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but there’s something about Abha that eliminates all resistance. I obey.
    â€œSit down.” A firm hand on my shoulder pushes me onto the bed. Just as well. When I’m standing close to Abha I’m inconveniently conscious of how much smaller she is than I am. Having to look up at her magnificent superstructure redresses the balance.
    â€œSo you want to quit because you’ve just discovered they gave you the part for the wrong reasons, and because you don’t think you’re up to what they’re asking you to do. Forget the first thing: most reasons are wrong reasons in this business. Someone gets a part by sleeping with the producer. In the end what matters is that she has the part, the film is made, perhaps it’s a hit, and then she’s getting offers for lots of other parts she doesn’t have to earn on her back. If this film succeeds for you, no one will ask who your father is. One day, Ashok Banjara, he’ll be known only as your father. Right?”
    I nod humbly. And dumbly.
    â€œNext, you don’t think you can do what they want you to do. So you think you’ll never make it as an actor. Wrong. Tomorrow you go to the producer, who wants to impress your father so much, and you tell him the film is going down the tubes unless he listens to you. Tell him you can’t do Gopi Master’s moves. You’re too tall, your legs are too long, your back is too straight, whatever. Our two duets can easily be rechoreographed with me doing the dancing around you, while you stand and tilt your head and move your arms — yes, you do that rather well, Ashok Banjara. Then tell him your strengths are being underutilized by that unimaginative twit Mohanlal. Don’t look at me like that — don’t you know what your own strengths are? For God’s sake, child, it’s obvious. What are the things you can do? You’ve got long legs, you can leap and jump. Fight scenes, chase scenes, stunt scenes. Tell him to put in lots of these.”
    I am awestruck. “But will he do all this for me? I mean, change everything? Overrule Mohanlal?”
    â€œMohanlal’s not Jean-Luc Godard,” she retorts. “He’s an employee, he’ll do as he’s told. And Jagannath Choubey wants to see his film finished, using the talent he’s already got to the best of their ability. He has a lot of money tied up in this film, after all. Not to mention a lot of hopes involving his star’s father.”
    â€œI’ll see him in the morning,” I vow. “Abhaji, I don’t know how to thank you. I came in here to plead with you to come back to the set, and instead you’ve shown me the light. I’ll never forget this, Abhaji. Tell me what I can do for you. Anything at all.”
    She laughs. It is a relaxed laugh, as if somebody has just called “cut” and she has switched off her overdrive. “If you really want to do something for me …”
    â€œYes? Just name it.”
    â€œYou’ve got nice long fingers. Massage my back for me, it’s hurting a bit after that last dance routine.”
    â€œYou bet.” Massage her back? I’d have paid for the privilege. “Er — should I say something to Mohanlal?”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œWell, he must be waiting for us.”
    â€œLet him wait. It’ll be good for his soul.”
    â€œAnd what if someone walks in? While I’m massaging you?”
    â€œLet’s see who dares to walk into Abha Patel’s dressing room without permission,” she says fiercely, adding colloquially, “Mohanlal’s dad won’t do it.”
    â€œOK,” I concede, borrowing Mohanlal’s copyright on the word. “Shall we start?”
    â€œUse this cream,” she says, handing me a bottle. Her fingers move to the silver buttons of her kameez. My heart picks up tempo, like the music director’s favorite bongo. “Turn around,”