A STEEL-GREY FORD Endeavor lurches into Juhu’s narrow lanes. Inside it is a celebrity. Occasionally, it runs into the jam of a traffic signal. Like always, there are the burly men you find around these parts of Mumbai—heavy arms, puffy chests, axiomatic t-shirts and crotch pants—streaming past the stationary vehicles, making their way to a gym or perhaps a coffee shop for a film-script meeting. It is a very Bombay setting: a trapped celebrity, the enforced intimacy of a jammed street, and no tinted windows to shield you. And, like always, heads emerge from various car windows for a closer look. Could it be? Could it not? Some of the muscular men turn around too. Necks crane out of auto-rickshaws, the findings now under wide discussion.
And then, suddenly, the…