As I looked at the carnage in the dressing room, the sickening realization hit me like a blow to the stomach that robbers had entered the flat, ransacked it in a frenzy, taken everything of value, eaten a leisurely Chinese dinner, and killed Bhola and Ram Dulari.

I stood there, enveloped by the cold silence of the house, trying to gather enough courage to wrench open the bathroom door and discover two bruised and bloated bodies floating in a crimson tub. My tub!

I couldn't do it. So I returned to the bedroom and picked up the phone on the bedside table to call the police. That's when I discovered a handwritten message taped to the handset. 'Before you call the police,' it said in vaguely familiar handwriting, 'have a look at the videotape in the bottom right-hand drawer of your dressing table.'

I rushed to the dressing table and opened the bottom right-hand drawer. There was a VHS tape lying there, black, without any cover or label. Its very anonymity made it seem faintly menacing.

For some reason the robbers had not taken any of the electronic equipment in the flat. My entertainment unit with the plasma TV, the music system and the DVD player was still intact. With trembling hands I put the tape into the video player and switched on the TV. I half expected to see Ram Dulari's dead body floating in a bathtub, but what I saw was entirely unexpected. There was a bathtub all right, but the only person floating in it was me, and I was completely naked.

The twenty-minute video showed me soaking in the bath, playing with the shower head, spraying the foam bubbles from my body, doing the kinds of things a lonely girl does in the bathroom.

I was horrified that a camera had captured these images of me. But what troubled me even more was the fact that the images were from my own bathroom.

I opened the bathroom door and peeped inside. There were no bodies in the marble bathtub. There was just an eerie silence, broken only by the metronomic drips of water leaking from the tap. I looked up at the recessed lights in the ceiling. At first glance they all looked the same, but in the centre one immediately above the tub I could make out the liquid glisten of a camera lens.

I went back to the bedroom and examined the note once again. In a flash I recognized the handwriting. It was Bhola's. He had tried to disguise it, but the slanting ts were a dead giveaway.

The set-up was becoming clear to me. Bhola had installed cameras in my bedroom and bathroom, had been secretly taping me for close to nine months and made God knows how many tapes. Taking advantage of my absence, he had looted the house, ransacked it to make it look as if it was the handiwork of robbers, and was now threatening that if I went to the police he would make the tape public.

This man, who used to call me his sister, had now become a blackmailer. And he had chosen his target well. No one could understand my predicament better than me. A sex bomb's appeal lies in keeping the sex hidden. Just as a woman in lingerie is considered sexier than a nude, when titillation descends into porn the mystique ends. The entire Indian film industry is based on the concept of chaste titillation. You can show a bit of cleavage here, a flash of thigh there, but never the whole shebang. Bollywood actresses can be sexy, but must at all times be decent.

I knew that if this tape was exposed, it could destroy my reputation, send my career into a tailspin from which it might be impossible to recover. I knew I couldn't go to the police.

I tried calling Bhola on his mobile, but failed to get through. 'The subscriber you have dialled is no longer available,' said a pre-recorded message. Bhola had probably already acquired a new mobile. For all I knew he might not even be in India.

How can I have made such a big mistake, keeping a treacherous snake as my assistant secretary? But there's no point crying over spilled milk. As the Master says, never yield to remorse, but tell yourself that remorse would simply mean adding to the first act of stupidity a second.

There's just one question dancing in my mind. What has Bhola done to poor Ram Dulari?

12 March

It has been four days since Ram Dulari was kidnapped. I think she is dead. I can feel it in my bones. She has been killed by Bhola, her body chopped into little pieces, dumped in a sack, weighed with a heavy stone and dropped into the ocean, where she probably rests with the fish.

As the police will tell you, there is a designated time frame for the recovery of missing persons. The moment you pass that point, the chances of finding the hostage alive recede drastically. I pity parents who continue to hope for the return of their kidnapped child after months or even years.

Life is all about cutting your losses and moving on. Like I have.

Ram Dulari R.I.P. Bhola R.I.H. (That's Rot in Hell. Eventually.)

13 March

Producer 'Jugs' Luthra, better known as the soft-porn king of Bollywood, met me today. A fleshy, corpulent man who wheezes when he speaks, he has nevertheless made four hits in a row. 'So, Shabnam, can we begin shooting from 15 April?' he asked in his breathless voice.

'Shooting for what?'

'For my film, Sexy Number One.'

'Luthra Sahib, I told you six months ago that I cannot do your film. I was not comfortable with all those kissing and bathing scenes you wanted.'

'But then you changed your mind. I have already paid you fifty lakhs in advance. In cash, too.'

'Fifty lakhs in advance?'

'Yes. Your secretary Bhola conveyed your acceptance to me last month and said you needed the money immediately. He even gave me dates in April and May. The production goes to the floor in a month's time. I will ask Jatin to discuss the costumes with you. They will be a bit skimpy, as you know, but then the script demands some skin. I assure you, I will have all your shots filmed very aesthetically.'

My head started spinning. Bhola had taken five million on my behalf and got me involved in a sleazy B-movie? 'I am sorry, there must be some confusion. I never authorized Bhola to agree to your project. And my dates are always arranged by Rakeshji, not Bhola.'

'What are you saying, Shabnam? You have even signed the contract, on the basis of which I released the advance.'

'Contract?'

'Yes, here it is.' He opened his briefcase and handed me a typewritten document. It was my standard contract, with the no-nudity clause prominently missing. At the bottom of the document was my signature and the date – 17 February, the day I was leaving for Australia.

I looked at the signature. I had never signed such a contract, but the signature seemed genuine. And that's when it struck me. Bhola must have got Ram Dulari to sign it. If she could give perfect autographs, she could also forge my signature on a contract.

'Look, Mr Luthra, I am definitely not doing your film,' I said firmly.

The producer became angry. 'Then I shall sue you for breach of contract,' he wheezed.

'I am sure we can resolve this amicably. I am prepared to return your money if you are prepared to tear up this contract. And as a goodwill gesture, I will make a twominute guest appearance in your film for free.'

He thought about it. 'I agree, but only on one condition. That you return my money by tomorrow. The entire fifty peti. In cash.'

'I promise. I will go to the bank first thing in the morning.'

I heaved a sigh of relief at getting out of this risqué contract. I didn't expect Jugs to agree so readily. But he knows he can find plenty of girls willing to do roles in chhote kapde – itsy-bitsy clothes – the euphemism for censor-approved nudity – for one-tenth my signing fee. The film industry is full of teenage girls ready to expose themselves at a minute's notice. They will put on any costume the producer gives them, do a pole dance that would put a Las Vegas strip joint to shame, and agree to crawl around on all fours in fleshcoloured panties.