Saif Asif Khan is desperately seeking Katrina

When my grandfather left his sleepy UP town for Bombay in the middle of the previous century, it was ostensibly to set up a business in the big city.

However, I suspect that it was the charm of Bombay’s film industry which secretly compelled him to sacrifice the comfort of his ancestors’ land.

And really, who can judge a simple small-towner for wanting to breathe the same air as Vijayantimala or Madhubala?

So when I learnt that I would be visiting Mumbai for business recently, I was just as excited about seeing the beauties of our times in the flesh.

I dreamt of bumping into Kareena while buying a SIM card.

Or chancing upon Deepika while waiting to cross the road.

But most of all I dreamt of catching a glimpse of Katrina breezing past me in a motorcar while I sampled the vada pav at a roadside eatery.

Katrina. Oh, Katrina. That paragon of female beauty, that goddess of celluloid who seems as at ease parading around the Pyramids of Giza in a chiffon sari, as she is sizzling in Sheila, whose presence in a movie is enough to steel one to sit through 150 minutes of Salman Khan jokes revolving around toilet humour, inappropriate noises and an annoying sidekick.

On television, she exhorts the virtues of using a particular brand of shampoo, promising the viewer that they will end up with silken tresses like hers.

She sinfully assures us that the diabetic concoction of mango pulp, sugar and food colouring that she is peddling is desperate to meet us.

She flashes the victory sign at the camera, as she sashays past a bunch of lesser mortals, who marvel at her choice of depilatory cream, and possibly collapse out of envy.

And she stares alluringly at you from billboards in advertisements for the aforementioned soap tablet, beckoning you to experience for yourself the miraculous suds of beautification.

It is not Katrina’s wooden acting, but her mixed lineage which makes her so appealing to the average Pakistani guy.

“You see, she is half Kashmiri and half British,” explained one of my friends earnestly.

“What’s more, I hear she has seven or eight sisters, and is the eldest. And you know what they say about a set of sisters. The youngest is always the prettiest!”

I ran my mind over all the sets of sisters I knew. Barring the case of Kareena vs. Karisma, I thought my friend’s theory was tosh.

Despite this, I set out for the famous Bandra suburb of Mumbai, where all the stars live, ready to wolf-whistle if I spotted a star going about her daily chores.

My cabbie was a genial fellow named Raj, who spoke in pidgin Hindi and had his mouth full of a vile mixture of betel nut and mainpuri. As we drove up and down the leafy streets of Pali Hill, he helpfully pointed out various landmarks.

“This is where Sanjay Dutt lives. This is where Dilip Kumar used to live, but he’s sold his house now. Here is Shahrukh Khan’s house…”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, waiting for a mention of her hallowed name as he rattled off an endless list of Khans, Kapoors and Bachhans.

“But where is Katrina’s flat?” I finally blurted out. “Who cares about the rest!”

Raj gave me a shocked look, as if I had insulted the gods of Bollywood by referring to them as mere mortals.

“She’s one of the new ones. She has a flat here somewhere, but I’m not sure exactly where,” he said drily.

My heart sank a little. Surely, I couldn’t travel to Mumbai, the home of Indian cinema, and return home without seeing Katrina. What would I tell my friends?

“Okay, how about her friends’ houses; you know, places she might be seen at? Where does Salman Khan live? Akshay Kumar?”

His face lit up at the mention of Salman Khan, and he proceeded to drive me around the neighbourhood.

I finally gave up on this expedition and turned my mind to the evening’s schedule, when there was to be a musical programme, with a special appearance towards the end by “a surprise Bollywood celebrity”.


The organisers had promised us a real treat: “You will surely not be disappointed. We Indians know how to host a good party, no?”

In spite of all the odds piled up against the possibility, I had been hoping that the surprise appearance would be by a big star. Someone famous and pretty.

Could it be Katrina? Surely not. Never in a million years would Her Royal Katness stoop down to doing something so pedestrian.

But then, she had attended a wedding in Lahore a few years ago as a special flown-in Bollywood guest, hadn’t she? So, who knew, it just might be her!

Imagine my utter dismay when I was greeted with the anticlimax of the century that evening.

As a murmur of excitement ran through the crowd assembled in their chairs, and I turned my head in anticipation towards the door where the celebrity had allegedly made an entry, it turned out that it was none other than an eighties’ starlet well-known for films involving vengeful snake-to-human reincarnations out to thrash ne’er-do-wells.

Since the average age of attendees was fifty-plus, the aura of exhilaration was understandable.

They were all probably reliving their youth as angry young men.

But for someone, who had harboured the improbable likelihood that the celebrity would be less serpent, and more siren, the let-down was abominable.

The septuagenarian seated next to be trembled with delight and muffled his joy, as the guest of honour snaked her way through the crowd and sat at a table near ours.

For the rest of the evening, I counted the number of bald pates and double chins around me.

I was supposed to leave Mumbai three days later. My schedule didn’t really allow for any more stalking, even though that may admittedly have been far more productive than the futility of poring over PowerPoint presentations and trying to make head or tail of balance sheets, which is what we did for the remainder of the visit.

I continued to scour the local gossip mags day after day, page after page, trying to find out if there were any spots where Katrina had been spotted recently, hoping all the time that they were near my hotel.

But there seemed to be no mention of her at all. On the last day, I read a newspaper which finally reported that she was apparently outside India, shooting for a new film.

I could have kicked myself then and there. It almost made me feel that the trip had been worthless.

Forget the networking and the business contracts and the factory visits and the MoUs. I would return home without having accomplished what I had set out to do, and that was all that mattered.

I knew I should have travelled to India a month ago —  the business party we were supposed to meet would have been in Europe then, but Katrina would have been at home.

I packed my bags reluctantly, and almost wished I had never bought the I <3 Katrina T-shirt from Sunday Bazaar, which I had been wearing as an undershirt all week — just in case, you know.

That day, the monsoon rains began lashing the city with full fervour in true Bollywood fashion. Stuck in a traffic jam,

I decided to ditch the cab in favour of walking to the airport, which was fifteen minutes away. As I trudged my way up the ramp to the International Departures section, I swear I saw someone looking exactly like Katrina being driven away from the International Arrivals area in a big black car.

I fumbled around in my bags for my camera. By the time it surfaced,her alleged car had moved a fair distance down to the nearest traffic light.

I had two choices: either I could proceed to the check-in counter or I could abandon my 30 kilo trolley bag with all its valuables on the bridge and run down with my camera to where the car had stopped.

Naturally, I chose the latter.

As I reached the car, the traffic light turned green and the car stirred into action.

The stylishly dressed female passenger at the back turned around to see who the sprinting fellow with the camera was.

I didn’t wait to verify who it was. In the split second before the car zoomed away, I just switched on the camera, and clicked the capture button. Would you believe it, the screen displayed a ‘memory full’ message…

Published in The Express Tribune, Ms T, October 14^th, 2012.