Take, for example, what happened yesterday on the return flight from London. I had just entered the first-class cabin of the Air India 777, wearing my latest bottle-green Versace jacket over denim jeans with a studded belt and dark Dior glasses. I settled down in my seat – 1A, as always – and draped my Louis Vuitton crocodile-skin handbag on the seat next to me – 1B, vacant as usual. Ever since that unfortunate incident on the flight to Dubai with the drunken passenger who tried to paw me, I get my producers to reserve and pay for two first-class seats, one for me and the other for my privacy. I kicked off my Blahniks, took out my iPod, adjusted the ear plugs and relaxed. I have discovered that sitting with my ears plugged is the best way to keep pesky fans and autograph-hunting air hostesses and pilots at bay. The ear plugs allow me to observe my environment, while absolving me of the need to respond to it.
So there I was, immersed in my private digital ecosystem, when in walked the air hostess with another woman and a little boy in tow.
'I'm sorry to disturb you, Shabnamji,' the air hostess intoned in the manner they use when they want to coax a favour out of a passenger, like asking him to move to a different seat. 'Mrs Daruwala here has something very important to tell you.'
I glanced at Mrs Daruwala. She looked just like the Parsi ladies in films – large, fair and florid. She was dressed in a fuchsia sari and smelt of talcum powder. Definitely economy class.
'Shabnamji, oh Shabnamji, what an honour it is for us to meet you,' she gushed in a sing-song voice.
I put on my polite but distant expression, the one that is meant to convey, 'I have no interest in you but am tolerating you, so make it quick.'
'This is my son, Sohrab.' She pointed to the boy, who was dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit complete with a bow tie. 'Sohrab is your biggest fan in the whole world. He has seen each and every one of your films.'
I raised my eyebrows. Half the movies I have done carry an Adult certificate. So either the mother was a liar or the boy was a midget.
Mrs Daruwala's face turned grave. 'Unfortunately, my dear Sohrab has got chronic leukaemia. Blood cancer. We were getting him treated at Sloan-Kettering, but the doctors have given up now. They say he has only a few months to live.' Her voice cracked and tears started flowing down her cheeks. I realized that the script had changed and immediately switched my expression to Caring and Solicitous, the one I employ when I do those publicity visits to cancer patients and the AIDS hospice.
'Oh, I am so sorry to hear this.' I pressed Mrs Daruwala's hand and smiled beatifically at her son. 'Sohrab, would you like to talk to me? Here, why don't you come and sit down next to me.' I removed my handbag from the adjacent seat and placed it at my feet.
Sohrab accepted the offer immediately, plonking himself down on 1B as if he had been travelling first class all his life. 'Mummy, can you leave us alone for a while?' he said peremptorily in the tone of a boss dismissing his secretary.
'Yes, of course, son. But don't trouble Shabnamji.' Mrs Daruwala wiped her tears and beamed at me. 'This is like a dream come true for him. Just give him some precious moments of your time. Sorry, again, eh.' Then she went waddling back to her seat.
I looked at Sohrab, who was gaping at me like an obsessed lover. His intense gaze was a bit unsettling. I wondered what had I got myself into.
'So how old are you, Sohrab?' I asked, trying to put him at ease.
'Twelve.'
'That's a nice age to be. You are learning a lot and also have a lot to look forward to, don't you?'
'I have nothing to look forward to. Because I will never be thirteen. I will be dead in three months' time,' he replied in a completely deadpan manner, without any trace of emotion. Frankenstein couldn't have said it any better.
'Oh, don't say that. I am sure you will be fine,' I said and gently patted his arm.
'I will not be fine,' Sohrab replied. 'But that is not important. What is important is for me to know something before I die.'
'Yes, what is it that you want to know?'
'Promise me that you will reply.'
'Of course. Promise.' I flashed my veneers at him. Things would be simpler now, I thought. I'm a pro at dealing with my little fans. All they want is to know the name of my favourite film, hear about my forthcoming projects and whether I have any plans to star with their favourite actors. 'Go right ahead, Sohrab.' I snapped my fingers. 'I am ready for your question.'
Sohrab leaned towards me. 'Are you a virgin?' he whispered.
It was as clear a confirmation as I could get that sitting next to me was Psycho Junior.
Of course that was the end of my conversation with the little twerp – I sent him packing pronto. The air hostess also received a tongue-lashing from me, which ensured that no more terminally ill passengers interrupted my flight from then on.
Later, when my anger had cooled, I reflected on Sohrab's question. He was crude and rude enough to ask me, but I am sure the twenty million Indians who claim to be in love with me would be no less keen to know the answer.
Men in India classify women into two categories – available and unavailable. The sacred cows are their mothers and sisters. The rest are fodder for their voyeuristic dreams and masturbatory fantasies. Any girl who wears a T-shirt in this country is considered loose. And I am seen most often in figure-hugging costumes, bosom thrusting at the camera, hips bumping and grinding to some catchy beat. No wonder I have been described as the ultimate wet dream. And the more unattainable I seem, the more desirable I become. They write me letters in blood, threatening to immolate themselves if I don't send them an autographed photo. Some send me semen samples, in discoloured patches on tissue paper. Marriage proposals come for me by the thousand, from village idiots and lonely call-centre executives. A men's magazine has made me a standing offer for a nude photo-shoot and sent me a blank cheque. Even women send me rakhis proclaiming me as their sister, hoping to enlist my support in keeping their men from straying. Pre-pubescent girls write me flattering letters, 28 SUSPECTS asking me to pray for them to become similarly endowed.
38-26-36 is my magic number. In an age of silicone synthetics I represent natural beauty and bounty. I am pure anatomy, and yet my appeal transcends my vital statistics. I exude an orgasmic sweetness which arouses and inflames men. They don't see me. They see only my breasts, get lost in them, become tongue-tied, agree to my every whim and fancy. Call it cynical exploitation of the repressed id, or the unfair prerogative of celebrity, but it has given me all I wanted from life, and then some. Despite all the changes of appearance, life is indestructibly powerful and pleasurable. So said Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche, my Master. I have been extracting every bit of pleasure from life over the last three years, but is it compensation enough for the misery I endured in the nineteen years previously?
31 March
I was invited today as Chief Guest to a function to honour the memory of Meena Kumari, the 'Tragedy Queen', who died this day thirty-five years ago. It was a terribly boring programme, laced with the same unctuous speeches one hears at every award ceremony, and it made me wonder. Is an actor's persona confined only to what is seen on the screen? Cinema is so one-dimensional, just a stream of light, which Jean-Paul Sartre described as 'everything, nothing and everything reduced to nothing'. If I were to be judged solely by my films, history would remember me simply as a vacuous glamour doll. But I am much more than a trifling celluloid dream. And when my diaries are eventually published (with suitable editing, of course), the world will acknowledge this too. I have already thought of an excellent title for the book: A Woman of Substance: The Shabnam Diaries.