We could have flown back to London by Djinn, it would have been pretty much instant but I insisted on a flight from Mumbai to London in a proper aeroplane because transportation via Djinn gives me a really horrid headache. It felt weird being back home but not working. I spent the first day of Rahul being on set packing up the contents of my flat, it didn’t take long and I had everything ready to be taken home with Rahul.

See, I even thought of Mumbai as home. I’d only been there a matter of days but I had loved it and I’d been with the man I loved, that made all the difference I think. The next day Rahul took me onto the set with him.

“I can’t promise to keep you occupied all day my love, I have a lot of scenes to shoot, but you can feel free to wander around and I will come back to you later.”

“Is that a promise? I asked, entwining him in my embrace?

“Oh yes, Janeman, a promise indeed.” He kissed me deeply, gently and thoroughly before disappearing off into a world of Bollywood.

I was good for all of five minutes then I wandered off. I wandered through corridors and around the backs of elaborate sets, the wooden posts and boards belittling the amazing sights behind them. I found Rahul and the crew of his latest movie, Janoon and watched the filming for a while but it wasn’t the thrill I thought it would be. I found seeing my man clasping a woman shaped like an Indian goddess (and not an ugly animal headed one) a little hard to handle.

So I continued to wander. I tried to get into the costume store but a scary woman with fluffy hair and huge earrings shooed me away. So I sat in Rahul’s trailer playing games on his whizzy whizzy tablet thing (I am technologically incompetent) for a few hours then ventured forth again. It was quieter out and I realised everyone was off eating. I wasn’t hungry, I’d been snacking and nibbling as I shot at things on a screen so I headed for the costumes…again. I was in luck, the room was empty so I ducked it. It was glorious, I was surrounded by beautiful things. Head dresses, veils and multi coloured saris surrounded me and I didn’t know which way to look next. I had just picked up two beautiful articles when the door swung open. I jumped in guilt until I saw it was Rahul. He smiled then locked the door behind him.

“Which one do you like better, the red or the gold?” I asked, showing one then the other.

“I think the red would suit your beautiful pale skin.” He purred.

“Hmm, how do you put one of these on?” I asked, showing my ignorance.

“Take your clothes off and I will show you.” He smirked. I am pretty sure it wasn’t a necessary step but to please the gorgeous Bollywood star before me I stripped.

It was a little nerve wracking even though Rahul had seen me naked before. He’d been in the presence of perfect slim-line beauties all day, I was a little self-conscious of my curves.

His lustful gaze and then his fingers tracing along my bare skin made me forget my insecurities.

“Everything off, Laura,” he whispered as he stood behind me then kissed my neck. His hands swept down my arms then came up to the small of my back to unclip my bra.

“These too,” he said after throwing off the bra and gently stroking down my breasts to my hips.He pulled down on my knickers and left me completely naked. I had forgotten the sari and spun round to face him, to kiss him properly. His touch was the perfect distraction.

“The red,” he said pulling away a little to catch his breath. He picked up the light shimmery fabric from where it landed on the floor. He found one end and got me to hold it at my waist. He wound the cool silk around me, its softness brushing my skin and exciting me with the contrast to his warm hard fingers which wasn’t the only hard thing about Rahul, I could feel his cock pushing against my arse as he brought the material higher then draped it over my head. I’m not sure I was authentically bound but as Rahul was busy digging his hands into my folds to stroke my flesh I didn’t seem to mind.

“I was right. The red looks beautiful on you, makes you look like a tropical bird about to take flight.”

“You’re terribly poetic,” I sighed.

“You read enough Bollywood scripts, you get a taste for the poetic,” he smiled. I can never get enough of his kisses. His lips seared across mine like the heat of an Arabian dessert, I caught fire inside and did not care. I wanted more of him. I wanted him to fuck me then and there.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“Shit, Carol’s back.” Rahul pulled away, “just follow me out, keep your head down.” I am not sure Carol was completely convinced by Rahul’s explanation but his charm left her smiling and us sighing with relief. “Go back to my trailer, sweetheart. I will follow you.” “Rahul-” “Go,” He cut me off, “I’ll be quick, I promise. And stay in that Sari, I want to pull you out of it later.”

Before we go any farther, I should introduce myself. You can call me Johnny. It’s not my name, but you can call me by it. I’m a Djinn and we don’t give out our real names willy-nilly like you daft humans. We know the power of a name and are very cagey when it comes to introductions.

Occasionally, though, we get tricked, and that’s what happened to me many moons ago, and now I look after a young human called Rahul. He’s not the man who tricked me, that was his father’s father’s father’s father’s father or something like that. Some Djinns get let off easy with only a generation or two of service before a kind human wishes them free, but somehow I managed to get stuck with a family full of selfish bastards. I just get handed down from Khan to Khan and do their bidding. It’s not a thrilling life.

I don’t interfere in the affairs of mortals unless I am explicitly ordered to. Well, usually. It’s not a hard and fast rule. If Rahul were to trip up and fall in the Ganges, for example, I’d leap to his rescue because he would be in mortal danger, no explicit order needed. I’m bound to the dark-haired, blue-eyed fool, and so I have to keep him alive and well until it’s time for his natural demise.

Rahul doesn’t mistreat me, he doesn’t call on me at all hours to make him magic beverages or massage his calloused feet like his father did. I do very little for him, truth be told. He’s asked me to grant him one wish in all his life so far, and that was to make him famous. So we hit Mumbai and he became an overnight Bollywood sensation.

He’s a good-looking lad, for a human, with russet-toned skin and eyes that shine like hidden sapphires, and so he fell into the acting life with ease. I barely had to use any magical influence at all. I accompany him on set, but I tend to ignore the whole rigmarole myself. I prefer filling in the Mumbai Times crossword than watching the simpering girls dancing and the boy meets girl, loses girl, finds girl storylines of Bollywood.

Some of my relatives would kill for my glamorous life, but then they’re trapped in bogs, deserts and wastelands. Some days I wish I was in a wasteland. Let me tell you the tale of when my Master went to London and the headache I had looking after him there. I’m a Djinn, we like to tell stories and moan. It’s a little known fact.

Rahul was just finishing up work on the latest Bollywood blockbuster, Benazir, which means Incomparable to all you English-speaking folks. I can’t remember what it was about, but it was the typical Bollywood love story and I mostly ignored it during filming.

“Johnny,” my master summoned me.

I put down my needlework—what, even Djinn need a hobby—and I did the impressive poof thing complete with smoke, lightning and glowing, red eyes.

“Oh, stop messing,” he snapped. “This is important.”

“Yes, Master.” I bowed and changed into Rahul’s preferred envisagement. I find it to be rather constricting to be in human form, but I have to do his bidding whether I want to or not.

“I’ve just spoken to Uncle Rajeesh, and he’s spouting some nonsense about marriage.”

“Well, you’re getting on now, Rahul. You’re in your late twenties. It’s time you settled down.”

“Oh, shut up, Johnny. They have that horrible, simpering woman Malati all lined up for me. Apparently, all this was decided years ago when my father went into business with hers. It explains why they kept making us play together as kids even though we hated each other.”

“Well, yes. It makes the wedding go much smoother if you know your future wife beforehand.”

“I’m not ready for marriage, and I will not have one arranged for me,” Rahul snapped. “I command you to stop it.”

“Ah, Master, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why not? I am your Master, correct?”

“Yes, Sir,”

“Then you do whatever I command you to do.”

“Technically, Sir, yes.”

“What do you mean ‘technically’?” He raised a questioning brow.

“Well, I accepted an order from your father, and as he was my master first, his command came before your command.” “And what was it?” Rahul snapped.

“I was instructed by your father at the time of Malati’s birth to ensure that you married her for the good of the family, so I’m bound by that command.”

“Bullshit,” Rahul snarled. “My father is dead. I’m your master now.”

“Yes, Master, I know, but your father was very specific when he made that particular wish. He told me it should supersede your wishes and should be my number one priority after his death.”

“So you won’t help me avoid the wedding, then?”

“No, Sir, I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Well, then I command you to go back into your stupid little kettle and stay there. What’s the use of having a damn Djinn if he won’t do as he’s told?”

I disappeared with less pomp than I’d arrived and settled back to my crossword. I didn’t care whom he married, I just had to do what I was commanded to do.

You get to see a lot when you’re a Djinn in an ornamental kettle. I know an elaborate Arabic tea kettle is not a home to brag about, but at least it wasn’t the usual lamp. Lamps really are cheesy. I take what little joy I can, where I can.

A few hours after I’d been banished back to my comfortable kettle home, the door of the caravan rattled on its hinges and the sound was accompanied by girly giggles.

“At last,” the young lady exclaimed. “I hate filming in the jungle, it’s not good for my hair or my complexion.”

“Mine, neither,” Rahul agreed, and the annoying giggles started up all over again. “Did you hear they’re planning a big launch in London for this one?” Rahul asked the willowy maiden.

“Oh, no, I hadn’t heard. That’s amazing. I’ve always wanted to go to London.”

“Well, I’ve been told they’re only taking a few of us over there. I’m definitely going, and of course Farhanaa is going.”

“Oh, of course.” She almost spat out the words. “Little princess big nose would have to go.”

“I hear they may take a few others of the cast, but the decision hasn’t been made, yet.”

“Do you think they’ll take me?” she asked. She fluttered her eyelashes as if she were blinking into a force nine gale.

“I don’t know, Panya. I would say your role is integral to the whole movie, but who knows what the director might think.”

“If my character didn’t exist, the love story wouldn’t exist. I think I should go to London.”

“So do I, my dear,” Rahul replied sweetly. “You’re by far the most beauteous of all the women, you’d be the best advertisement for Bollywood. I know it.”

“Do you think you could persuade Dakshi of that?” Panya rubbed her lithe body against Rahul’s arm and did the tornado thing with her eyelashes once more.

“Well, he does listen to me, so I might be able to get you into the party.”

“Oh, Rahul, I’d be ever so grateful if you could.”

Rahul was talking out of his backside. Dakshi pretty much hated him, but Rahul wouldn’t let a little detail like that get in the way of getting some skin on skin action. Rahul had many wonderful character traits, but they were hidden in the dark corners of his soul.

“Well, I have to make sure the most beautiful woman in Bollywood is by my side in England.”

“Oh, you’re so charming,” she said and batted a limp hand against his arm.

“I only tell the truth,” he replied with his most over-used and most disarming smile. “I’m so lucky to be working with you.”

It was as if they were practising for a scene in the stupid film. They stopped talking and stared at each other. I could hear the dreamy twang of a pretend sitar and I thoroughly expected a gaggle of sari-swirling dancing girls to sway and shimmy past at any moment. It couldn’t have been better choreographed if there had been a director on set, so to speak.

Their lips met in perfectly synched slow motion. They didn’t move for a moment, as if a camera were zooming in to capture the contrast of bright red lady lips and dark guy lips. Then the kiss began in earnest and after a matter of seconds the heat level grew and the whole thing became less Bollywood and more steamy sex tape.