BINDIEWOOD
By Rachel Astarte Piccione

I've lost my best friend.

Now, I'm well aware that this column is supposed to be about Indo-American crossovers, but you'll forgive my digression. Besides, as you'll soon discover, this is a crossover story of sorts.

First, let me describe my best friend. For the sake of her privacy, I'll change her name. Let's just call her, "Michelle." Michelle lives in an RV she's named Dorothy and travels the west, hand-mining gemstones and making jewelry. She's barefoot a lot of the time, has the most infectious laugh you have ever heard (you can hear it hundreds of yards away), and has fabulous taste in essential oils. She does not own a cell phone. She has no bank account. I adore her. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her.

So, when she came to visit me in New York last month and asked if I might show her a few Bollywood films, I was more than happy to oblige. I enrolled her in my own crash course of "Bollywood 101": A mixture of old and new classics like "Pyaasa" and "Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge." I introduced her to box office hits ("Dil Chahta Hai") and controversies ("Fire").

As it happened, "Mangal Pandey: The Rising" was opening that weekend, so I took her to see it. Since her very first Indian film had been "Lagaan," which I showed her when she visited me in 2002, Michelle had made a valiant attempt to muster a crush on Aamir Khan. She really did try hard: During "The Rising," we clasped hands and tensed up whenever treated to AK's penetrating gaze of tortured, justice-seeking defiance, which was, lucky for us, throughout most of the film. She even let out a little whimper at AK's bare back as he bathed in prayer.

After the screening, we left the theater in silence. Michelle knows I don't like to talk about films immediately after they've finished. She may not understand why, but to me it's as distasteful as commenting on the sex you just had while you're still in bed. A few blocks later -- I was sure her own silence was due to being caught up in some magnificent Aamir-in-chains fantasy -- Michelle put her arm around me and said, "Yep. I could use a little Shah Rukh right about now."

This was the beginning of the end.

I warned her. Bollywood burnout is not a pretty world to live in. You spend too much time in front of perfect musical fantasies in Technicolor only to step outside one afternoon and realize Farah Khan is not, in fact, going to choreograph your two-hour status meeting; your reality is that you'll sit under fluorescent lights that give you migraines while your colleagues drone on. Udit Narayan will not be singing you to sleep after the late-night phone call from your boyfriend telling you he needs time to himself...with this new woman he's seeing; your reality is that a bottle of Carlo Rossi Chianti will have to put you to sleep instead. In short, Bollywood needs to be swallowed in small pieces. An overdose can be fatal.

What made matters worse is that I saw what was coming. I mean, Michelle had spent the entire previous day memorizing the pronunciation of "Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge," saying it under her breath like a mantra. Her eye twitched when she saw Shah Rukh Khan's picture in a print ad for international phone cards. I had two choices. I could try to save her by nipping everything in the bud and refusing to show her one more Hindi film, or ease her into what would probably be the most painfully delicious surrender of her entire life.

So.

I fed her "Kal Ho Naa Ho." Then "Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham." But it wasn’t until "Devdas" that the damage was truly done. Remember that scene in Paro's bedchamber where Dev strikes Paro across the forehead with her thick string of wedding pearls proclaiming, "I scar you like the moon with the mark of my love," then falls to the ground with her, the spent pearls scattering from his limp fingers? Remember that? Michelle made me replay it. Five times in a row.

After the film was finished, Michelle was silent. (Now she gets it!) When she could speak again, she declared herself "ruined." From that point on, my best friend began emitting low moans periodically throughout the day and night. I understood what it was: The futility of possession.

"We're both Scorpios," she announced, hopefully.

I shook my head. I couldn't offer much more assistance. I merely stroked her bejeweled dreadlocks in sympathy, and suggested she may find a pleasant distraction in rolling another Very Special Cigarette.

By the next day, when I'd come home from work, she'd researched every piece of information about Shah Rukh Khan she could find on the Internet. She devoured our screenings of "Paheli" (she was gone by this point; I couldn't save her), "Aśoka," and "Swades." During the latter -- our final film before she hit the road again -- Michelle's face lit up when SRK insisted he rent a caravan to travel to his home village. ("Just like Dorothy!" she squealed.) "Yun Hi Chala Chal" has since become our theme song.

Shortly after she returned home, I received an email from Michelle. She'd had time enough away from King Khan to reflect on her experience. She was convinced, for example, that her lunar cycles had shifted as a result of his influence. She wondered how it was possible for a thirty-seven-year-old mesa-wanderer like herself to develop a crush on a thirty-nine-year-old Indian movie star. Michelle and I have camped in the New Mexican desert together with nothing but a tent and a shovel. We're tough women. At what point did she get reduced to a quivering schoolgirl? What weird magic was happening?

I could only soothe her by assuring her that soon the pain of crossing over would diminish. Soon, she would see the interconnectedness of all that is in nature. Her infatuation would blossom, realize its place in the beauty of all existence. A Bollywood crush becomes a sunset, a poem, a rainbow, a supernova...

Either that, or she'd end up papering Dorothy's walls with photos and clippings of SRK, thereby turning her RV into a rolling shrine, forget how to breathe whenever His Name is mentioned, and request that people start referring to her as "The Real Mrs. Khan." Of course, by that point I'd have to have her committed to a mental institution, but that's what friends are for.

Thankfully, Michelle still has possession of all her delightfully unique faculties. She just thinks Shah Rukh is a hottie. In fact, I bet you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone -- male or female -- who would disagree with her. In the end, I suppose I haven't really lost my best friend; I've gained a sister in cinema. I can live with that.