I don’t know what happened. When I saw her alighting from a taxi the other day in Mumbai, it was in slow motion, every strand of her hair tossing in the wind, huge whirlpool eyes g.g.gaping at me and her hands waving the cab driver off with a tip. Slow did I say? She’s anything but.

Mira Nair has just wrapped up the shoot of The Reluctant Fundamentalist, adapted from Mohsin Hamid’s novel about a young Pakistani man chasing corporate dreams on Wall Street till 9/11 redefines the presence of Muslims in the US. It’s a story that you’re glad Mira is tackling instead of those bloated studio epics (read Vanity Fair, Amelia) which were terribly klutzy.

Can’t tell her that — and hopefully she’s not reading this — because like every man, woman and insect in showbiz, she bristles at criticism. That’s human, sure. At the same time, she is one of the very few people I’ve encountered in my capacity as a journalist, whom I value as an abiding friend. Perhaps that’s why both of us scream our lungs out (at least I do) on sighting each other, out of the blue, after maybe three years. Maybe four.

That does shove me into a dilemma. Should I behave like a long-lost buddy would? Or should I also work in my agenda as a journalist? After all, I do want to know about The Reluctant Fundamentalist, its hiccups and the highs. Desist! Not done. We’re at a birthday party, the 50th of dear Dinaz Stafford. She’s an online producer, documentary filmmaker, a veritable one-woman energy factory.

I’m surprised that Dinaz has invited me but heck, I’ve always been a bad judge of people. There’s a certain bond evidenced rightaway with the glass of Bordeaux red she empties down my throat. “Now have majaa yaar.”

I’ve brought her a CD of Tamil disco songs. Dinaz is amused, but says, “I won’t play your CD now, hanh! Or everyone here will get a fit.” Lady Gaga purrs, meanwhile, from the speakers at a muffled volume. Mira’s with a woman bank investor while her happy husband’s wondering unhappily if he could smoke a cigarette. As soon as their conversation drifts, I pounce on Mira, putting on a casual air. I find out that The Reluctant Fundamentalist was shot in Atlanta, New York, Istanbul, Lahore and Delhi at a stretch.

No, she hadn’t offered the lead role to Shahid Kapur, as reported by a thousand newspapers. And Ranbir Kapoor? Awkward pause and then the cryptic reply, “I’d looooove to work with him some day. Such a talent, so wonderful in Imtiaz’s Rockstar.” This probably means Ranbir was thought of but couldn’t be pencilled in.

Riz Ahmed could be. Kate Hudson, Kiefer Sutherland (Jack Bauer of 24), Om Puri and Shabana Azmi are in the acting crew. Aha, now I have my little news item. Chill, partake of the heavenly bhajias with Bordeaux.

Nair has beautiful homes in New York (moi-been-there-seen-that) and Kampala. Now she’s thinking of buying or renting one in Mumbai, too. Ping. That’s more news. The wine’s a bubbling brook in my innards.
My subject is no one’s fool, she catches on it’s a journo-at-his-job, not a friend making concerned queries. She sprints to the dining table where the spread — dhansak, patrani macchi, paatiyos, salads — makes conversation redundant, and impolite.

Matters not. I’ve met up with a wonderful friend. I’ve got news too. And so a true blue — or a manipulative — journalist gets his birthday cake and eats it too.