I never met Ruby Gill, but for some reason the verdict filled me with a strange sense of sadness, like the kind you experience when you hear about a plane crash in some distant country.

16 February

Jay Chatterjee, of all people, is hosting a party at the Athena Bar to celebrate Vicky Rai's acquittal and has sent me an invitation. How obscene. I don't know what I find more disturbing – the fact that people are gloating over this travesty of justice, or that someone as intelligent and artistic as Jay Chatterjee can be friends with a criminal like Vicky Rai. This was a revelation. Even the Steven Spielberg of Bollywood seems to have feet of clay.

I sent a polite regret, knowing full well that this might harm my prospects of starring in Chatterjee's next film, the one for which he is still searching for the Salim Ilyasi clone. But I have my principles.

Unfortunately I also have my limits. Later in the day when I was doing a photo shoot in Lonavala, a bunch of college students approached me. 'We are sending a petition to the President of India asking for Vicky Rai's re-trial. Our aim is to get ten million signatures on the petition. Will you sign it, Shabnamji?' they asked me.

'No,' I said rather shamefacedly. 'I don't want to get involved in politics.'

'This is not about politics, ma'am,' said an earnestlooking kid. 'It is about justice. It was Ruby today, it could be you or me tomorrow.'

'I sympathize with your cause, but I am unable to lend my name to it,' I said and excused myself. The students went away dejectedly.

I was merely following my secretary Rakeshji's advice – do not get involved in any criticism of the government. It invariably becomes a millstone round your neck and the government can always retaliate. Who wants an income-tax raid or a held-up passport?

In any event, I doubt whether I will ever meet the fate of Ruby Gill. As Barkha said, the rich and famous get away with murder, they don't get murdered themselves.

17 February

I am leaving for a three-week visit to Australia to shoot three song sequences with Hrithik for Mahesh Sir's film Metro. This is my first visit to Oz and I am so looking forward to seeing all the places I have heard such a lot about.

Ram Dulari will be all alone in the flat, so I have instructed Bhola to take extra care of the house and of her.

20 February

Sydney must be the greatest city in the world. That first view of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge was magical. Bondi Beach has perhaps more bronzed bodies than any other beach on the planet. And the Australians are great fun-loving people.

I am having a blast.

It is especially funny to see all these Australian girls with blonde hair and blue eyes grinding their hips in tandem with me to a Hindi soundtrack. It has become almost de rigueur in Bollywood to have at least one song with some firang white dancers doing jhatka-matka at the bidding of our own desi brown-skinned actors. In one particular song sequence that we filmed today, the blonde Australian dancers were required to grovel at Hrithik's feet, follow him on all fours, huffing and panting like bitches in heat, and beg him for a kiss.

Is this what is called reverse colonialism?

4 March

A rather interesting episode happened today. A silver-haired man with a craggy face who calls himself Lucio Lombardi met me in my hotel suite. He spoke excellent English and claimed to be the Business Manager of some Arab prince whose name escapes me.

I asked what brought him to Sydney. He said the Prince had seen my pictures and was totally smitten with me. He was prepared to pay me a hundred thousand dollars for one night with him on his birthday on 15 March. I would be flown to London in his private jet, booked into the Dorchester, would spend just one night with the Prince and then be brought back to Mumbai on 16 March.

Mr Lombardi explained all this in the affable tone of a director narrating a script to me. He appeared to be a man with money and connections, but he hadn't reckoned with the temper of an Indian diva.

'I take strong exception to your proposal,' I blasted. 'Who does your prince think I am? Some kind of cheap prostitute?'

I pretended to be offended at Lombardi's crassness, but in reality I wasn't. I know I occupy that indeterminate place in men's consciousness between whore and wife. A wife can be seduced, a whore can be bought. An actress like me can only be propositioned. And that is precisely what Lombardi had done.

The Italian was not prepared to accept no for an answer. He was most persistent, increasing the offer to two hundred thousand dollars, then three, and eventually to half a million dollars, with the added sweetener that fifty per cent would be paid to me immediately, in cash.

As his final ace, he produced a picture of the Prince. My mental image had been of an ugly cripple with venereal disease, but the glossy photo shown me was of a strapping young man dressed in the loose, ankle-length robe which Arab men wear, replete with a checked headdress. He had a long, fair face dominated by a thick brown moustache.

I had to admit that the Prince was handsome (even if it was in an effeminate kind of way) and half a million dollars was serious money. I did my maths. Lombardi was dangling twenty million rupees before me for a one-night stand.

I have nearly sixty million rupees in my bank. But it has taken me three and a half years to get them. Now I was being offered a third of this amount for just one night's work.

And what does 'one night' really mean? It means, essentially, two rounds of sex (even the Prince won't have the staying power for a third). That would translate as twenty-two minutes max. So I would be getting $22,727 per minute. That's $378 per second. Wow! On a per-second basis, probably only Mohammad Ali made more, but then he also got battered and bruised in the boxing ring. I might even enjoy it.

But I still said no.

Lombardi seemed crestfallen. 'You are making a mistake, Miss Saxena, by not accepting this most generous offer. Are you worried about publicity? I assure you, we are most discreet.'

'No,' I said.

'Then is it some outdated morality? Haven't you heard the Italian proverb "Below the navel there is neither religion nor truth"?'

'I am not for sale, Mr Lombardi, and you can tell that to your Prince,' I said and shut the door on him.

Below the navel there may be neither religion nor truth, but behind the forehead there is something called the brain. By refusing the Prince today, I am only increasing his desire. I am confident that by the time his next birthday comes round he will be dying to offer me a million dollars!

Then it shall truly become an 'Indecent Proposal'.

I wonder why we haven't done a Hindi re-make yet.

8 March

How do I even begin to describe the worst day of my life?

I sensed something was wrong the moment I landed at eight in the evening from Singapore and Bhola did not come to meet me at the airport. Only Kundan was there with the Mercedes.

'Where is Bhola?' I asked the driver.

'I don't know, Madam. I haven't seen him in a week. It was Rakesh Sir who told me to pick you up from the airport.'

Half an hour later, when I reached the flat, I found it in darkness. I switched on the light and gasped. The entire place was in disarray. Sofas had been upturned in the drawing room, my beautiful Waterford crystal vase lay shattered on the floor. The stench of meat emanated from the dining room and I was shocked to see half-finished takeout cartons of chilli chicken and sweet and sour pork lying on the dining table, surrounded by fine threads of chow mein. A pyramid of dirty pots and pans greeted me in the kitchen, with the iron skillet dumped in a corner.

The biggest devastation had been reserved for my bedroom. Sheets had been dragged off the bed and the mattress had been viciously slashed. Drawers had been pulled out and all the almirahs were open. There were papers, hair clips and clothes strewn across the carpet. My dressing table had been stripped clean and my entire collection of perfumes and cosmetics was missing. I ran to the adjoining dressing room, which had a floor safe in the walk-in closet. I needn't have bothered. The heavy metal door of the safe had been taken apart with a blow torch and all that was left was a gaping hole. Luckily I keep most of my cash and all my heavy jewellery in a vault at HSBC bank, but I have still lost close to a hundred thousand rupees, some three thousand dollars, five hundred pounds and some euros, an emerald necklace and a Breitling watch. Even more heart-wrenching was the discovery that my entire collection of shoes and handbags had been taken from the closet. My Manolo Blahniks and Christian Louboutins, my Balenciagas and Jimmy Choos, all gone.