TAKE ONE

I was transfixed. Fully focused on the TV screen. There was pin-drop silence, which was amazing for a room crammed so full of people that there was barely space to move.

“And the winner is…”

“Eeeeeeeeekkkkk…” I squeezed the arm of my bestie, Priyanka. A little too hard, apparently.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, Pri!” I said. “I’m just so nervous. It’s taking ages!”

“Shhh!” said Auntie Brinda from the other end of the sofa.

I was about to answer back but Raman Sood, the TV show host, spoke before I could. “…Chintu! Congratulations, Chintu – you’re through to the finals!”

The room erupted. There was screaming, shouting, jumping, cheering.

“He’s done it!” I yelled, leaping off the sofa. “Oh wow! He’s actually done it!”

Chintu had won. The “slum kid” who defied the odds to win five heats of Dance Starz – the biggest TV talent show in India – had bagged a place in the final.

Everyone was buzzing and talking over each other.

“I told you he would do it!” proclaimed Daadi, my grandma. She looked so proud, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Chintu was her own grandson.

“Ma, you always say that – no matter who wins!” my dad shot back.

I grabbed a corner of Priyanka’s T-shirt, tugging her towards the door. “Let’s go to my room,” I whispered, edging past Auntie Poonam who had started waving her arms around in an impression of Chintu’s winning dance.

“What are we gonna do when the show’s over?” Priyanka asked as she plonked herself down on my bed. She lifted my new eyeshadow palette off my dresser and got to work on my eyelids. She was great at makeup, while I was terrible, and she always insisted on giving me a makeover when she came to visit. “I love Dance Starz so much. Chintu was just…amazing! I mean, how is he so flexible? Those back flips!”

Priyanka wasn’t the only one who had been swept up in the talent show’s craze. Even though this was the first series, it seemed that there wasn’t a single family in India that wasn’t glued to their screens on Friday nights.

I had seen every episode. Sometimes, when I was in my room alone, I would pretend I was on the show. I’d do the whole routine, imagining someone was introducing me, and then I’d dance and fantasise that the crowd was going wild for my performance.

Priyanka continued to sweep the shimmery green eyeshadow across my lids, taking a step back to check her work.

“You know, you should have entered, Bela,” she said. “You could have been on your way to fame and riches.”

I opened my eyes wide.

“Keep them shut!” she scolded.

“Are you crazy?” I asked. “Me? Enter Dance Starz? I mean, yes, I’m classically trained, but these TV shows want that modern, stunt kind of dancing. I can’t even do a single back flip!”

Priyanka laughed. “It’s a dance show, not a circus!” She snapped the little box of shimmer shut. “You’re a great dancer, Bela. I don’t know anyone as good as you.”

I smiled. She always championed me, even though I was nowhere near as good as she thought I was. Priyanka was the definition of BFF.

I walked over to the dressing table mirror to admire my new look.

“Mmmm, smells soooo good,” stated Priyanka, closing her eyes and taking a deep whiff of the smell of freshly cooked samosas wafting over from the kitchen.

“Bela! Priyanka!” came Mum’s voice as if on cue. “Food is ready. Here, now!” Mum was forever calling somebody in the household to come and eat. It was funny how she used the same come-and-eat tone each time.

We walked into the kitchen which was a carnival of aromas and animated chatter. Each auntie talked louder than the next, as though the louder they spoke, the greater the importance of their opinion. The funny thing was that they weren’t even my real aunties. I always wondered whether India was the only place where kids addressed every adult as “auntie” or “uncle” out of respect.

“Come girls, sit,” Mum said, frowning a little when she noticed my eyeshadow. She always told me I was too young for makeup but she was the one who had bought it for me as a treat for performing to her students the week before. I’d danced to Tap To My Heartbeat – the hit song of the year. It was ridiculously catchy with its Hindi verses and English chorus against a disco beat.

Apart from being an outstanding dance teacher, Mum was the best cook in our neighbourhood. People were always telling her to start a food business, but with her full-time job as a teaching assistant while also running weekend dance classes, she just didn’t have the time.

Priyanka tucked in while I nabbed two of the smallest samosas. I was known as a picky eater – just like my sister, Zara, who came and plonked herself in my lap.

“Zara, do you have to?” I chided. It was way too hot to have a sticky six-year-old in your lap.

Mum shot me a glance – the glance that said, “She’s your younger sister. You must look after her.”

“When I was your age, I looked after all 4000 of my younger siblings…” I whispered to Priyanka, mimicking Mum’s voice.

Priyanka and I giggled, while Zara slid off my lap and ran away. We grabbed our plates, walked through our narrow, tiled hallway, and went and sat on the front doorstep.

There was no respite from the heat outside but at least it felt less claustrophobic. The near-hysterical chitter chatter of the aunties dimmed just a little. I couldn’t blame Dad for going into his room and closing the door behind him.

“Hey, Bela,” said Rimpi, Auntie Brinda’s eight-year-old daughter and our next-door neighbour. She was on her bike, wearing a frilly pink party dress and somehow expertly gripping the pedals with her rubber flip-flops.

“Did you see the end of the show?” she asked, looking at my plate.

I shook my head. “No, I’m recording it to watch later,” I replied, dipping a corner of my samosa in the homemade chutney. I offered her the other one, which she politely declined.

“Shashi Kumar said he wants one more contestant for the final. So they’re doing a wild show.”

“Wait, what? You mean a wild card show?” I asked, glancing at Priyanka.

“Yes, that’s it!” squealed Rimpi. “It’s video entry. Shashi Kumar said that because so many people couldn’t travel for the live auditions, they’re going to do one more round and find one more finalist. All you have to do is send a video to the Dance Starz website. The best one gets into the final.”

Priyanka and I looked at each other again. She was beaming from ear to ear. I knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Shashi Kumar also said that the finalist will be allowed to bring friends and family members to the actual live event!” our little informer added excitedly. “He said he wants to fill the arena with people who can’t pay for a ticket.”

Ever since Shashi Kumar – former Bollywood hero-turned-movie producer – had launched Dance Starz, he seemed to be on every radio and TV show going, and he never wasted a single opportunity to mention the prize. The overall winner of Dance Starz would bag a place at the most prestigious stage school in the Eastern world: the Bollywood Academy.

The school, owned by Shashi Kumar and other VIPs, was on Kohinoor Island, a thirty-minute crossing from Mumbai. It was still in its first year but was already attended by lots of rich and famous kids, including Shashi’s daughter – child star and model, Monica. The fees were eye-watering, but the message was that you were pretty much guaranteed a job in the industry once you graduated.

To get into that kind of school would be a really big deal.

Priyanka put her plate down. She stood up and pointed at me. “You know exactly what you have to do, Bela. For me, for Rimpi, for our school, for our neighbourhood. For us!”

If she didn’t become a makeup artist, Priyanka would make a great politician.

“Please, Bela! Please!” begged Rimpi, clasping her hands together. “You’re the best dancer in the whole street. The whole neighbourhood! The whole town! You’re the best dancer in the world!”

I smiled at Rimpi. Even though she was clearly exaggerating, it was still flattering.

A couple of local boys who were playing football in the alleyway outside must have heard the elevated shrieking and, before long, I was cornered.

“Do it, man! Just send a video!” encouraged Mujeeb, doing kick-ups as he spoke. He had been in my brother Reuben’s class at primary school and they were still close.

“What’s all the commotion for?” said Mum, suddenly appearing behind me. “Samosa, Mujeeb?” she asked, holding her plate up towards him and his pal.

“No thanks, Auntie,” he said politely, before explaining...