Page 47 of The Bodyguard Proposal

I have to not want it to happen, too. Just as much, if not more.

FOURTEEN

When I was ten, my mother’s career hit a rough patch. Three of her films flopped back to back. Sensing a high fall from popularity, paparazzi swarmed us everywhere we went.

Needing a break, we stopped leaving the house, but started using the swimming pool in our backyard every day that summer. Surrounded by high trees, it became our private little world.

But we didn’t realize trees could be climbed. That you could camp in them for days, eluding the guards posted outside. That someone would go to that extreme.

In the middle of August, an article came out with photos of me at the worst angles. I was mid-laughing where I looked like I was screaming, my hair askew in wet chlorinated knots. Pool water was used to make mud, and then I jumped in that mud.

Headlines followed.

Shreya Thought She Could Raise A Child Single Handedly… Look What Happened

Despite Having Money Single Mother Shreya Chahal Slammed For Her Loose Parenting

Shame On Shreya Chahal for Neglecting This Child

Later, I overheard a conversation between Mom and her agent, Mohinder Uncle. They had no idea I was hiding in the same room underneath a table.

“I warned you,” Mohinder Uncle said. “But you kept Komal, and now it’s affecting the scripts I’m getting for you.”

Frozen, all I could wonder was whether my mom would return me. Since I hadn’t come into her life like normal babies did, would she give me back? Had I ruined our lives?

“Keep Komal hidden,” advised Mohinder Uncle. “Otherwise you might lose what you’ve worked so hard to build.”

“I won’t hide my daughter, even if it risks my career.”

“At least dress her like a movie star’s child. Make her charming. Convince your fans you are the single mother they can root for again. Otherwise?—”

He didn’t need to finish. I understood.

Mom sacrificed everything to give us this life. Any time we drove by less fortunate neighbourhoods, skirting by the edges of slums, she would talk about volunteering and giving back. In a place just like that is where she found and rescued me. No one knows, but I was the brightest gift put on her path. I know that, but I was also always gobsmacked by the poverty. And I kept thinking I could be given up and abandoned there again if I screwed up.

Suddenly, my behaviour mattered. I was afraid that I would risk us losing everything, so I changed.

I stopped going to the pool. I didn’t laugh with all my teeth, and began hating stains on my clothes, and watched adults around me who walked and talked a certain way and tried to figure out how they made other people happy.

And I kept changing as I got older.

I curated my wardrobe. Dresses, traditional Punjabi suits, and safe colours were chosen.

Also, I didn’t go to college but got an arts degree online. Less exposure meant less opportunity for scandal, something I not only was paranoid about, but hated. Seeing my name in any tabloid made me cringe. Being a young adult in private is bad enough. Doing that awkward, gangly life change in public sounded horrendous. That’s why I made myself as unobtrusive as possible.

Boring.

The thing is, my mother never told me I had to be different. Despite Mohinder Uncle’s warnings, we never had that conversation. Maybe because she thought I wasgrowinginto this version of myself. She believed I was naturally getting more mature. And anyway, after the bad parenting scandal, she featured in a few surprise hit movies the public adored.

She was on top again. We didn’t have to keep hiding.

Yet, the lessons of that summer never left me, and I kept getting reminded of them anytime a famous actor’s kids got in trouble. When the tabloids caught them driving recklessly or peeing on the beach or underage drinking, my mother would have this relieved smile. As in,I’m so glad my daughter is not like this.

Some nights we sat by the pool, trying to spot stars through pollution. We ate almond kulfis and she would bask me in compliments.My planner. My beautiful, intelligent daughter. My little introvert.

Dud labels. That’s how I felt about them for years.

Of course, it got better in my twenties. Or maybe I got better at the little things I let myself do, like my anonymous internet trolling I self-justify because I only go after bad people. Also Reena and Nim help me be free, too. It took a long time, but around them I’m not robot-Komal. We laugh, joke, and be silly because nobody is going to betray each other.

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