Her breasts are big and high and the nipples brown and pointy with small aureoles. I reckon she's a size 36C.

'Now take off your petticoat,' I ordered.

She started crying. 'Please don't ask me to do this, didi,' she begged me.

The strangeness of the situation was becoming apparent to me. To an outsider it would have looked like a scene straight out of a lesbian film. I relented. 'OK. Forget it. You don't really need to wear Western clothes.'

Ram Dulari picked up her sari and blouse and ran to her bedroom as if she had just been violated. I could hear her muffled crying.

I knew without any doubt that Ram Dulari is a virgin. This was the first time she had undressed before another person, her natural inhibition overridden only by her unquestioning loyalty to me.

What have I done, wrenching this village maiden from her rural hamlet and bringing her to the evil lights of the city?

But look at it another way. Ram Dulari is virgin territory, a mind not yet awakened, a body not yet touched. She is a tabula rasa waiting to be moulded by me in any manner I like. A mother can do this with her daughter – mould her mind and body in her image – but it has to be done painstakingly, over a period of ten to twelve years. The Cinderella Project will try to achieve the same result in just ten months.

Phase One may have been an unmitigated disaster, but all is not yet lost. I simply made a mistake in the sequencing. Before I transform Ram Dulari's body, I need to transform her mind.

30 August

I've started with basic English lessons. Thankfully, since she has been partially educated, I didn't have to begin with R-A-T and C-A-T. I went straight to sentence construction, syntax and grammar.

She is a keen learner, perceptive and intuitive.

'I think you have great potential,' I complimented her. 'Every day, you will sit with me for an hour and do the exercises I tell you. Now say a full sentence in English, anything that comes to your mind.'

'I-liking-learning-English,' she said haltingly, and I clapped in delight.

Phase Two appears to be on track.

14 September

Filmfan says I am vain. To quote that bitch Devyani who interviewed me for the latest issue, 'Shabnam is in love with her own beauty, dazzled by her fair, peach-like complexion.' So what's wrong with that? I am beautiful, I know it, and the world acknowledges it. All this talk about a woman being beautiful from the inside is pure humbug, invented perhaps by some mousy journalist to hide her own ugliness. Ask a plain woman how she feels inside; no inner glow can warm the hearts of dark girls enduring life solely by the promises of Fair and Lovely cream.

23 September

Ram Dulari was able to read a complete short story today. A full three pages. Hooray!

11 October

Box Office takings for my latest multi-starrer, Hello Partner, have been disappointing. According to Trade Guide, the movie is likely to sink without a trace. I am not entirely unhappy. The film was supposed to be a launch pad for Rabia, yet another untalented star daughter, and the director was an obnoxious jerk who deserved to pay the price for editing out three of my key scenes from the final cut.

The Cinderella Project, on the other hand, is going swimmingly. Ram Dulari has picked up enough English to answer phone calls.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I have a hit on my hands.

25 October

A thick letter arrived today, marked 'Highly Confidential'. Written in childish handwriting, it began, 'My dearest darlin' Shabnam, I reckon a love like ours is as scarce as hen's teeth.'

I laughed so hard, the letter slipped from my hand and went flying out of the window. I didn't even bother to retrieve it.

24 November

I know that a Bollywood actress has to act dumb, especially one who is a sex bomb. Men shouldn't feel intimidated by her brains. But yesterday, in an asinine programme on KTV about celebrity endorsements (I still don't know why Rosie agreed to send me on that show), I violated the golden rule.

The compère, a mousy-looking middle-aged man, tried to attack my campaign for PETA. 'People like you do these campaigns only for cheap publicity without really caring about them or knowing anything about the cause,' he alleged. And then, out of the blue, he asked me, 'Have you heard of Guantanamo Bay?'

'Yes,' I replied. 'It's a military prison somewhere in the US.'

'Wrong. It's at the south-eastern tip of Cuba. This just proves my point. You brainless bimbos of Bollywood have no knowledge of current affairs. All you people care about is fashion and the latest hairstyles.'

Perhaps he was trying to be deliberately provocative, but I couldn't stand his patronizing arrogance. So I laid into him.

'OK, Mister, can you name the film which won the Palm d'Or at this year's Cannes Film Festival?' I countered.

'Er… no,' he replied, not expecting a repartee.

'So should I conclude that all compères are smug, selfabsorbed idiots who have no knowledge of the arts?'

'That's like comparing apples to oranges,' he protested. 'We make it on the strength of our ability; you have made it only because you have a beautiful face.'

'If that was the case then every Playboy centrefold should have made it to Hollywood,' I retorted. 'Cinema does not worship beauty, it worships talent.' And then I proceeded to question him on the philosophy of Martin Heidegger (he had not heard of him), the poetry of Osip Mandelstam (he hadn't heard of him either), the novels of Bernard Malamud (same response) and the films of Ki-duk Kim (ditto). By the end of my grilling the asshole needed a mouse hole to crawl into to prevent further embarrassment.

Rosie was not amused. 'Be prepared, Stardust will now nickname you Dr Shabnam Ph.D.,' she said grimly and shuddered.

Isn't it weird that the ultimate accolade in academia is the ultimate insult in the glamour business?

15 December

I am in Lucknow today, the city where I spent three of the best years of my life. I have come with Annu Sir's musical troupe to give a charity performance to benefit a foundation working for street children.

When I first arrived in Lucknow six years ago I was fresh from Azamgarh, and the capital of Uttar Pradesh seemed to me to be the greatest city in the world. It had wonderful book stores, lovely markets, graceful gardens and, above all, an air of elegance and culture. I fell in love with the adab and tehzeeb of Lucknow, a welcome change from the rustic rudeness of Azamgarh. The decadent grace of the city has remained a lovely texture in my imagination ever since.

Now when I look at Lucknow, I see it through the prism of my travels around half the world. Compared to Mumbai, Lucknow seems inadequate, a glorified mofussil town full of the squalor and seediness, the clutter and chaos of smalltime India. But it will always have a special place in my heart. The city has moulded my life. If Azamgarh was the abattoir of my ambition, Lucknow was the cradle of my dreams. It is here that I learnt to believe in myself, to aspire, to soar.

The Natya Kala Mandir hall was overflowing with people. The moment I was introduced as a daughter of Uttar Pradesh and a product of Lucknow, a great roar erupted from the throng. Screams reverberated around the hall like cannonball blasts. A girl caught hold of my hand and just wouldn't let go, another swooned when she saw me The Cinderella Project 361 up close. It reminded me of that night in Lucknow when I first saw Madhuri Dixit and was blown away by her ethereal beauty.

Today I was Madhuri Dixit, the cynosure of all eyes. The capacity crowd had come to see me dance, but I was tense and distracted. Throughout the stage show my eyes kept darting to the front rows, searching for a familiar face. My ears strained to hear a familiar voice. Azamgarh, after all, is only 220 kilometres from Lucknow and I was hoping against hope that Babuji or Ma or perhaps Sapna might have heard about my visit and come to see me. But in that sea of faces there was none from my past, and my gaze just encountered the same lascivious grins and lusty eyes that I see at every show from Agra to Amsterdam.