. But I’m ready now. I don’t need him to protect me. I’m going to be a Bollywood star. I’m standing on the thick floral rug in our lounge room. I have pushed back the table and the red velvet lounge against the wall to make room. My friend Sunita and I dance together all the time, but today she’s sick. We have piles of Indian movies and we copy all the moves of Aishwarya Rai, Shah Rukh Khan, Madhuri Dixit, Akshay Kumar and Karisma Kapoor. We study the films and mimic the dancers. But today, Sunita has some tummy bug, so she stayed home. My problem is we have to make up a dance for the talent IVING HERE

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quest at the club in two nights time. Vijay and Rahul have agreed to dance with us. Rahul is my brother. He’s seventeen. He thinks he’s so cool. He’s Indian, like me, but he should’ve been born in America. He loves anything from the West. I swear he was born into the wrong family. Vijay is Sunita’s brother. He’s eighteen and cute in a brother kind of way. We’ve been friends for years and he’s danced with us before. He’s left school and he drives a car, but he still doesn’t mind watching movies. He looks a bit like Shah Rukh Khan, the same smooth back hair, the same dreamy eyes. Sunita and I have agreed on the music. I have planned out the dance routines. Today I will teach the boys their parts. Here they are. Rahul’s dressed in tight blue jeans and fitted white shirt. It looks a bit silly with his turban. I’m glad Vijay is wearing Punjabi suit. He will be able to dance better in that. They nod greetings to me. ‘Sunita likes song number two.’ Vijay hands me the DVD. I look at the cover: a photo of Shah Rukh Khan hugging Maduri Dixit and Karisma Kapoor. It’s a movie called Dil to Pagal Hai, and one of my favourites. In English it means, “The Heart is Crazy”. It has Shah Rukh Khan as the leading man. I slip the disc into the machine and click onto the second song Le Gayi (Love’s First Sight). On the TV screen, a line of dancers march onto the stage. The girls are confident and strong, stomping their feet to the steady beat. They’re wearing short skirts and black stockings. I know Sunita and I can’t dress like that, but I agree with her, the music is terrific. We can easily make up our own routine to this it. Rahul starts clicking his fingers in time and shrugging his shoulders. He’s not a good dancer, so he likes to act stupid. If there was another boy to choose for our dance, I would’ve done it. Vijay is watching. He is waiting for direction. I’m wearing my favourite blue salwar kameez, so I can move freely. Coloured metal bangles jangle together as I stretch my arms up in prayer

shape, stepping to the right, then the left, letting the music flow through me. I flick my long dark hair as I mime the words. I don’t know when like a silent thief The first look of love stole my heart away... I know the words. I know the steps, but I need a special routine for the four of us. I close my eyes and listen. Brilliant colours bounce to the beat, shiny gold, green and blue. I imagine us as the actors in the movie. Shah Rukh Khan — that’s Vijay — falls in love with Madhuri Dixit — that’s me. I picture myself dancing with Vijay. Long silver bells dangle from my ears and make soft tinkling noises as I move my head and shoulders. I dance to the steady beat, first the right foot, then the left. I bend my knees and shake my hips. On the screen Shah Rukh Khan scoops Madhuri in his arms, and in my mind Vijay does the same to me. ‘You alright, Sis?’ I open my eyes. Rahul and Vijay are both looking at me. ‘Right,’ I say, ‘I’ll teach you some steps. We’ll start with the shoulders.’ ‘I’m good at that.’ Rahul is making exaggerated shrugs, pumping his arms in the air above his head. ‘I’ll replay the song.’ Vijay clicks the button on the remote. The music starts and I begin to dance, arms in the air, clicking my fingers to the steady rhythm. I count, ‘Five, six, seven, eight. Move to the right, two, three, four. To the left, two, three, four. Hips, two, three, four, and shoulders, two, three, four.’ Lost to the music I jump and twist, first to one side, then the other. Kicking my feet high at each turn, I sweep my arms out in front and shimmy my shoulders as I sing. I hid myself in the shelter of his eyes, now I’m frightened because

B O L LY W O O D D R E A M S

Like a silent thief the first look of love stole my heart away… I glance back. Rahul is acting out the whole stealing-the-heart thing. Vijay is in the corner pretending to cry. ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘this is serious. The concert is tomorrow night.’ Both boys are laughing. ‘I’ll only dance if you and Sunita wear those costumes!’ Rahul has moved up close to the screen to study the scantily clad women. ‘Very funny.’ ‘Is Sunita coming?’ Rahul asks. ‘She’s the only reason I’m here.’ My brother is so annoying. ‘She’s sick,’ I say, clicking back to the start of the song. ‘We’re having a practice in the morning at her house. So hopefully she’ll be better by then. But for now, we need to run through again.’ Vijay is nodding. ‘This time I’ll play the music without the pictures. I want you to concentrate on the music. Feel the beat.’ Rahul is tucking in his shirt. For the concert I will make sure he and Vijay wear comfortable Indian clothes. We run through the dance again. Rahul is hamming it up, dancing with an invisible Sunita. We are up to the last scene and Vijay lifts me in his arms and … ‘India!’ Papa shouts over the song. I’m surprised at the anger in his face. ‘Hello, Mr Singh.’ Vijay drops me, letting me fall with a thump on the floor. He makes a prayer gesture with both hands flat. Swirls of colour fade and dissolve slowly into a dark shadow around my Papa. ‘We were practicing,’ I say, rubbing my leg. ‘We’re working

out a dance for the talent show at the Tea Grower’s Club.’ Papa clicks off the TV, swiftly killing the image on the screen. ‘You will not be putting on a display like that at my club.’ My breath catches in my throat. I stare back into his dark angry eyes, fists clenched tight. ‘What display? It’s a dance from the movie —’ ‘I don’t care where it’s from, young lady. You have more important ways to spend your life.’ Vijay bows his head and backs out the door. ‘But this is my life, dancing and music and —’ ‘You are too young to know.’ Papa rubs his bristly bearded chin. His voice is laced with fury and his nostrils are wide, like an angry monkey protecting his young. I stand tall and glare back. There’s an ugly taste in my mouth, a tight ball of honesty that needs air. ‘When I dance,’ I search my thoughts for the right word, ‘I can lose myself in the notes and chords and colour...’ ‘My dear,’ as Papa sighs his shoulders slump, his face is tired. ‘You must see my position,’ he pats the front of his grey shirt, ‘I am your father and it is my duty to protect you until you are married.’ ‘No, you are wrong!’ I pick up a DVD cover and point to a photograph of Aishwarya Rai. ‘Women can make a fine living.’ I’m shaking but I’m sure Aishwarya would have stood up for herself if she were me right now. Papa laughs a cruel laugh. ‘That is nothing but Bollywood rubbish! I want more from my daughter than this.’ He is dragging the table back into the middle of the room. ‘I work hard to give you a good education, and what I say goes,’ he spits these words into the room as he hauls the heavy three seat lounge back into its space. Walking over to the windows, he pulls open the curtains and looks out at his tea bushes, all two-thousand hectares of them. I know the discussion is finished. I can tell by the stiff

B O L LY W O O D D R E A M S

way he’s holding his shoulders. He reminds me of an iron gate trapping me. I turn and run fast along the dimly lit hallway. ‘What’s wrong with dancing?’ I yell. ‘Sunita and I are always dancing, but now, all of a sudden, it’s a dangerous crime. What is your problem?’ I burst into my room and stare at the posters on my wall. Smiling stars from my favourite movies look back at me. ‘He called you “Bollywood rubbish!”’ My hands are still shaking as I pick up my pillow and hurl it hard at the wall. ‘Can you believe it?’ I ask the poster of Aishwarya Rai. ‘He thinks he has to protect me.’ She looks horrified. ‘Protect me from what?’ I ask. I stare into the sparkling jewels in her big ruby bindi as I rub at a sharp pain throbbing in my forehead. ‘Maybe it was because I was dancing with Vijay. As if I’d be interested in Vijay!’ A loud surge of rap music suddenly blasts through the wall from my brother’s room. Rahul is singing along in a flat monotone. The beat is heavy and the words come in sharp aggressive spurts. I hate American music, but he loves it, just like he loves anything from the West. The walls are slowly closing in on me and I cannot breathe. ‘Turn it down,’ I shout, but he can’t hear me now he’s singing even louder. I lean over and open the window. Below, curved rows of green leafy tea bushes are blowing in the strong wind. My eyes, like the lens of a camera are scanning out over Papa’s plantation. Well, he is the manager, as his Papa was before him. He is in charge of the whole valley. It’s the biggest tea plantation in Darjeeling, in fact, in the whole of Northern India. I lean out of the window towards the snowy peaks of the Himalayan Mountains in the distance and breathe deep icy breaths. I stare longingly as the breeze blows my hair back. My little sister, Shanti, is waving from the dirt track below. I

zoom in on her. She is neighing like a horse and galloping up the hill. Her hair gusts out behind her like a long mane. She is mad on horses, totally obsessed. Papa won’t buy her a horse, so she imagines she is one. I wave back and watch as she slows to a trot before stopping with a sharp toss of her head. ‘Would you like to come for a ride?’ she yells, smiling with all her teeth. I shake my head no and watch her gallop off. Grey clouds are rolling in from the mountains; we are in for a storm. Delicious flavours waft up from our kitchen. I smell the onions, garlic and ginger frying in hot oil with Kaushi’s own mix of cardamon, cumin, coriander and mustard seeds. If this was a real movie, the scene would now switch to show our cook, Kaushi, stooped over the pan, stirring in exactly the right combinations. Mama would be in the kitchen checking everything is perfect. Mama is perfect, except that she follows whatever Papa says. She will not stand up for me. She will not go behind his back and let me dance in the concert. That’s what’s so very annoying about my family. No one understands how important dancing is. I slip my ear phones into my ears. Even my pink silk curtains, billowed by gusts of wind, are moving in time to the beat. My posters come alive and my feet are jumping to the drum. I know the routine like the patterns of my palm. I’ve watched Aishwarya as she is watching me now. I twist my hands in the air, shaping my fingers in the classical Indian style, feeling the graceful flow of the movements. Movies play in my mind, and I’m lost in the magic of the dance. Someone is pounding on my door. I slip out the ear phones, panting air into my chest. ‘India! Dinner is almost ready.’ I click off my music and switch on the light. ‘Okay,’ I yell.

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It’s getting dark and heavy drops of rain are landing on our tin roof, starting in a slow patter. Thunder is rumbling in the air outside. I pull the window shut and clip the latch, locking out the wild grey weather. Mopping the heat from my forehead I quickly change into a light grey salwar kameez, tie my hair into a neat plait and spray sweet perfume on my wrist. My face assumes a quiet dignified determination as I prepare to face Papa. I will not let him intimidate me. I am the last person to the table, and so begins the next scene of my movie. Soft saringhi music is playing in my mind. Papa is seated at the head. He has had a shower since the incident, but he does not look at me. When I sit down he says a prayer of thanks for our food. Mama is sitting at the far end dressed in a sari of shimmering emerald green. Her hair is scraped back into a flawless tight bun. Diamonds and silver sparkle on her neck and dangle from her ears. Her face is calm and touched with a regal air. She is in control of everyone, except Grandma, of course. Our plump gossipy grandma will always favour her precious son. She is seated next to Papa; she looks at him as if he were a god. ‘I’m starving,’ Rahul says, greedily helping himself to large piles of rice, curry, yoghurt and dhal. Pooja is serving food, her eyes down, her manner gentle. We are very capable of serving ourselves, but Pooja is glad of the job. Mama thinks it’s important to give people jobs. It’s far better to work than to accept charity. ‘Please use your knife and fork,’ Mama says. Lately, Shanti has been trying to eat from the plate like a horse and Rahul stuffs food into his mouth with his fingers. I scoop rice and hot spicy curry into my bowl with a large silver spoon. Dancing makes me hungry. ‘I met a new boy at school,’ Rahul has adopted a drawn out American accent. ‘He’s from America. He comes from Los Angeles. Just imagine,’ he pauses, resting on his bent elbows,

‘Hollywood and Disneyland…’ Shanti shakes her mane and picks up nahn bread with her teeth. ‘Manners please,’ Mama sighs between delicate mouthfuls. ‘How can we present you to elite company?’ Papa and Mama exchange a knowing look. I zoom in on them. I glimpse something hidden, but I don’t ask what. I am the only sane person in this family and I want to stay firmly on the edge. Tomorrow is Saturday and I will go and spend the day at Sunita’s house. How I wish I lived there.

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