How About A Sin Tonight? , livre ebook

Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd. - Novoneel Chakravorty

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

138 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

In the biggest casting coup of the Hindi film industry, five top stars are signed up for a new movie: Shahraan, a living legend still lamenting the loss of his first love; Reva and Neev, newcomers allied in a common journey; Nishani, the celebrity kid who must avenge her father's untimely death; and Kaash, the actor harbouring a secret love from his past. As their intimately intertwined personal stories take centre stage, the industry's underbelly is left exposed for all to see. By the time the curtain draws to a close, the gossip-hungry media has enough fodder on its plate to last a lifetime. Novoneel Chakraborty, bestselling author of the Stranger trilogy, unveils the grime behind the glitz, the insecurities and compromises, in a world where aspirants come prepared to strike a Faustian bargain. A beguiling tale of love, ambition, jealousy and betrayal, How About a Sin Tonight? will leave you asking for more.

Informations

Publié par	Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Date de parution	18 avril 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184002928
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0420€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

NOVONEEL CHAKRABORTY

RANDOM HOUSE INDIA
Published by Random House India in 2012
Copyright Novoneel Chakraborty 2012 Random House Publishers India Private Limited Windsor IT Park, 7th Floor, Tower-B, A-1, Sector-125, Noida-201301, U.P.
Random House Group Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London SW1V 2SA United Kingdom
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author s and publisher s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN 9788184002928
For
R .
I wished for you before it all began. I ll need you after it all ends. In between, I m giving life a chance
Sin is the only note of vivid colour that persists in the modern world.
-Oscar Wilde
SCENE 31
Location: Mussoorie
Film producers are like condom ads; they always want you to play safe. Those chutiyas don t understand if you want a baby, you can t play it safe, the director said, noticing the young journalist sitting opposite him scribble something in his notebook.
By the way, he added, don t mention anything about the c-word.
Arunodaye T. Manjrekar was known as ATM in the Hindi Film Industry and media for one simple reason: till date he d directed seven Hindi films out of which five were among India s highest grossing films ever, inflation adjusted for all time.
Aren t you afraid of certain extremist groups who are against nudity in your film?
I m sure they understand it s all for the sake of art. In his mind, Arunodaye had exhausted his dictionary of slang.
Was it tough to coax the actors to do the nude scene being shot today?
Actors are adventurers. And an adventurer never says no to his fears.
It was tough, but in the end he d put together a dream star cast with which he had already secured the eyeballs of more than three-fourth of India and almost the entire NRI diaspora.
Arunodaye s walkie-talkie crackled with a voice, Sir, the shot is ready. The journalist took his cue and left.
Inside the room where scene 31 was to be shot, Arunodaye noticed the first camera framing a tight close up from the right while the second was ready to capture the two actors naked in a master shot. Perfect! he murmured and turned to the actors who had donned white bathing robes. Start whenever you two feel comfortable.
He left them amid a quietude of their own thoughts.
As the actor advanced towards the actress, her heart started beating rapidly. I am not doing this. The character in the script is. She prepared herself to enter the mind space of the character. Though the scene scared her, the character was still way simpler than the one she played daily-herself.
They came close, disrobed, and smooched. Placing his hands on her rear, he lifted her up and looked arrow straight at her. The director cleared the take and announced a five-minute break. And just when the actress thought something that had kept her awake for nights was finally over, the actor gave her a compulsive kiss on her lips. It shocked her. A bigger shock happened when she kissed him back almost as an offensive reflex.
His warm breath felt like obnoxious insects crawling all over her face. It aroused her but also made her feel cheap. The moment he cupped her breasts, all the intangible and invisible entities within-her thoughts, her soul, and her will-froze momentarily.
It was when their tongues, once again, met and fought urgently like two sparrows fighting over the first piece of morning bread, that she felt the frozen entities melt.
She wrapped her toned legs around his waist tightly. Instead of the neat bed, he pinned her against the freshly painted wall in the driving-the-peg-home pose. With each push, she knew the paint on the wall was getting spoilt as much as the paint of her soul.
As her hands explored his back like an eager tourist, her heart rummaged through excuses-from rubbish to real-in order to justify her willingness to enjoy what he took for granted about her.
Her mind went blank with the first pelvic thrust of his. With the second, she heard her thoughts loud and clear.
When a man is desperate, he injures others. When a woman is desperate, she hurts herself the most.
His thrusts were switching thoughts on and off in her mind alternately. Third thrust, her mind was blank again. Fourth
Sex is everybody s home, nobody s address. Blank.
When we are young, our heart is like a village full of simpletons. As we grow up, it changes to a big, bad city. Its desires become stranger and darker.
Blank.
Our actions are our immortal version.
Blank.
Finally, they knew this short film with no dialogues and yet a plethora of subtitles had to end. She knew what he was waiting for. A nod. He knew what she wanted. A burst. They knew what they wanted. A climax. Orgasm was the prey they both were out to hunt with equal urgency. Not a sound could be heard and yet there was a stentorian sexual symphony audible to them.
It was the actor who opened the door and walked out. The first one to enter the room was Gita, the actress s girl Friday, followed by assistants, technicians, and spot boys. While helping her madam wear a warm, furry overcoat, Gita heard her madam whisper to her, Get an I-pill. Quick.
Amid all the chaos and chirpiness, only Guddu, a spot boy, happened to notice the haphazard blotch on the wall. And if what he thought was right, Guddu wondered, the media would have a raging hard on with this piece of juicy gossip. And when the media has a hard on, someone gets fucked twenty-four seven.
BOOK ONE: (1986-2010)
SECRETS OF A SIN
THE LEGEND
SHAHRAAN ALI BAKSHI
10:00 a.m.
I f you want to give a woman an earth-shattering orgasm, I remember her confiding in me, first make her sit near you. Then look straight into her eyes till she gives you a confused shrug, slowly bringing both her hands onto your lap and holding them tight. Make sure it s a warm grasp, not a threatening grab. After which, lean towards one of her ears and whisper with all your honesty what she means to you. And then gently embrace her, allowing your nervous breath to kiss her vulnerable nape.
I was twenty-one. She was sixteen when I first saw her. Between two hearts of that age, there exist infinite possibilities. And there were. I swear. Whenever my today wakes up in the arms of my yesterday, those unrealized, unacknowledged, untraversed possibilities appear before me and streams of cold sweat drench my brow.
The world celebrated my forty-fifth birthday last month. And in all these years, I have come to realize that love is actually an act of sowing. Problems start when we convince ourselves into believing it s an act of reaping instead. Thereafter, we use love as a fertile farm land for harvesting whatever we desire from life and a relationship, assuming being in love is in itself eligibility enough to deserve whatever we thought, wished, and coveted for.
Today-October 21-is Mehfil s fortieth birthday and I am here, in this once famous brothel which was her identity and destiny. Fifteen years ago, I had bought this entire place along with the small lane which branches out from the main road to lead here, like an unexpected disappointment often does from the spine of happiness. Men came here from different walks of life with only one thing in common-an indomitable libido. Libido, Mehfil told me, is a drunkard s faith. They follow it blindly wherever it takes them. And prostitutes are the ones who encash on that faith. Much like what happens in most holy places around the world. Though she was young then, every word of hers made some kind of celestial sense to me. She didn t have what I wanted in my dream woman except for the outer appearance; maybe. But she had everything I never realized I would need in my woman. This also made me understand that there are two kinds of beauty-outer and inner. Everyone doesn t have the former since it s subjective. On the contrary, inner beauty is present in every one. It s not subjective but its exclusive; visible only to a select few. And love is about winning that exclusivity.
This house where I am right now was called Neela Makaan then for its vibrant blue colour. Though the colour has faded considerably, the public memory hasn t. It still is a forbidden place.
Neela Makaan used to house six prostitutes and a swarthy, foul-mouthed, middle-aged woman who was their pimp. Mehfil was the youngest. I used to visit her as often as a young couple visits the memory of their recent marriage. I remember at the funeral of one of the prostitutes, staring at the burning pyre, Mehfil had remarked, That s the life of a woman in every prostitute and the prostitute in every woman. Men come and light a fire in some corner of us and we keep burning till we turn into insignificant ash and thereafter a slave to the wind of destiny that carries us as per its desires.
I don t know when and how she became my emotional dictionary. The moment something would torment me from within, I would scamper up to her to find solace. I loved the way she had, at her age, unknotted everything within her, around her. Compared to her, I was a dumb boy. Now, of course, I am a man in between, I fell in love with her.
The reason why I haven t renovated this place is both obvious and personal. I can still feel her here, in this place. Not like a memory, but a premonition. In the weary doublesized bed where I am sitting right now; in the stained and smelly lime coloured bed sheet which still transpires the perfume of her love for me; in the frail and exhausted looking pillows which are still young with the phantasmal caress of her dense black hair; on the morose, old walls that now