I must say I have been pleasantly surprised by Bhola. One of the perks of stardom is the discovery of long-lost aunts and uncles, distant cousins and never-before-seen nephews. Bhola is one such distant relative. He turned up at my flat one bright morning, claiming to be my Aunt Jaishree's son from Mainpuri, and beseeched me to get him a role in a film. I took one look at him and burst out laughing. With his slick oiled hair, bulging tummy and rustic manners he seemed more suited to agriculture than culture. But I took pity on his awkwardness and employed him as my assistant secretary cum Man Friday, promising him a role in a film if his performance proved satisfactory. It's been two years since then. I think even he has given up on his dream of becoming an actor, but he has really flowered as a sidekick. Not only is he useful in keeping troublesome fans and autograph-hunters at bay, he is also good with electronics and computers (a technology that still intimidates me). In addition, he has shown wonderful financial acumen. I have gradually started trusting him with my accounts, though I still cannot trust him with my dates. That task continues to be performed by my secretary Rakeshji, whom I share with Rani.

Bhola has no special gift, no real talent. He is utterly mediocre. But then the world is made up of ordinary people. Totally ordinary people, whose only job is to serve the extraordinary, the exceptional, the glorious…

31 May

My fingers ache. I have just finished signing nearly nine hundred letters. It is a ritual I have to perform four times a year, another small price for stardom.

The letters are replies to fans who write to me from all corners of the world, from Agra to Zanzibar. Five thousand letters arrive every week, twenty thousand a month. Out of these Rosie Mascarenhas, my publicist, selects approximately a thousand for personal replies, which consist of a standard boilerplate text expressing my happiness at communicating with my admirers, some blah, blah, blah about my forthcoming projects, and closing with best wishes for the health, happiness and prosperity of my fans. The letters are accompanied by a glossy photograph showing a close-up of me – a nice demure one for female fans and children, and a moderately hot one for the adult male fans. Rosie suggested the autopen option to me, in which a machine reproduces my signature on every letter, saving me the hassle of personally signing them, but I overruled her. As it is, I belong to the unreal world of films where everything is fake. I want my signature at least to be real. I think of the glow on my fans' faces when they open my letter and see my picture. There will be screams of surprise and delight. The letter will then be shown to family, friends and relatives. The entire neighbourhood will bask in its halo for a while. It will be talked about for days, discussed, debated, kissed and sobbed over. It may be photocopied, laminated, framed and, quite possibly, even worshipped.

The pain in my fingers disappears.

As a rule Rosie does not open letters marked 'Personal' or 'Confidential'. These come directly to me and have provided me with hours of amusement. India is the most star-struck nation on earth. Every second person wants to become an actor, come to Mumbai and make it big in Bollywood. These wannabees write to me from dusty villages and corner paan shops, from malaria-infested swamps and tiny fishing hamlets. They write in broken Hindi and pidgin English, in faltering sentences and floundering syntax, wanting simply to share their dreams with me and asking me for advice, assistance, and sometimes money. Most letters are accompanied by photographs in which they preen and pout, simper and smoulder, and try to compress all their wonderment, longing, commitment and desperation into a freeze frame which they hope will melt a producer's heart. But however hard they try, their rough edges cannot be hidden by the indiscriminating lens of the camera. Their essential crudity and vulgarity spills out of the poses which proclaim not only the silliness of their subjects but also their abject helplessness.

I find the letters from the girls especially disturbing. Some of them are as young as thirteen. They want to run away from their homes, forsake their families, for fifteen minutes of fame. They have no idea what it takes, what it costs, to make it in Mumbai. Even before they made it to the casting couch, they would be lured by some grubby photographer or smooth-talking agent to a steamy massage parlour or sleazy brothel. And their brittle dreams of stardom would crumble against the nightmarish reality of sexual slavery.

But I take a leaf out of my own life story and do not respond to these girls. I have neither the inclination to intervene in their sorry lives, nor the power to alter the trajectories of their doomed destinies. It is the law of the jungle. Only the fittest will survive. The rest are consigned to the dustbin of history. Or the trashcan of society.

16 June

Vicky Rai called again today. He has been pursuing me for the last two years. A real pest. But Rakeshji says I should humour him. He is a producer of sorts, after all, and he does have clout.

'Why won't you talk to me?' Vicky Rai asked.

'Because there is nothing to say,' I replied. 'How did you get my new mobile number?'

'I know you change it every three months. But I have my sources. You have always underestimated my power, Shabnam. There is much that I can do for you.'

'Such as…?'

'Such as getting you a National Award. My dad can pull a few strings in government. Now don't tell me you don't The Actress 33 want a National Award. These Filmfare Awards and Hero Honda trophies are OK, but eventually every good actor and actress craves a National Award. It's the ultimate recognition.'

'Well, I am not interested in awards at present.'

'OK, how about if I offer you a part in my next film? It's called Plan B. I've already signed Akshay for it. It's going into production next June.'

'I don't have any dates free in June. I will be shooting in Switzerland with Dhawan saab.'

'If you can't spare a month, can you at least spare a night? Just one night?'

'What for?'

'I don't have to spell it out now, do I? Just meet me in Delhi and everything will be taken care of. Or would you prefer me to come to Mumbai?'

'I would prefer you to end this call, and not bother me again, Mr Vicky Rai,' I said firmly and switched off my mobile.

What does the bastard think, that I am a saleable commodity? I hope he gets convicted for the murder of Ruby Gill and rots in jail for the rest of his life.

30 July

Jay Chatterjee is so frustrating; I want to tear my hair out. Arguably the most brilliant director in the industry, he is also the most eccentric. He met me at RK Studios today and said that he had decided to cast me in his new film.

I started trembling with excitement. A Jay Chatterjee film means not only a mega hit, but also plenty of awards. He is the Steven Spielberg of Bollywood.

'What is it going to be about?' I asked, trying to control my palpitations.

'It is about a boy and a girl,' he said.

'What kind of girl?'

'A very beautiful girl, from a very rich family,' he said in his usual dreamy manner, fingers playing an imaginary piano. 'Let us call the girl Chandni. Chandni's parents want her to marry an industrialist's son, but Chandni happens to fall for a mysterious drifter called K.'

'How mysterious!' I chimed.

'Yes. K is of this world and yet not of it. He exudes a power, a hypnotic pull which sweeps Chandni off her feet. She falls under his spell, becomes his slave and only then does she realize that the stranger is actually the Prince of Darkness.'

'Wow, the Devil himself?'

'Exactement! My plan is to narrate this story in two voices, those of Chandni and K. It is the interplay of the two stories, the dramatic tension in their relationship, that will power the narrative. So what do you think?'