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“We won’t stand for the media to print lies,” Mom agrees.
“It’s truly despicable?—”
“What are they saying?” I ask, interrupting them.
Mohinder Uncle grimaces. “You know what they do. Exaggerate, gaslight, spin. But I know there is always another celebrity scandal around the corner. Soon the country will move onto something else.”
That’s not the point.
“Please, give me headline examples, or I’ll look it up on the internet. I want to be... prepared.”
My mother frowns, clearly torn between protecting me and realizing I’ll eventually find out. She nods at Mohinder Uncle.
“It’s articles speculating how you don’t appreciate the life you have, or people claiming the adoption angle is orchestrated to push your new mother-daughter movie.” He shakes his head. “Obviously, the movie producers will go on record against that last one.”
I pull out my phone. Do a quick search.
It’s worse than he’s telling me.
The first headline is:STRAIGHT OUTTA THE SLUMS. HOW MANY ORPHANS WERE SNUBBED BEFORE SHREYA CHOSE KOMAL.
My fingers shake, this lost, abandoned feeling slithering inside me.
“If we control the narrative”—Mohinder Uncle starts, deploying his favourite saying—“through an interview with someone we trust…”
Is he serious? That is the solution?
“You want us to give them more?” I ask tightly.
My mother hugs me again. “No. I wouldn’t put you through a live interview. I’ll answer all the questions myself. And only if you want to, if you are feeling up to it, we can pre-record any comments you want to make. That is totally optional, though.”
So yes… we will be feeding the tabloid beast from our side. Staying pissed is a luxury. If we want to maintain our images to the public, we have to behave like chess pieces on the same board as the media.
“We’ll get a friendly reporter,” my mother says. “She’ll have to play by our rules if she ever wants access to me.”
Her voice is tight, but it’s controlled fierceness.
“I know this soft-spoken media trainer who is your age,” she says, “and she can spend some time with you, Komal, whenever and in whatever capacity you are comfortable with. I know this sounds like a lot, but if you learn the rulebook for this kind of situation, we won’t fail. They won’t be able to bring us down.”
We’re glossing over trauma, and skipping ahead to brainstorming. If I had tears, Mohinder Uncle and my mother will see me as fragile but… we haven’t properly felt and screamed about how messed up all this is.Who found out? How did they find out? Do they want me to pretend this isn’t a massive invasion of privacy? To present as if I’m graciously disappointed but somehowcomposedabout it?
Mohinder Uncle claps his hands together. “Let’s show them nothing fazes us. Don’t let them see any weakness. Sure, it would have been better if we released the truth on our own terms, but it isn't too late now.”
The lost feeling rankles into bitterness. “Iamfazed, though.” Grabbing the pillow behind me, I claw into it with my fingers. It’s way too thick to rip apart, but I’m dying to try.
To lose it. Actually, steadily I think I’ve been screaming on the inside, and that noise is only now becoming clear to me.Doesn't anyone else want to yell? To kick something? To hate this kind of ... life we are living?
“This is bullshit.”
Mohinder Uncle’s mouth drops. The bitterness has escaped, dripping from my tone.
“I want to be done with this,” I say, my voice gaining a bit more strength.
My mother’s head jerks. “With me?”
“What?No.”
How can she think that? I meant being an actor.
