Chapter 23: Tanveer
AFTER OUR VISIT TO the art therapy room, we head back to the reception room to decide our next move. The candles still glowing, we sit in a circle on the floor, waiting for Asad to change his camera battery and check out some footage. While Humaira tidies up her gigantic cosmetics-case-might-as-well-be-a-suitcase (and Ayaan assists her), Zoya sneaks Nikhat Khan's journal while she thinks I'm not looking, and Imran and I end up sharing a bag of peanut butter–filled pretzels.
"I really want to check out the J-wing," Asad says, replacing the old camera battery for a charged one. "I made up some storyboards for footage over there."
"I take it it's totally haunted?" Humaira says with an eye roll.
"You got it," Asad says, scanning through some footage. I lean over to look, catching a glimpse of the exterior of this place—all the pointed roofs and steeples, wings that jet out on both sides like some giant flying insect, and the creepiest water tower I've ever seen. It's this tall bullet-gray tank with antennas that spout out from the top.
"And what kind of pleasures await us in the J-wing?" Humaira continues. "More uplifting artwork? Or perhaps something a little bit cheerier—like shock equipment or leftover morgue supplies, maybe? Or better yet, how about some body harnesses between friends? Or another hydrotherapy tub, perhaps? Zoya, are you getting all this?"
"Huh?" Zoya asks, looking up from the journal.
"Humz, are you feeling okay?" Ayaan mumbles. He puts his hand on Humaira's shoulder.
"That's so pathetic," I say.
"Names are like a curse," Zoya says. "Having a name like that. It's like my whole future was planned out before I was even born. It's like people have all these expectations of me as soon as they hear my name."
"For me it's the other way around," I say offering her the bag of pretzels. "People look at me—at the way I dress, the color of my hair, at what I have on for jewelry—and they have expectations, too. I don't even have to tell them my name. I don't even have to open my mouth."
Zoya nods, giving me the once-over.
"I mean, let's be honest," I continue. "If it wasn't for this project, there's no way we'd all be hanging out together like this."
"Why not?" Imran asks.
"Oh, please," I say. "Like any one of you would ever be caught dead hanging out with me. I mean, what did you guys even think when you first saw me?"
"Ax murderer," Imran admits, raising his hand to answer.
"Exactly." I sit back on my heels with a sigh.
"But I like ax murderers," he continues.
"I thought you were playing a role," Humaira says, darkening in her mole with an eyeliner pencil. "I mean, I guess I assume that of everybody. We're all just actors in one way or another."
"What's with your voice?" Imran asks her, noticing the change in tone. It's been doing that all night, actually. One minute her voice is all high and whiney, and the next it's this deep and throaty rasp.
Ayaan laughs in response. "Humaira likes to channel her inner Kareena."
"Her inner what?" Asad makes a face.
"Kareena Kapoor," Humaira explains, rolling her eyes. "Just about the most talented, the most beautiful, the most prolific Bollywood actress who ever walked the planet."
"Oh," Tanveer says.
"Humaira really digs her," Ayaan says, like we need the clarification.
"So you're a fan," I say. "Big deal. I mean, just because you really like someone's work doesn't mean you have to take their style and try and make your voice sound like theirs."
"That's just it," Ayaan says, surprisingly eager to dish on his mack mate. "It's not just the style and voice. It's her hair, her style, her mannerisms." He nods toward Humaira's beret.
Humaira grabs her mammoth-sized powder puff and tosses it at his face.
"Oh, come on, sweet cheeks," Ayaan whines, unaffected by the powder in his eyes. "You know I'm your biggest fan."
"Well, get in line," she says. "Because Jimmy's a fan, too."
"Who?"
"Jimmy Zeplin," she explains. "The phone call I got in the tunnel earlier. He's been begging me to play Mrs. Warble in his off-off-Broadway show."
"You got a callback?"
And you didn't," she bites.
"I don't know why you can't just be yourself," I say, interrupting their banter.
"Why don't you?" she zings me back.
"I am myself. I like the way I dress. I don't care what people think of me."
"Not at all?" Imran asks, his face falling slightly.
"Maybe what you like is negative attention," Humaira continues before I can answer. "I mean, if I knew people were having all these preconceived ideas about me just based on how I look, I'd try my best to change it."
"Maybe what people should do is not judge others based on appearances in the first place."
Ayaan takes a pretzel and pops it into his mouth.
I nod, noting his squeaky voice, zeroing in on his huge mass of curly brown hair, and knowing for sure that people must give him crap all the time.
"Some people have nothing better to do than judge others," Asad says, getting this all on film.
"And some people deserve the judgments they get." I eyeball him.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He looks up from the camera.
"Asad Player Khan?" I say, feeling my eyebrows arch.
Asad looks at Zoya, watching for a reaction. But instead of giving one, she looks away, avoiding eye contact. And so I can't help but wonder if she already knows.
"I'm not like that anymore," Asad says, still looking at Zoya, the camera angled toward the top of her head.
"Since when?" Humaira asks.
"Since he set his eye on a brainiac?" I say, unable to resist.
"Let's just say I've done some things I'm not proud of," Asad says.
"You're a legend!" Imran cheers. But then the cheer melts into a frown when he notices that nobody else is cheering along with him.
"Maybe we should talk about something else," I say.
"No." Zoya closes the journal. "I want to hear it."
"In my own defense," Asad says, trying to make light of it, "except for this one time, I never misled anybody. I never did anything with a girl who didn't understand up front that I wasn't looking for anything serious."
"Except for this one time?" Zoya asks.
Asad nods. "This one girl wanted more than I was interested in giving. I knew that. But I hooked up with her anyway."
"Kelly Pickerel," I say. After the incident, it was pretty much broadcast news around the school, mainly because Kelly was pretty popular herself. But after it happened, she got branded a s**t. I can't remember a time when I'd go into a bathroom stall at school and not see her name scribbled across the wall, labeling her names.
"Wow, she's hot," Imran blurts, ever clueless.
Asad shrugs. "I actually wanted her to be part of this thing . . . so we could patch things up, move on."
"Hold up," Imran says. "You can't tell me that a reputation like yours doesn't have its benefits. I mean, girls like the notorious bad boy; everybody knows that."
"Some girls do," I say.
"Yeah, and some girls look at guys like me as only good for one thing—the dreaded 'friend,' someone they can tell all their problems to, the buffer before they go running to guys like Asad. I'm telling you, man," Imran says to Asad. "You've got it made."
"Then how come I feel like I'm losing out?" Asad says. "No matter what you think, it's a lot to have to live up to."
"And that girl you were talking about," Zoya begins, "you led her on?"
"It's not something I'm proud of," Asad repeats. "And it's really awkward now, because I see her all the time in school. I know how hurt she was about it afterward. And I know how pissed she still is."
"So here's a thought," I say. "Why not apologize?"
Asad shakes his head and then buries it in his hands, enabling Ayaan to nab the camera and point it at him.
"I don't know," Asad says finally.
"Pride," Ayaan chirps, still filming. "A guy has pride. He doesn't like to admit his mistakes."
"Yeah, but a real man does," Humaira says.
"I'm sorry for laughing at your Kareena Kapoor ways," Ayaan purrs.
"I'm sorry for not telling you about my callback," she purrs back.
"Just promise that when I make it big as a director, you'll be my leading lady—like Grace Kelly was for Alfred Hitchcock . . . like Uma Thurman is for Quentin Tarantino."
"Forever, sexy."
Ayaan returns the camera to Asad, and he and Humaira end up in yet another obnoxious make-up fest.
"I probably should tell Kelly I'm sorry," Asad says, continuing to film.
"I'm all about fresh starts," I say.
"Speaking of fresh starts," Imran pipes up. "Does this mean you're no longer pissed at me for my little joke?"
Asad smiles, glad for the tension relief. "No," he says. "I'm no longer pissed. So long as you let me frisk you on the way out."
"Switching teams, are we?" Imran asks. "Hate to break this to you, but I'm as straight as a pool stick. And as long as one, too."
"Oh, really?" I perk.
"I'm serious," Asad continues. "I meant it when I said that I don't want you taking anything from this place. That goes for everybody." He glances at Nikhat's journal.
"How is it any different from what you're doing?" Imran asks, sucking the peanut butter filling from one of the pretzels. "Breaking in here and taking footage for your own purposes . . . Don't you plan to make money off this movie? Didn't you say something about RTV and becoming the next hot Hollywood thang?"
"Maybe it started out that way," Asad says. "But now I have my own reasons for making this movie."
"And what are they?" Zoya asks.
"It's not about me anymore," Asad says. "It's about them."
"Who?" I ask.
"The people who lived here. I need to tell their story."
"My grandmother lived here," I venture.
"Seriously?" Asad and Zoya say in unison.
I nod, telling them how she was an alcoholic, how she was left here by my family, and then forgotten. And how she died here.
"Is that why you wanted to come tonight?" Asad asks.
I nod. "I wanted to find some piece of her here."
"Like an ear or a thumb?" Imran asks. "Maybe we should head over to the morgue?"
"Yuck." I push him. "I mean a piece of her memory— some shred of evidence that her last years didn't suck."
"And have you?" Asad asks.
I shake my head and look away. "I mean, I knew the chances were slim, but I still wanted to try."
"How old were you when she got checked in?" Zoya asks.
"I wasn't even born yet—wasn't even a thought in my parents' minds. But it happened just after my sister Nuzhat's fourth birthday. Apparently, Nuzhat had this Cookie Monster-themed party, and all her friends were there. After she had unwrapped all the presents, my grandmother dismissed herself to go to the bathroom and then came out without any pants or underwear on."
"Just a granny patch?" Imran asks, grimacing.
I nod. "She was so drunk that she forgot to put her clothes back on after she was done. My mother checked her in after that."
I glance back at Imran, half expecting him to make another joke, but instead his face gets all serious—his lips rolled in and his eyes focused downward.
"What's with you?" I ask.
He shakes his head, staring down at his hands.
"Then how come you look about as happy as a granny patch," I joke.
He shrugs.
"Come on, man," Asad pushes.
More shrugging from Imran, and so I'm half thinking this is all an act—just another one of his stupid jokes. But then when he finally does look up, his eyes are serious—sort of a faraway stare that tells me this is no joke, that he does mean business.
"Imran?" I scooch in closer to him and rest a hand on his back.
"My dad's an alcoholic," he says.
"Seriously?" Asad asks.
He nods. "It's how I got my black eye. It's why I'm even here tonight."
"You're here because your father's an alcoholic?" Zoya asks.
"It beats hanging out at home with a pissed-off drunk, believe me."
I continue to pat his back, noticing how sad he looks— for the first time tonight—and knowing somehow that it's why he's always making jokes. "Does he want to get help?" I ask.
"Sure. He'll take a ride to the liquor store any time you want to give him one. You can even treat him to some Crown Royal."
"Have you ever thought about having an intervention?" I ask. "I mean, what does your mom think?"
"She got sick of the bullshit and left."
"That's really rough," Asad says.
"I'm sorry," I say, holding back from offering any more advice—for now, anyway—even though I feel like I have so much to say. After I learned about what happened to my grandmother, I did all this research on how to plan and execute a successful intervention, imagining how things could have been done differently.
"I'm sorry, too," Zoya says.
I move my hand down to squeeze Imran's palm, suddenly feeling the urge to tell a joke. Suddenly realizing how much he and I really do have in common.
Book Talk
Shiv Shakti
124