rediff.com: Bijoy Venugopal's Diary


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But for the presence of water, the approach road to Subhash Ghai's Mukta Studios resembles territory best known to Neil Armstrong. My earthly purpose for being here on a Sunday morning was no less stellar. Lurching in an air-conditioned Santro ("Three days old, yaar," mourned its owner) past a galaxy of production houses, I arrived shaken, not stirred, for my first date in Bombay.
With Kareena Kapoor.
Trust me, I hadn't the foggiest notion who she was until the previous evening. It was thrust on me even as I recovered from repeated attacks of mild to moderate xenophobia. A new colleague to die-hard Bombayites (who, I understand, have Bollywood on the side with vada pav), I obviously had 'victim' scrawled all over my face. They regarded me with anthropological interest when I confessed, scribbling quote marks in the air, that I was a total stranger to The Hindi Movie.
But overnight I had completely transformed -- from self-styled bourgeois Bangalorean with a cultivated ignorance of Bollywood, to Bangalorean-turning-Bombayite with the peepal tree of enlightenment fast sprouting behind me.
So here I was in alien Bombay, to chat up a 20-nothing starlet I knew precious little about. I had tried that line of defence too.
"You don't need to know about her," gruffed the boss. There was no reverse gear out of this, I figured.
From filmi regulars at the office I gleaned bushels of instant wisdom that steeled my confidence. Moreover, I was accompanied by stalwarts who had, among other things, learnt to tell the presence of Jackie Shroff by sniffing the air. I asked no questions, but that one will always bother me.
Curtain lifts on Alien Encounter of the Day -- Kareena Kapoor and Hrithik Roshan. I was to lie in wait for them at a photo shoot on Yaadein for a tinsel glossy. Hrithik's face I was equipped to recognise, thanks to repeated exposure on the walls of my sister's room. And I had absorbed Kareena from all my research the evening before. Her life, her ancestry (that one's easy), her filmography (quiz me on that now and I'll parrot all you want), her rumoured affairs (why bother, I'm not even a contender)... I hadn't crammed so much since the last physics exam of my life. But what I had been despatched to discover was Kareena the person, or if one such existed.
As I waited, I learned. Stars, I discovered, take their time to rise. It's damaging to their reputation to keep appointments. They work hard at it, lest they fall into a dangerous pattern of punctuality. The one I was about to encounter was evidently keeping at it very well. I asked a seasoned film journalist about Kareena.
"She's intelligent, and she's blunt," she warned me. Tallied with what I had heard.
We began to bristle with impatience. "They've left," said one of Subhash Ghai's assistants (more wisdom: like lieutenants in the Army, there are first, second and third assistants). This one, a second assistant, was almost as interesting as any actress. Spectacular in spectacles, in a black shirt and biscuit-beige trousers endorsed by one of the newer fashion pundits. She was careful not to make eye contact. A covert exchange of whispers produced her name, which I am bound by ethics not to disclose. Taking a leaf out of Mr Ghai's book, I shall call her M.
Another half-hour of waiting. "They're in Versova," M assured us. Fresh from my orientation to the geography of Bombay, I ventured: "That's near Juhu, right?"
"Yes," said M, still not looking at me. She called a number on her cell. As she talked, her eyes wandered. They dwelt on me antiseptically -- like I were a table piece with a speck of dust she must remember to brush off.
Two hours later, we were still waiting. "They've reached Lokhandwala," announced M. That was exciting. I began to imagine that Hrithik and Kareena were travelling in some sort of rath yatra, stopping at various points en route to Mukta Studios. But there was consolation. An attendant walked in, impersonating a clotheshorse and looking sufficiently equine to be one. He balanced an assortment of garish costumes (none of which Kareena would wear).
A half-hour later the door opened slightly, and Kareena made the most unimpressive of stage entrances. If it wasn't for the rhubarb-rhubarb in the room I might have looked past her. She was radiant, dressed in a light blue chikan salwar kameez that would have cost thousands to make 'simple'. No make-up, my untrained eye told me. She regarded me like I were furniture.
Presently, the young Mr Roshan arrived and impressed me by shaking my hand. I was expecting someone taller. He looked like one of those He-Man miniatures. More wisdom: Bollywood makes its heroes larger than life.
Throughout the shoot, I watched Kareena like a wolf. She blew hot and cold. I noticed the moment she turned away from the camera she retracted into a shell. I'd have to pry away at her like an oyster, tweaking little by little until I caught a sparkle from within.
M suddenly became very, very important. I preened myself against a window and bestowed one of my stock smiles upon her. I would get five minutes with Kareena after the shoot, she said (she had beautiful brown eyes behind those glasses, eyes that never looked at me though).
I got my five minutes. And thanks to M, I got another five as I followed Kareena to Zee Studios in Lower Parel in a pilot car. And somewhere during those hurried moments with Kareena, we must have connected as people. For a nanosecond she ran the defrost on her ice-maiden persona. During a breath pause, I noticed a smoothed out blackhead on her nose. Her eyes scurried across my face -- to the zit above my eyebrow, the soul beard under my lip. Then the ice came back.
Not bad for a first date.

You can find the result of Bijoy Venugopal's date here.
Illustration: Lynette Menezes
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But for the presence of water, the approach road to Subhash Ghai's Mukta Studios resembles territory best known to Neil Armstrong. My earthly purpose for being here on a Sunday morning was no less stellar. Lurching in an air-conditioned Santro ("Three days old, yaar," mourned its owner) past a galaxy of production houses, I arrived shaken, not stirred, for my first date in Bombay. With Kareena Kapoor. Trust me, I hadn't the foggiest notion who she was until the previous evening. It was thrust on me even as I recovered from repeated attacks of mild to moderate xenophobia. A new colleague to die-hard Bombayites (who, I understand, have Bollywood on the side with vada pav), I obviously had 'victim' scrawled all over my face. They regarded me with anthropological interest when I confessed, scribbling quote marks in the air, that I was a total stranger to The Hindi Movie. But overnight I had completely transformed -- from self-styled bourgeois Bangalorean with a cultivated ignorance of Bollywood, to Bangalorean-turning-Bombayite with the peepal tree of enlightenment fast sprouting behind me. So here I was in alien Bombay, to chat up a 20-nothing starlet I knew precious little about. I had tried that line of defence too. "You don't need to know about her," gruffed the boss. There was no reverse gear out of this, I figured. From filmi regulars at the office I gleaned bushels of instant wisdom that steeled my confidence. Moreover, I was accompanied by stalwarts who had, among other things, learnt to tell the presence of Jackie Shroff by sniffing the air. I asked no questions, but that one will always bother me. Curtain lifts on Alien Encounter of the Day -- Kareena Kapoor and Hrithik Roshan. I was to lie in wait for them at a photo shoot on Yaadein for a tinsel glossy. Hrithik's face I was equipped to recognise, thanks to repeated exposure on the walls of my sister's room. And I had absorbed Kareena from all my research the evening before. Her life, her ancestry (that one's easy), her filmography (quiz me on that now and I'll parrot all you want), her rumoured affairs (why bother, I'm not even a contender)... I hadn't crammed so much since the last physics exam of my life. But what I had been despatched to discover was Kareena the person, or if one such existed. As I waited, I learned. Stars, I discovered, take their time to rise. It's damaging to their reputation to keep appointments. They work hard at it, lest they fall into a dangerous pattern of punctuality. The one I was about to encounter was evidently keeping at it very well. I asked a seasoned film journalist about Kareena. "She's intelligent, and she's blunt," she warned me. Tallied with what I had heard. We began to bristle with impatience. "They've left," said one of Subhash Ghai's assistants (more wisdom: like lieutenants in the Army, there are first, second and third assistants). This one, a second assistant, was almost as interesting as any actress. Spectacular in spectacles, in a black shirt and biscuit-beige trousers endorsed by one of the newer fashion pundits. She was careful not to make eye contact. A covert exchange of whispers produced her name, which I am bound by ethics not to disclose. Taking a leaf out of Mr Ghai's book, I shall call her M. Another half-hour of waiting. "They're in Versova," M assured us. Fresh from my orientation to the geography of Bombay, I ventured: "That's near Juhu, right?" "Yes," said M, still not looking at me. She called a number on her cell. As she talked, her eyes wandered. They dwelt on me antiseptically -- like I were a table piece with a speck of dust she must remember to brush off. Two hours later, we were still waiting. "They've reached Lokhandwala," announced M. That was exciting. I began to imagine that Hrithik and Kareena were travelling in some sort of rath yatra, stopping at various points en route to Mukta Studios. But there was consolation. An attendant walked in, impersonating a clotheshorse and looking sufficiently equine to be one. He balanced an assortment of garish costumes (none of which Kareena would wear). A half-hour later the door opened slightly, and Kareena made the most unimpressive of stage entrances. If it wasn't for the rhubarb-rhubarb in the room I might have looked past her. She was radiant, dressed in a light blue chikan salwar kameez that would have cost thousands to make 'simple'. No make-up, my untrained eye told me. She regarded me like I were furniture. Presently, the young Mr Roshan arrived and impressed me by shaking my hand. I was expecting someone taller. He looked like one of those He-Man miniatures. More wisdom: Bollywood makes its heroes larger than life. Throughout the shoot, I watched Kareena like a wolf. She blew hot and cold. I noticed the moment she turned away from the camera she retracted into a shell. I'd have to pry away at her like an oyster, tweaking little by little until I caught a sparkle from within. M suddenly became very, very important. I preened myself against a window and bestowed one of my stock smiles upon her. I would get five minutes with Kareena after the shoot, she said (she had beautiful brown eyes behind those glasses, eyes that never looked at me though). I got my five minutes. And thanks to M, I got another five as I followed Kareena to Zee Studios in Lower Parel in a pilot car. And somewhere during those hurried moments with Kareena, we must have connected as people. For a nanosecond she ran the defrost on her ice-maiden persona. During a breath pause, I noticed a smoothed out blackhead on her nose. Her eyes scurried across my face -- to the zit above my eyebrow, the soul beard under my lip. Then the ice came back. Not bad for a first date. You can find the result of Bijoy Venugopal's date here. Illustration: Lynette Menezes Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
HOME \| NEWS \| CRICKET \| MONEY \| SPORTS \| MOVIES \| CHAT \| BROADBAND \| TRAVEL ASTROLOGY \| NEWSLINKS \| BOOK SHOP \| MUSIC SHOP \| GIFT SHOP \| HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL \| WEDDING \| ROMANCE \| WEATHER \| WOMEN \| E-CARDS \| SEARCH HOMEPAGES \| FREE MESSENGER \| FREE EMAIL \| CONTESTS \| FEEDBACK