To the moon Read online

  She always had the entrepreneurial zeal and I remember having a conversation with her sometime in 2009 or 2010, where she very seriously wanted to figure out what would be the cost of acquiring a licence for a radio station and the capital and operating costs involved in running a 24/7 international radio station.

  Seeing MissMalini go from a section on the Go92.5 website to where it currently stands truly blows my mind and reiterates my belief that if you love what you do and do it well, nothing can stop you. I would like to see MissMalini now go and conquer Bharat. What New York is to Mumbai, Mumbai is to Aligarh, Bhopal, Dhanbad and Rajkot. There is this huge market waiting for MissMalini, but it needs to be in a language and a tonality they understand and relate to. Without diluting the aspirational brand appeal, she must find a way to reach and connect with every aspirational eighteen-year-old in Raipur.

  Blog #21: (Malini’s) Mumbai Via Page 3

  While I was at the radio station, I was offered a column in the Mid-Day. It was titled ‘Malini’s Mumbai’ (just a stone’s throw from the digital reboot known as MissMalini.com today) and would primarily cover the Page-3 beat and nightlife in the city. Now, in the Indian context, Page 3 is quite an interesting beast. It is basically tier-two in the Bollywood food chain and consists of socialites, industrialists, the rich wives of South Bombay, some TV stars and such. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not dissing them. In fact, I’ve made some of my closest friends on this circuit after many years of having to attend every soiree in the city. But initially I used to be shy and uncomfortable while covering this beat and would timidly ask people to pose for pictures which I shot on my digital camera and flip recorder. Slowly, though, they started to warm up to me. This was aided by the fact that their fear of me reporting something scandalous wore off over time.

  Over the years, I have found three conversations that almost always make an appearance at these parties.

  *Disclaimer, these conversations are usually limited to five specific people. I cannot name them in this book, so use the theatre of your mind.

  1.

  Page 3 person: Listen, I’m starting a new project, but no one knows about it ok. It’s off the record haan, off the record!

  Me: Sure, no problem, I won’t say anyth…

  Page 3 person: [Elaborate self-promotion followed by] Actually, chal you can write it if you want.

  [Me: Shit, I wasn’t paying attention.]

  2.

  Page 3 person: [On the phone the day after a party] Listeeeen, I saw your blog, but my picture isn’t there. What happened?

  Me: Um, so I asked my fashion blogger and she didn’t like your outfit, so, we thought it’s better to leave it out since it was your birthday…otherwise I don’t stop my bloggers from having an honest opinion…(To be honest, the outfit was a total disaster. Imagine a giant loofah and a zebra in the blender and…never mind, I can’t.)

  Page 3 person: No, no, post it! I don’t mind. Let them say anything. Just post the picture.

  Me: Okay then.

  3.

  Page 3 person: Oh, my god! Malini you’ve lost SO much weight.

  Me: Oh, really? Not on purpose…

  [1 month later]

  Page 3 person: Oh, my god! Malini you’ve lost SO much weight!

  Me: Oh…thanks? (Also, how plump was I really?)

  [2 months later]

  Page 3 person: Oh, my god! Malini you’ve lost SO much weight.

  Me: By now I should be practically invisible.

  But I must give a shout-out here to Ash Chandler and Reshma Bombaywala for being so kind in the early years and for always inviting me to join their table for a drink or two. They did this with no agenda and no expectation of a picture or mention in my column the next day. I have some very fond memories of us laughing our asses off at Dome at the Intercontinental and singing karaoke at Jazz by the Bay after a signature Mumbai 24-hour brunch!

  I did, however, in Spider-man style (you know, with great power comes great responsibility) use my column to point out one incident with a notorious, rich adult-child that disturbed me. Here’s what I said:

  MALINI’S MUMBAI:

  10 November 2008

  Here’s the scoop on my Goa run-in with the notorious Mr AR. After introducing us to his ‘wife’ Monique (a pretty Australian model he’s been seeing lately) he proceeded to make a variety of wildly inappropriate sexual comments – involving her – for (what I can only imagine was) entertainment value and went on to insinuate that any girl who didn’t throw herself at him was probably a lesbian (or just a little out of touch with Page 3 perhaps?) At any rate, for someone considered to be one of India’s most eligible bachelors I’m really not that surprised he’s single!

  *Sorry, can’t name names, my editor will have a heart attack. But surely you can hazard a guess! Or go find out on my blog.

  The circuit erupted in a series of phone calls to me saying, ‘Oh no, you didn’t!’ Well, it seems I had. A decade has passed and a few years ago we made our peace. I also have to give him credit for having ‘calmed down’ significantly since then (but don’t hold your breath).

  So, for many years I would spend nearly four times a week exploring ‘celebrity’ nightlife and documenting it in a printed column in first person with an individual voice. Sounds familiar? Crazy how the universe works, right?

  I also thought it was terribly interesting that so many people agreed to play caricatures of themselves (or each other) in Madhur Bhandarkar’s 2005 movie Page 3, which was loosely based on the reality, and sometimes murky underbelly, of this ‘social’ culture.

  The only time my column deviated from the glitz and glam of Mumbai’s ‘swish set’ (a term I learned was extremely popular among many other Page 3 reporters!) was the day after the terrorist attacks on 26/11. The column is presented in its entirety below.

  26/11

  Today I can’t bring myself to wax eloquent about the ‘who’s who’ and ‘wear’s what’ of Mumbai glitterati.

  Today I need to tell you like it is.

  What started out as an average Wednesday in Mumbai (laced with just enough excitement for an evening of disco salsa with new friends) quickly spiralled into a night of total terror as I watched my Mumbai burn. I had plans to meet my friend for drinks at Dragonfly, which happens to be bang opposite the lobby of the Trident Oberoi. Ironically, I had suggested we meet in the hotel lobby at 9:45 p.m. since it would be easier for his cabby to find. By what feels like much more than a stroke of luck I happened to arrive early and decided to head up to Dragonfly instead and told him to stop and call me when he took the ‘INOX left’. Literally 30 seconds after he stepped out of his taxi we heard (what I immediately assumed to be fireworks) and saw sparks flying around the main entrance of the Oberoi lobby. I recall my brain trying to rationalize this odd display, cricket celebrations? Perhaps a prank? And I blurted out, ‘Haha, it’s either fireworks or gunshots, either way maybe we should go upstairs!’

  The next 20 minutes were spent learning disco moves with the good-natured salsa crew I’ve been raving about (with even more reason now). Even two tremors later (apparently, the grenades that set the Oberoi ablaze) we couldn’t possibly have imagined what was really going down. I think it only hit me when the owner of the club told me, ‘I have bullet-proof glass, come I’ll show you.’ And whisked me away to the adjoining restaurant and pointed at a freshly lodged bullet in one of the tall glass windows. From this point on, the night is a blur of frantic phone calls, SMS updates, angry reminders of ‘keep-away-from-the-glass, please!’, phone-battery lows (or woes), news-channel surfing, friendly sniffer-dogs, tablecloth blankets and two failed attempts to leave. We watched stunned, reports flooded in of explosion after explosion and the death toll kept rising as this mindless conspiracy unravelled itself.

  I don’t think I will ever be able to erase the memory of the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel dome engulfed in flames or the agonizingly young and bitter face of an AK47-wielding terrorist. Even now, the chilling realization that I re
main unharmed while so many lives have been erased in an instant humbles me. At 5:00 a.m., when we finally made our way home full of trepidation and fear, dawn brought us an eerie sense of calm as oblivious joggers made their daily trek up Marine Drive while the battle raged on less than a kilometre away.

  I don’t know if this qualifies as insensitive or resilient, but I do know this; in times of crisis, when we need it most, a motley crew of Mumbaikers will always pull out all the stops and show you the love. Thank you, Pankhil, Shaneen, Derek, Anshul, Avan, Kaytee, Shyaam, Swati, Sahiba, Nasir, Tarana, Diana, Magalie, Aalia, Andrew, the generous guys who dropped us home, and the life-saver girl with the phone charger. (I still have it!) I feel like I lost a little faith but gained a lot of friends.

  And I’d like to issue a clarification for all my British readers, who giggled uncontrollably when I said I write a Page 3 column. It is only The Sun (a newspaper in the UK) that carries a large photograph of a topless, bare-breasted female glamour model on its third page while their gossip is on Page 6. We had the Mid-Day Mate, I forget what page she was on.

  Blog #22: The Abhishek Bachchan Fiasco

  As I’d earlier mentioned, the breakfast show hosts Jaggu and Tarana had started doing a lot of celebrity interviews and the rest of the DJs (sorry, I still can’t say RJ. Radio Jockey is fine, but not ‘RJ’!) would pile on for a bite or two for their shows now and again.

  One fine day I heard that Abhishek Bachchan was coming in and I thought it would be great to get him for a quick chat on my show. But I wanted to reveal my rocky start before I achieved a comfortable nonchalance, many years later, when I realized they were human too. As to why this interview crashed and burned the way it did is still a mystery to me. As per my calculations it was 10 per cent: the uncomfortably warm tiny second studio space, 20 per cent: his cool cat demeanour and 70 per cent: my total awkwardness. Allow me to explain.

  Jaggu and Tarana had Abhishek in the studio that morning. For some reason, I was lurking around for the entirety of their show; just making some persistently awkward eye-contact with Abhishek Bachchan. By the fourth or fifth time of aforementioned awkwardness, I’m sure he had pegged me as some weirdo. Finally, after their 45-minute chat with him about Bluffmaster!, I ushered him into a much tinier recording studio at the end of the hall to record my links. Now, not only was this corridor a little dingy, the second studio had distinctly jail-cell dimensions. It was decked out with two plastic seats, a small round table and a linoleum carpet that smelt like…well, a linoleum carpet! And to my memory, our interview went something like this.

  Me: Hey everyone! I’m so excited! [I said that word too much, I still say it too much] I’ve got the awesome Abhishek Bachchan in the studio with me and I’m going to ask him some questions!

  Abhishek Bachchan: *no reaction*

  Me: *nervousness kicking in* Um…so, Abhishek, do you listen to the radio?

  Abhishek Bachchan: Ya, I do.

  Me: What shows do you like?

  Abhishek Bachchan: I listen to Jaggu & Tarana.

  Me: What other shows do you listen to?

  Abhishek Bachchan: *looking a little puzzled* Well, I listen mostly in the morning on my way to shoots.

  Me: But do you like any other shows?

  Abhishek Bachchan: *now looking at me, slightly puzzled*

  Me: *in full panic mode, what was I doing? Was I trying to get him to say he listens to my show? Why? Abort! Abort!*

  To recover from this volcanically rocky start I went with…

  Me: So, have you ever been in love?

  Abhishek Bachchan: Sure, everyone’s been in love.

  Me: When were you in love?

  Abhishek Bachchan: The last time I was in love, I was in love.

  Me: Do you like being in love?

  Abhishek Bachchan: Yee-ees… *looking at me like I was bat-shit crazy and making eyes at the studio door, which was behind ME and clearly of some concern to him.*

  I proceeded to play some demented rapid fire with him about whether he liked coffee better or tea, clouds better or grass, and who knows what else! At this point, my entire ability to recover from a clumsy situation had decided to leave the building. No, scratch that. My ability to recover had taken one look at crazy me, put on a parachute and jumped off this doomed ride, giving me one last miserable shake of its head as it evacuated from my mind. So, ya, it was an utter disaster.

  Look, I know it sounds dramatic but I was genuinely depressed for two whole days after this encounter (almost as depressed as I was when someone told me about the Bonsai Kitty, DO NOT LOOK THAT UP, you will also be scarred for life, just walk away, walk away, I say). I felt embarrassed, incompetent and stupid, and hoped I never had to interview a celebrity ever again! Well, we all know how that worked out.

  The point of telling you this sad story that remains in the recesses of my mind (just like you saw all emotional memories do – whether brought about by joy or sadness – in the amazing animated movie Inside Out) a whole decade later is this: It happens. We all crash and burn and that’s how we learn. Wait that rhymed! And as we all know, anything that rhymes is true.

  This oddly powerful memory has stayed with me, and I always wondered why. I think I finally figured it out. It was probably the biggest lesson I learned about the ability to psyche oneself out, to convince yourself in a moment that you are not capable of something, inadvertently making it a self-fulfilling prophecy. Since that time, whenever I am nervous about talking to someone, I think about two things: Who would they be nervous talking to? And how would I feel if someone was nervous talking to me? These two questions make my nervousness just go away. Because the answer to both those questions – if expressed out loud – would surely be, ‘Aww, don’t be!’ Try it and tell me if it works for you. I have yet to crack a cure for stage fright, however, which I have TONs of (like curl-your-toes type of anxiety of public speaking) but I’m working on it!

  Dear Abhishek Bachchan, can I get a redo? I swear I won’t ask you what blogs you read, but I’m not making any promises on questions about love!

  PS. When I met Junior Bachchan again, a decade later, I wanted to tell him this story. One day I will or maybe I’ll just send him this book! But I love that when I was interviewing him and the cast of Happy New Year, he said, ‘Ooooh, you’re MissMalini! I always thought you were the cartoon I see on Twitter. You’re real.’ Haha, well you got the cartoon part right for sure.

  Blog #23: Hello, Radio? It’s Bollywood Calling

  For the near-decade I spent ‘on the air’, I had done pretty much every show shift known to man…and radio. I even had some pretty funny show names like ‘Tiger Time with MissMalini’ sponsored by – you guessed it – Tiger beer! My friends would never tire of saying, ‘Hey, Malini, what time is it?’ and before I could look at my watch and naively attempt to tell them the actual time, they would yell, ‘IT’S TIGER TIME!’ Thanks, guys. Yup, that never got old.

  Then, for a while I hosted a show called ‘Malini till Midnight’ (since I love alliteration so much, you see) and I’d get my friends to host the show with me and attempt to solve people’s love problems. I called them the ‘Love Crew’. It was good times. But then one day this happened and I believe I have Mihir Joshi, a fellow radio host, to thank for it:

  I had already started using Twitter to interact with my listeners (on the recommendation of my friend and sometimes pool partner, Rohit Gupta, who, back in June 2008, one opportune night at the Ghetto, said to me, ‘Malini, you should try out this thing called Twitter, I think you’ll definitely like it.’ And on 8 September 2009, Imran Khan tweeted to me saying Mihir had recommended that he listen to my show. We got ‘tweeting’ (I love that, don’t you? Hahaha) and I randomly invited him to come and co-host the show with me some night, not thinking he’d ever say yes, par poochhne main kya jaata hai? (No harm in asking!) But guess what?.

  He agreed to come and host the show with me and play forty of his favourite English songs on one condition, that we call that show
‘Pirate Radio’. I didn’t know or understand the reference at the time but pirate radio was a term used for a band of rogue radio DJs who had captivated the hearts and minds of Britain back in the 1960s by playing pop and rock music to rebel against a government that only wanted classical music to be aired on the radio. There is a brilliant movie that tells this story (even more delightful is the fact that it has some of the cast of Love Actually) called The Boat That Rocked.

  And so, it began. Week after week I would use social media to invite a different Bollywood celebrity to come and host my show with me, LIVE, and get to know them better in the process. My only rule was that I would ask them nothing about their next Bollywood project. Just me, them and their favourite English music.

  You can see their entire playlists and my very amateur attempt at vlogging (which wasn’t even a ‘thing’ back then) on my blog and YouTube channel – MissMalinivideos – if you dig up the 2009 archives! But just for your reading pleasure, here are a few of my favourite ‘Pirate Radio’ conversations.

  IMRAN KHAN

  Unfortunately, Imran deleted his Twitter profile some years later, citing that he just didn’t like the clutter or the trolling, and needed to distance himself from it. But I still have my side of the conversation.

  And why does Imran Khan love the radio so much? He told me live on the air.

  ‘Everyone has a radio. Anyone, anywhere can listen to it. It kind of unites everyone. I drive a fancy, expensive car and I listen to radio in it, and meanwhile there’s a guy going on the train with a little Nokia phone, who’s also listening to the same radio. That’s what I LOVE about it. It’s something that ties us in. We had radio long before we had TV and it has survived.’

  He also introduced me to this awesome song called ‘David Duchovny’ by Bree Sharp who was clearly fan-girling over Duchovny who plays FBI special agent Fox Mulder on X-Files! Check out the lyrics, hilarious.

  David Duchovny, why won’t you love me?