SHE was bored. The music was pumping. The drinks were flowing. And she was dressed to kill. She stood in front of the bar, running her eyes over the couples slowdancing. And then she saw him. She hadn't expected this chance to drop so easily into her grasp. She watched him through the fug of cigarette smoke and Novocaine in her head. The tawdry disco lights shone on his gleaming black hair and the silk lapels of his tux. For a moment she felt that tiny flame of desire glow between her legs before the pain snuffed it out.
Well, he was here, at this party for junior artistes, spot boys and riff raff. The democratic director slumming it the night before the launch of Barriers, his sixth major movie: Karan Jehaan Adyar, trendsetter of youth cinema, the man who breaks barriers. The screen hero in any of his works was just a puppet for this man's legend to use and discard. She began smoothly to weave through the crowd towards him. When I'm finished with you, she thought as he turned his thousand-watt smile on her, you'll just be the man who breaks.
'Hello,' he said. She knew he'd only greeted an attractive woman in a black velvet dress; he hadn't a clue who she was
'You're…Naina, aren't you?'
She cursed privately. He did know who she was.
'How are you?' he gushed, a small frown nevertheless nestling between his perfect brows.
'But… weren't you in hospital? You had an accident, in that last stunt, where Pooja was supposed to go over the cliff on the stolen bike. Wasn't that you?'
She shrugged. 'I'm all better now, as you can see. Thank you for asking.'
He grinned. 'Well, you certainly look well in that dress.'
'I like to do my job thoroughly,' she said without a flicker of emotion
The stunt had been doomed from the start; three takes and the camera had failed every time. On the fourth, a bad safety net had smacked her into the rocks below. The boy who had strung it up was new; Karan never kept his staff for long. He was too exacting, too brusque
'No doubt,' he said, his eyes on her body. 'Want to come and stand on the terrace with me? It's awfully hot in here.'
She turned without a word; he followed. He had once told a magazine, 'I'm a sucker for mysterious women. All these screaming fans thrust their autograph books at me; I tell them, you're doing it all wrong!'
She smiled. She knew how to do it right. When he came out on to the terrace she was zipping up the leather jacket.
He gasped: the Hayabusa gleamed in the moonlight. 'How did you get that up here?'
'The same way I'll get it down. Are you coming?'
She saw the greed in his eyes. 'Let me drive.'
'Once we're on the highway.'
He was barely on when she gunned the engine and roared up the slanted roof of the lobby. And then there was only air and a soft purr, and below them bright car-shapes like sweets in a box. And then the grassy bank at the end of the hotel's garden came up like a friend's hand; she kissed it lightly with the back wheel humming with power, and they were running level on the ground as though the jump had never happened.
'Wow!' he said. 'You…you ride amazingly.'
'I've had a lot of practice.' She knew he was hooked. A fierce jolt of triumph and pain ran through her battered body, and she squeezed the bike with her knees. Come on baby, do this for me, gently now, gently…
They hit the highway at a hundred and forty. 'Hey, you said you'll let me drive.' But he sounded nervous. This stretch was fairly straight, but up ahead the mountainside loomed with its hairpin bends and blind corners.
'Of course,' she took his hands one by one and placed them on the handlebars.
Then, steadying the steering with one hand, she swung a leg round the bike, turned and straddled him.
'Look over my shoulder and drive,' she said, as the leather jacket flew away on the wind.
'Do you think we should…' but the thought of what they were doing melted his protest. It wasn't that it was pleasurable or even comfortable, but it was legend.
She could see in his eyes all the music videos and bad B flicks he'd seen where the girl does just this to the man, and they held him in the pincers of his dreams.
She unzipped the dress and pulled it over her head. Some of the bandages went with it, and fresh blood spilled from her ribs. She didn't cry out. The skin from her back flapped in the slipstream like ragged flags. She wrapped her arms round him. Her feet held the steering dead straight and she looked deep into his eyes as they ran out of road.
By Rimi B Chatterjee, Times Of India, Kolkata