Once Upon a Time with Shobhaa...

This pic was taken in a small village between Colombo and Galle. We had stopped over for a brief halt as we had a lunch date in the village at the famous Beach House run by Geoffrey Dobbs. Our chopper pilot 'Top Gun' Ravi, landed on the edge of the sea, watched closely by these tough looking guys who softened when we requested them to pose for a photograph. This was just the beginning of an adventure that saw the Deccan Aviation chopper fly us through an electric storm with visibility levels dropping so dramatically, Ravi had to fly at a perilous 300 metres above sea level at one point and follow the headlights of cars in the far distance to get his bearings. But... we made it! And if someone were to ask whether I would do it again - the answer is a big 'yessss'. Provided Ravi ( he proudly told us he had flown two previous Presidents) is in command.
In case you want to see a pic of my current hero Ravi, raise your hands!!
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“ Mein Chupp Rahoongi…..”

This is about a scoop that didn’t happen. Last week, I was slated to conduct a potentially sizzling interview with a light-eyed beauty who’d made huge waves years ago when she’d gate crashed the Bollywood party. She was a big name for a short while during that distant era when starlets were ‘discovered’ and not ‘manufactured’. After a dream launch in a big banner movie, the girl struggled to land a few roles, and soon faded from the scene. When she did resurface, it was in another avatar – a rather unappetizing one, at that. It was rumoured that Dawood had taken a fancy to her and she had decided to become one of his biwis. Heaven knows how true those rumours were, but the girl did do the vanishing act and everybody assumed she was leading a life of indolent luxury tucked away in either Dubai or Karachi. Since Bollywood really does not have time for has- beens , or ‘would-have-beens’, she was soon forgotten. There were a few unconfirmed sightings, but by then nobody was interested in her.

Well, trust Ekta Kapoor to make it her mission to track her down. Ekta’s sleuths managed to locate the elusive woman in her suburban Mumbai flat, where she lives in anonymity and oblivion. Her new life was certainly a far, far cry from the one she had known, albeit briefly, as Bollywood’s darling.She was surprised anybody could be interested in her now. Well, Ekta and I certainly were! When I received a call from Ekta to ask whether I would interview the person, I was at a remotely located boutique hotel in the heart of Galle ( Sri Lanka). The phone connection wasn’t great, but the excitement levels certainly were. I had dozens of tantalizing questions I wanted answers to, as I geared up for the chat which was scheduled for later in the day. Just our luck that when the appointed hour arrived, I was in the middle of a slushy paddy field dealing with an unexpected thunder storm that had broken out ,ruining effective communication. We decided to speak later…. I was dying to ask about her life as Dawood’s wife. And what she thought of innocent faced Prachi Desai playing a mobster’s girlfriend in the movie. I wanted to know whether Imran Hashmi was the right choice and whether she approved of his sharply styled 70’s look. Most importantly, had she ever met Hajibhai when she was with Dawood? Alas, the Rain and Communications Gods decided otherwise. Perhaps, she herself had second thoughts?
But I am a bloodhound at heart. I have not given up the chase.
Watch this space…

The Captain's New Innings....

The pic is with the very charming and very handsome Sri Lankan cricket captain, Kumar Sangakkara ,his wife ( would you believe she has recently delivered twins?) and my daughter Arundhati. We ran into them in the lobby of the Hilton in Colombo, where we had gorged on one of the best chinese meals ever (at the stylish 'WOK' ) . Look out for my Sri Lankan diary. It is a little overdue. But I intend writing it over the weekend. There's just so much on my overladen plate right now.... I am reeling.
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I don't know how Amitabh Bachchan does it - and does it so well, at that! Met him last night at the Bastille Day celebrations hosted by Francois Pujolas, the French Consul General. Amitabh had just delivered a great speech. His fans were mobbing him even as he gamely signed autographs and posed for pictures. He travels around the world at a manic pace, is never ever late by even 5 minutes, makes thoughtful speeches without teleprompters, disarms hosts with his presence and panache, and does all this while demonstrating an enviable level of professionalism that is worth emulating in every field. His wife Jaya shared a domestic secret - "Our cue to leave is for me to get up and walk briskly towards the exit once the formalities are over - that's when he looks worried and says to those crowding him, "Oh... I'd better rush.... or else my wife will get really, really angry!" Ha ha! I like, I like ! Must steal!
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This appeared in 'The Week'....


Shaadi ka Mahina….. Mahi Ve!!


Dhoni did it! And did it in true super celeb style – quickly and stealthily. India’s star sportsman tied the knot with his 21- year- old love interest late last Sunday night, somewhere in the distant hills of Dehradun. Perfect! Only a few khaas mehman attended the traditional ceremony away from the prying eyes of the watching world. Since we are a long way off from the modus operandi followed by international paparazzi ( not because we are coy or morally upright – we merely don’t have the big bucks for it!), we had to make do with sketchy reports.It will take us years to catch up with asli celeb watching which involves hiring choppers and hovering over wedding venues taking grab shots of the nuptials that are later sold for a bomb! We don’t have motorcycle stalkers from the media either ( they drove Princess Diana to her death, remember?), or you can be sure some adventurous types would have reached the foothills of the Himalayas and ruined Mahi’s maha moment. A three layer security cordon made sure the wedding remained out of bounds and tantalizingly private. Just the way it should be, but rarely remains, when it involves mega celebrities. News filtering through indicated the two families had matched the kundalis of the two love birds before finalizing the auspicious date for the shaadi. Great! They had celestial approval, as well.Loverboy Mahi turned out to be quite a chhupa rustom, and I am sure he has left a lot of broken hearted female fans in tears, now that he is shaadi shuda. As for young Sakshi, she is perhaps one of the most envied girls on planet earth at this point.
Kuch kuch hota hai when sports’ icons get hitched. Even though comparisons are odious, how can we forget the recent Sania –Shoaib tamasha that turned into such an ugly jamboree? Perhaps Dhoni had just that disaster in mind when he decided to take to the hills and just do it! From all accounts, it was a smart move taken by a smart man . Mahi cleverly pre-empted controversies by presenting a fait accompli to the world.Not for nothing is he known as Captain Cool.

While all these festivities were being played out at a luxury spa in Dehra Dun, another kind of drama and hungama was taking place in Mumbai. Just ten days after the tragic suicide of Viveka Babajee, the 37- year- old model who hanged herself, her grief stricken family engaged the services of Dale Bhagwagar, an on- the -ball publicist ( same chap who used to issue press releases by the micro second when he was handling Shilpa Shetty’s public relations), to propagate the news of Viveka’s actual relationship with Gautam Vora,the boy friend who is being interrogated by the cops. According to the family, these two were contemplating marriage and had also matched kundalis .Obviously, something went horribly wrong at some point. So wrong that the Vora boy refused to acknowledge he had enjoyed anything but a very, very casual friendship with the dead model.Well, the intimate photographs released by her family tell an entirely different story. So much for kundali- matching. The point is , some marriages happen. Some don’t. But our society invariably gets excessively excited about the subject. When I wrote about the sad Viveka episode on my blog, the reactions were intense and personal. A lot of men sympathized with Vora’s situation, and went so far as to compare men with good wine ( they get better with age), and women with milk ( which curdles with age ). What followed was a pretty heated ‘comments war’, either supporting or damning the guy who to all appearances ditched a trusting girlfriend just before the saat pheras could be taken. Perhaps no outsider can ever gauge what goes on in the heads and hearts of couples in committed relationships. But even a hard boiled sceptic would agree when it gets to the matching kundalis stage, it’s got to be pretty serious. In Viveka’s strange case, it seemed to have gone beyond kundali talk – her mother, Dayawanti, insists Vora had asked his girlfriend to consult a fertility expert about her ability to bear children. If true, this is such a shocker! And to think we are talking about a supposedly hip and cool 21st century couple, not semi-literates from small town India who were being pressurised by elders to get the girl ‘certified’ (“ okay! All clear…. the bride’s womb is good to go” ).
Two high profile couples. Two entirely different scripts for their respective ‘Luv Storys’.
Mubarak ho, Dhoni and Sakshi.Here’s to a brand new innings, captain.

Once Upon a Time with Shobhaa. Column -4

Is Haji Mastaan really dead….?

Don’t gasp! It is a question worth asking. People still speculate whether Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson are really, really dead. Seriously. Some charismatic individuals generate this kind of macabre debate. Haji Mastaan, with his larger-than-life reputation, and a very colourful romantic history continues to generate a lot of comment…. a lot of fear. His money! His molls! His power!Everybody still quakes. Particularly people in Bollywood. People who are still indebted to him. Maybe owe him money to this day. They are the ones who live in dread… afraid of that midnight knock … the pre-dawn call from the Don himself…perhaps masked men at their doorstep growling, “ Paisey wapas do…. varna…” It was always the ‘varna’ that made the victims’ blood run cold. And there was no dearth of ‘varnas’ during Haji Mastaan’s reign. All it took was one nazar, one ishaara… and Bollywood Biggies scrambled to do the Don’s bidding.
Haji Mastaan is alive and well…. and still operating out of Mumbai \ Dubai. That’s the verdict on the street. The ‘original’ may have died years ago, but Mastaan’s legacy lives on. Not very much has changed when it comes to funny money in movies. People talk about the corporatisation of Bollywood. Yes, it is underway. But let’s remind ourselves that there was a time, not so long ago, when even Hollywood was run by Mafia bosses. It took four decades and a great deal of concerted effort to clean up the system there. Bollywood is trailing, but only by a few years . Mafia and the molls have since become a staple of Hollywood hits from that era. In India, we are just about waking up to the richness of the material. If ‘Once Upon a Time in Mumbaai’ manages to recreate the menace and magic of the Mastaan years , a fresh generation of movie goers will get a taste of what used to happen each time Hajibhai decided he was interested in a new project – or a starlet. In terms of casting, Kangana is perfect enacting the role of the plaything of gangsters. But I am getting ahead of the plot! Haji Mastaan was the one who created the monster we call Dawood…and Dawood, as we all know, is indeed alive and well ….Haji lives on….

Bollywood twits on Twitter....

Bollywood : A question of breeding and upbringing …


Last week I wrote a candid critique in this very space on a hugely hyped up film that has tanked. The point is it would have tanked whether or not anybody had written about it. That’s the nature of the beast. And that, alas, is the nature of what columnists the world over engage themselves in – it is their job to express opinions. That is what they are paid to do - express honest opinions without fear or favour. Their sole duty is towards the readers who trust them –and nobody else. This is the way the cookie crumbles – take it or leave it. Unfortunately, the current generation of Bollywood brats in their monumental arrogance and limited intelligence forget that not all journalists are purchasable commodities. And if their film is a turkey, that’s what it is going to be labeled. Those writers whose opinions in print are available for a price are called by other names, but in the interests of keeping this a polite platform, let’s just stick to ‘Hacks for Hire’. There are any number of them floating around churning out shameless p.r. reviews that come with a price tag. Nearly every write- up these days falls into this category. There are two ways for a filmmaker\actor to respond to criticism : Hit back or reflect. Hitting back is childish, petulant and gets the attacker nowhere. And here’s where one can separate the men from the boys.
When I wrote strongly about ‘Raavan’, my words were challenged, as was my response to what was being projected as a major tour de force. When I posted the same column on my blog, I received a lot of hostile comments, which is understandable. Movies are meant to arouse passions. If Mani Ratnam did read the column, or was upset by the criticism, he maintained his silence and stood by his vision without carping about a writer’s opinion. Of course, there were several other columnists\ critics who felt the same way about the film, but hello! anything in the public domain necessarily lays itself open to criticism – be it a book, play, art exhibition, musical performance. One has to take it on the chin, sulk privately, cry a little, fume away to glory… and move on. Seniors in the business realize this and rarely fall into the ‘tu tu main main’ trap. When one runs into them in public, their reaction is often frosty but civil - that’s okay. It is tacitly accepted there is nothing personal about the review.There’s no ax to grind. The filmmaker has done his\her job by making a movie, and the critic , his\hers by writing about it in an unprejudiced way. That’s where the equation begins and ends. Or should.
This is where good breeding and decent upbringing come into play. Take the Bachchans. Abhishek was slaughtered by critics recently after his ‘Raavan’ bombed. What did the young man do? Did he respond to critics by tweeting in an uncouth, rude language? Nope. He kept his cool. He had put in a lot of hard work…. too bad audiences didn’t appreciate his performance. Ditto for Aishwarya who was also given hell in print and across channels. She too didn’t go into a silly huff and crib about how mean everybody was being to her. Sure, Mr. Bachchan Sr. did talk about the strange editing and attracted his share of flack. But at no point did the Big B resort to pettiness. Ditto for the Roshans when ‘Kites’ bombed big time and the press tore into the multi- crore dud, sparing no one – not Mori, not Hritik. The Roshans took it on the chin. Seasoned professionals from such a background do not take cheap pot shots at journalists and start abusing them on assorted public platforms. Unfortunately, these days the film industry attracts all kinds of upstarts who reveal their own shabby backgrounds when they launch personal attacks on columnists. Surprisingly, even some of the newbie hot shot actresses resort to slanging matches when critics don’t automatically fall at their feet and go gaga over their looks\performance.These immature, spoilt filmi kids should take their cues from someone like a Karan Johar, who is their ultimate guru. You’ll never find this guy descending to pathetically low levels and trashing critics. His jibes and cracks are always good humoured, even when he wants to put someone in his or her place. That’s called finesse and class. By all means defend your work – but do it with panache. Or is that too much to ask of these one film wonderboys who believe they can teach the masters a thing or two?

" I Hate Dumb Storys'!!

Guys, I am off to one of my favourite destinations - Sri Lanka. Galle Literary Festival is one of the top rated Lit Fests of the World. I have been invited by the organisers for readings and book signings. Looking forward to meeting old friends and making new ones. And who knows - I may run into the newly weds - Dhoni and Sakshi - while I am there! Our Boys in Blue will be in Sri Lanka from the 9th onwards. India's most eligible bachelor is a shaadi shuda man now!

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This appeared in Bombay Times...

" I Hate Dumb Storys……"

It started with the annoying misspelling. Come on, guys, we know the trendy sms, twitter and any other shorthand du jour. We do realize nobody has the time to spell out anything anymore – literally and metaphorically. But this sort of a distortion doesn’t make for ‘cute’. However , it does prepare the audience for what is to come - terminal boredom. This is assured right from the first few scenes, filled with dull voiceovers of the protagonists as they drone on and on about their respective attitudes to love – sorry – ‘luv’. The guy with a droopy-loopy grin doesn’t believe in such mush, the girl with a white plastic flower, does. Both work for a hysterical movie director, whose character, nudge-nudge,is based on Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s. Once the premise is clumsily and unconvincingly established, the movie meanders off in many disconnected directions, with sub-plots that don’t go anywhere. You’re probably saying, “ That’s okay. Since when do Bollywood films follow logic?” I am fine with the idiocy of most Bollywood products – in fact, the only reason for watching hyped up commercial films ( at hefty multiplex prices), is to come away gasping at the absurdity of the content. But there is generally one important criterion at play – entertainment. Make the rubbish entertaining. Let the people feel they have got their money’s worth. At least the music should rock! Especially when the movie features two big ticket popcorn stars and involves a prestigious production house. What an absolute waste casting Imran Khan and Sonam Kapoor in this utterly dull, total dud of a movie which is more a wonky tribute to Karan Johar’s earlier films, songs and screen pairings. After a point, all those ‘in’ jokes and references start bugging the viewer, particularly a replay of his popular songs as background scores and an embarrassingly gauche recreation of iconic scenes , like the ‘kuch kuch hota hai’ dialogue between Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol. Come on guys, are you that desperate for original ideas that you have to pack so many reels of a contemporary film with such obvious take- offs ? This isn’t clever tongue-in-cheek stuff. It’s plain unimaginative.
In any case, most movies which try and follow the ‘movie-within-a-movie’ formula, generally fall flat on their faces. Only filmwallas get the context and laugh at all the insider stuff. The last time such a formula actually worked, was in ‘Rangeela’, especially that on screen dig at Sridevi and her ‘mummy’. It is a wonder Karan actually approved the script of such an excruciatingly pointless film which,post-interval, suddenly takes off for New Zealand. Why? By then it doesn’t really matter. Those guys could be on the moon. By the time the key ‘turning point’ arrives,that has Imran (Raj), phoning his mummyji ( Anju Mahendru in a terrible wig) and howling over the phone, one is ready to shake up this bloke called Punit Malhotra ( chief villain) and spank him in public. As for Sonam, the lassie lacks oomph, even if she does have a great smile and can act. Oh… and Imran should definitely keep his shirt on… if he doesn’t want the audience to lose theirs.
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Why do we insist on referring to poor Viveka Babajee as a
‘Supermodel’? Let’s face it, India has yet to produce a ‘Supermodel’. Not a single one of our models, past or present, falls into that category. Where is our Naomi Campbell? Kate Moss? Claudia Schiffer? Gisele Bunchen? Cindy Crawford? Christy Turlington? These are names recognized by the fashion community the world over. They dominated international catwalks and ad campaigns for over two decades, and captured the imagination of the celeb brigade on a mega level by becoming the absolute darlings of the paparazzi. Compare their success with what passes for it here – we happily throw a few names around, names like Mehr Jessia, Madhu Sapre, Ujjwala Raut etc. These girls made it reasonably big in India, and someone like Ujjwala was a fairly successful model abroad. That’s it. Even within India, chances of anybody outside the glam world recognizing these ladies by face or name, are pretty remote. Modeling in India remains a niche, fringe profession without a mass base. So let’s drop this nonsense of calling every other girl who has walked the ramp more than twenty times, a ‘Supermodel’. As for Viveka, are we really so hard up for ‘news’ about her tragic death, that we end up interviewing her 20 year-old maid ? I am sure Viveka must have been a pretty super person, but let’s not overdo the ‘Supermodel’ bit. I hope the lovely girl from Satara has finally found the peace that eluded her when she was alive trying to make it in big ,bad and mad Mumbai.

Drugs, Sex and Suicide....Viveka B, RIP

This appeared today in Asian Age\Deccan Chronicle.
It is raining horses and elephants. Perfect day to watch 'I hate Luv Storys'. I'm an optimist. Hoping the movie will lighten the mood. Or at least prepare me for a heart stopping quarter final at FIFA. My son Aditya is in Capetown for the matches, and his BBMs make us feel we are right there in the stands with him, watching every kick and yellow card.Waka Waka Germany....
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Doomed models on killer cocktails……

It has been a slow week for news. FIFA leaves India cold ( if we aren’t playing, why bother?). And the political khabar from Delhi has been pretty thanda. That left a lot of front page space waiting to be filled. Along came a masala story which had the hungry media vultures scampering – an ageing model’s tragic suicide. Hardly headline news. But there it was, on every channel and newspaper. Poor Viveka Babajee hadn’t received even half this level of coverage during her lifetime as she struggled to keep up appearances, keep body and soul together, in the big, bad and coked out world of Mumbai modeling. She was considered over the hill and ‘finished’ within the glam fraternity – that in itself is a killer judgement. Combine her downgraded professional status with personal traumas, and you have a tragedy waiting to happen. For newshounds, this is another sensational tabloid scandal involving a pretty woman, a rich boyfriend (or many) and a lifestyle that shocks those outside the charmed circle. What most press reports aren’t saying is that what really killed Viveka was not a thwarted love affair but corrosive insecurity and despair.
It is a common story. Some girls can handle it better than others. Some manage to escape. Some don’t. Viveka didn’t. But look around you and you’ll find several walking wounded models struggling to stay afloat…. stay alive. The route taken is familiar – get discovered, get to Mumbai, get assignments. The first two or three years are generally heady and brilliant. The money rolls in, wealthy admirers pile up, lifestyle options multiply… and with luck, Bollywood beckons. All this before the girls reach their sell-by date ( 25 at the outside). Once your shelf life is over, the assignments dry up and even those panting middle aged, married men move on to younger chicks working the circuit. The first sign of desperation is when such a sought- after girl finds herself in the social wilderness and starts looking for lolly from other sources. She has bills to pay, loans to service, and an image to protect. Creditors start breathing down her neck… and with the heat getting a bit too hot to handle, the girl panics. Most times, she is miles away from home, living by herself in a suburban flat without support systems of any kind. She makes alcohol her best friend. In order to keep meeting her new ‘best friend’, she lets it be known she’s open to attending parties thrown by strangers – for a fee, of course. There are shady ‘party agents’ who round up hard up models and small time actresses for clients (mainly prosperous traders from Punjab, Haryana, Delhi) but at least the booze is in plenty even if the money is pathetic. Then come the shadier proposals to spend a weekend in Goa or Dubai – the money is not big, but it covers shopping kharcha. What the hell, a girl’s got to have the latest cell phone and ‘It’ bag.
From this stage to full time hooking takes no time at all. The stakes are further lowered – but what is on offer is far more addictive – coke. Party girls in sexy frocks are always welcome at power evenings that need a strong glamour quotient – that is exactly the model followed by organizers of sporting mega events worldwide. But there is a catch - the cocktails that keeps these evenings in high gear do not flow out of glasses. The powerful hosts behind these parties know there is but one hook to get these girls to hang on - cocaine – lots and lots of the white stuff. Champagne and coke become the preferred mix. Throw in sex with strangers, and what starts off as a ‘fun’ thing, soon turns into the blackest nightmare ever with no escape. Dirty weekends grow into four and five day orgies. The protagonists are usually society’s top drawer men – industrialists, movie stars, ex-sports people, tv producers. And of course, the fashion crowd from Delhi\Bangalore.This is where girls like Viveka descend into a private hell from which there is no ‘out’. They are literally and metaphorically at a dead end. Strapped for money, strapped for love, strapped for security on any level – they turn the searchlight inwards in search of salvation. Some find it, most don’t.
Viveka’s suicide is being compared to Nafisa’s. And, no doubt there are unmistakable parallels. The main thread involves their respective backgrounds. It was hard to believe Viveka’s family is originally from Satara – a small, obscure town in Maharashtra ( and incidentally, my birthplace!). That makes Viveka a Maharastrian-Mauritian! What was a girl like that doing in a biz like this? Perhaps she was lured into it with promises of big time success. Ditto for Nafisa, who was also a misfit in the murky world of modeling. Both girls were above average in looks and intelligence. Yet, both got mixed up with men who gave them grief and treated them badly. Both chose a violent exit after giving up on life and themselves. Their contemporaries are made of sterner stuff – some have married ( and divorced) foreigners, others have switched to choreography and event management. Photographs of Viveka’s friends at her funeral, tell their own story. Shockingly enough, some of the girls who showed up to pay their respects clad in pristine designer white , posed for the cameras like they were at a fashion week showing. What should have been a somber occasion was converted into a celeb circus.But like I pointed out earlier, this has been a lean and mean week for hard news. Viveka’s funeral provided some much needed eye candy and a few photo-ops to the starved media. So much for the current crop of ramp scorchers. Then are still others who fled India and left their old world behind. I was surprised to run into the lovely Shyla Lopez who now lives in Moscow with her Russian husband and a young son. Did she look happy?? Ummmm…. I’m not sure.
But at least she is alive.

Once Upon a Time with Shobhaa - 3

Free Style Wrestling with Haji and Rukhsana….

If the setting was surrealistic, even bizarre ( a lavish suite in the old wing of the Taj Mahal Hotel ), the people present at the ‘business meeting’ were even more so. Apart from Rukhsana, Haji Mastan and yours truly ( I pretended to be Rukhsana’s secretary ), there were five or six Bhais there. It was a chiifon and pearls meet polyester and rexine moment. Rukhsana conducted the proceedings with all the hauteur of an empress dealing with serfs. She swished her French chiffon saree pallav around her broad shoulders, played with the Basra pearls around her thick neck, constantly adjusted the gigantic shades she wore indoors\ outdoors, and talked down to Haji in a posh accent. Everybody studiously ignored me ( appropriately dressed for my p.a.’s part in a downmarket khadi kurta ). Haji paced the room restlessly, his white rexine chappals making a soft squishy sound on the deep pile carpet. The other goons glowered and kept staring at the door as if expecting a police party.
The agenda for the meeting was simple – Rukhsana and Haji were haggling over gate money. Most people outside the professional wrestling circuit did not know that Rukhsana controlled all the kusti fixtures that took place in and around Delhi. She wanted to negotiate better terms for the Bombay bouts ( his territory), and Haji wasn’t playing footsie. They were haggling over Pakistani wrestlers and their fees. More importantly, they couldn’t agree on their respective cuts. She refused to budge… and so did he. At this critical point of the negotiation, there was a knock on the door, followed by the buzzer ringing. Everybody froze! Haji’s goon squad sprang up and took strategic positions…. even Rukhsana momentarily forgot her haughty act and looked startled.
Oh oh…. something was clearly not going as per the schedule. Who was at the door? Cops? Rivals? Hotel security? Enraged wrestlers?? Would guns be pulled out? Knives flashed? Would I be killed in a cross fire between hostile underworld gangs? Rukhsana reached for the phone on the elegant, marble topped table next to her chair ( those were pre-mobile phone days, remember?). There was pin drop silence in the suite as she hit the button with a swift, smooth move of her perfectly manicured index finger. A gigantic solitaire on her ring finger, caught the light from the chandelier and flashed evilly.
“ Hello….” growled Rukhsana….as I held my breath.
This was turning out to be a chilling evening.
I said a short prayer… would it be answered?
More next week!