Show me the money!

There was a time when I got really close to making my film. Of course, I wasn’t getting to make it myself but there was this great consolation that the Best Indian Actor Ever (BIAE) had requested to direct it. I looked upon it as a great opportunity to work with the great man, thinking that, at least, the film would get made. Besides, it was hugely flattering that BIAE had chosen my script to make his film. Out of the proverbial blue, finance, which is usually unavailable to lesser mortals like myself, fell into our laps. Well, almost...because the self-appointed producer, another big name in the Indian film world, offered to give it to us when we went to meet and discuss the film with him for the first time. So, clearly, money was the least of our problems at that time. To cut to the chase, as they would say in some films, after two and a half wasted years, that film never got made. We won’t go into the reasons because that is not the purpose of the post.

Around the time that it was beginning to get clear that something is rotten in the state of Denmark, in a manner of speaking, and that the film wasn’t going anywhere, my friend and working partner came up with a brilliant idea to get the film made.

Although we’d been around for a while, as far as full-length films go, we were, and remain, nobodies. It was too much to even expect that somebody would fund our dream. Not because the dream itself was/is far-fetched but because the film business operates on a very complex and arbitrary plane, which completely discounts the one factor that should be the very basis for a good film, i.e., the script. In the Bollywood scheme of things, and I don’t care if they contend otherwise, the script is almost always incidental. Although technique, look and style seem to have acquired some importance lately, it’s still the star system that drives the Bollywood wagon. If you have a star, you have a film...other things can follow. And, which star worth his salt was going to agree to act in a film that had no sex or romance, very little music, little violence and in which what-we-call the “heroine” was going to die in the first 30 minutes? And, oh, nothing also of what passes for humour these days? Having said that, and knowing that without a star the film would never get off the ground, I tried my luck with a few people. Needless to add, I have nothing to show for the effort except long meetings with some big “heroes”, two of whom, I must confess, showed genuine appreciation for the script. So, if we were going to make it work, it was obvious that we’d either have to get lucky or get smart. In the end, we were neither but that’s another story.

It was around this time that the Internet was starting to spread its tentacles far and wide, reducing the world to a global village, or so the hype went. So, my friend suggested tapping the Net for finance. To start a website for the proposed film. To put up a part of the script on the site and to ask people around the world to read the script and, if it seemed remotely like something they might want to watch, to contribute to the fund. To be part owners of the film. He proposed a very elaborate and transparent system, whereby all contributions would be listed on the site and in the end credit titles of the proposed film. The idea was for people to send in whatever amount they thought fit, if any at all, directly to a bank account that was to be opened specifically for this purpose. All accounts were going to be audited (or whatever it is that fancy accountants do) by a CA and posted on the site. It was a great idea and I thought it could work.

Hmm...I wish we’d seen it through and pursued the idea but, obviously, we didn’t. There’re many reasons why we didn’t but that doesn’t matter now, does it?

I believe many people did, and are still doing, what we’d thought of back then. And, with some luck too, or so I’m told. And, that makes me want to kick myself...really, really kick myself for not seeing the idea through. However, it also fills me up with what I think might be a new resolve...to give it a shot. To try this avenue before I completely give up on the script. To know that I have done all that I could’ve possibly done before I finally consign it to the metaphorical flames. Sure, my chances aren’t so bright now but, I think, I owe myself another shot. If all goes to plan, then, I hope to give myself that chance by the end of the year.

Besides, BIAE is still as keen on the acting job.

"Will you kill?"

One evening, a long time ago, my friend and I decided to visit the Bahai temple. Although I’d been in Delhi for long, it was embarrassing that I still hadn’t been to the Lotus Temple. So, off we went but, as luck would have it, we were late and were denied entry into the premises. Not knowing what else to do, we started back, driving aimlessly around for most part. Now, my friend likes to play this game and, unwittingly, I get sucked into it. He believes that all of us have a price and his mission in life, especially on days when there’s little to do, is to find out how far we’re wiling to go to get what we want. In his words, to find out how low we can sink before we sell out. And, since nobody else will indulge him, I end up being the guinea pig on most occasions.

I could be wrong about this but, from memory, the first time he unleashed this game on me was way back when he and another friend came to visit me in Bombay. Having shown them around, I took them for the customary trip to Fashion Street. I can’t remember whether he and I bought anything but, what I do remember is that the ladies were still busy looking around, haggling and buying. As a result, we had time to kill. Now, he’s always had a thing for flats overlooking the Oval Maidan and thereabouts. The fact that that happens to be prime real estate notwithstanding, I can’t blame him. Because not only are those flats nice, they’re also located in town, which we just love. Anyway, as we stood there, waiting for the other two to finish shopping, he asked me if I were promised one of those flats, would I be willing to sleep with XYZ, a popular model. Before I could explode in righteous rage, he thought it necessary to qualify the ‘offer’ by assuring me that this was a hypothetical situation (yeah, as though I didn’t know that!) and that I shouldn’t let my relationship with one of the ladies shopping six feet away have any bearing on my decision. (Sure, why would such a piddly thing be on my mind, pal !!) He is nothing if not persistent and unless threatened with grave physical harm, doesn’t usually give up. Actually, who am I kidding, he never gives up and you have little choice but to play along. The trouble is, as the discussion goes along, he keeps adding weird clauses to what was a ridiculous situation to begin with till it becomes absolutely bizarre. So bizarre, indeed, that suspension of disbelief becomes a Herculean task. The last time we played this game, for instance, he asked me if I would sleep with this right-wing politician if it could bring about world peace. Knowing my aversion to raw onions and right-wing politicians, this was bad enough. Then, he asked me if I would be prepared to spend one night sleeping between this male right-wing politician and his girlfriend of many years. The trade-off, again, world peace. Eww! Just the thought of this hypothetical situation makes me want to go and take a bath – soap the terrifying thought away and to cool down a bit. World peace my arse! Not for world peace, not for the ozone layer...not for NOTHING!

As my lousy luck would have it, most such situations that make me want to slit his throat occur when he is driving. For larger public good and safety, therefore, I’m forced to curb this insane desire to pound him till he is senseless.

But, I’m afraid, I’ve digressed way past the point of this post. So far past it that I’m beginning to wonder if there’s any point in going on. But, as Magnus Magnusson, the host of the BBC quiz show Mastermind, used to say, I’ve started, so I’ll finish.

So, while we were driving around, on our way back from the Lotus Temple, he started off with his game. For some reason, perhaps due to the nature of the question, fortunately, this time the game didn’t quite go down what had become a rather familiar path. It actually developed into a serious discussion. I can’t remember how it came about but he asked me, if India were to go to war with Pakistan, would I volunteer my services and join the armed forces. Of course, at this early stage in the game, it wasn’t obvious to either that this was going to get serious so, as usual, my first response was delivered without much thought but with the greatest conviction. “Yes, I will,” I said. “I’ll probably be the first to enlist,” I finished, sounding like the pompous, self-proclaimed chest-thumping patriots, all empty sound, fury and bluster. “Does that mean you’ll go and fight? Live the rough life? Brave the bullets?” “Sure, I will,” I continued confidently. “And, will you fire at the Pakistani soldiers? Will you kill?” That, I have to admit, knocked the wind out of my sails. This was no longer a game. Or, certainly not one to be taken lightly. Because loss of life to an accident, to a senseless act of violence, war or riot always affects me in a way that natural death never will. I remember sitting there in the car, taking deep breaths as though I were right there, in the battlefield, a gun in hand and facing the ‘enemy’. Will I kill? It was like a moment of truth. And, then, the answer came quite easily...no bloody way! Not for my country, not for India, not for any bloody thing...I’m not going out to kill anyone.

Of course, I’m a human being and human beings are nothing if not petty and contradictory. Therefore, I can only be as certain of this as my limited grasp over my wild, ‘animal’ side will allow me. Who knows, then, I might end up killing someone in a fit of rage in, what is commonly known as, a moment of madness and under extreme provocation or to protect someone or something. You never know, I may. And, you could too.

If you’ve read this blog recently, you’ll know that the last post was about Bombay, written just two days before the horrible blasts. Looking at all the mangled mess and bloodied bodies, I couldn’t help wondering, as I’ve done so many times in the past, about the people who’ve done this. Another similar moment that I remember clearly is from the time of the riots in Bombay. I was standing at Chembur station at the dead of night. Although it seemed like that, because there was hardly anyone else on the platform, it couldn’t have been that late because I’d just had dinner. From the two beat constables who were also there, I learned that a man had been beheaded at the next station, which was precisely two minutes by train from where I was standing. I remember I had exactly the same thought at that time as well: how can anyone kill? How can anyone chop off another person’s head? Plant a bomb and kill so many people? What kind of a person does it take to kill? What are this person’s thoughts as he goes out to kill? Can killing be justified?

Can any reason or any amount of provocation justify killing? I don’t think so. But, at the same time, I don’t think I’m even qualified to answer these questions because I’ve never been at the receiving end of what people belonging to various minority groups have to go through everyday. I don’t know what it feels like to be the target of a pogrom orchestrated by the very State that is supposed to safeguard my right to practise my religion, right to earn my livelihood, right to buy property and, indeed, my right to life. I don’t know what it feels like to be looked at with suspicion all the time and to be called a traitor. (Well, actually, I’ve been called that once, while watching a cricket match and I didn’t like it, but that’s only a small matter.) I don’t know what it feels like to be chased by a savage, bloodthirsty mob, sometimes with swords and tridents and sometimes with burning tyres. What I do know, however, is that we live in highly troubled times, in a deeply divided, volatile and communal society. What I can understand is that these are the perfect conditions for troublemakers to drop their bait in and fish. No, I don’t think anything can justify a killing but I think I can understand that if you push someone too long and too far, chances are, s/he will hit back.

Crowded house

In an earlier post, I had mentioned that we’ve been commissioned to make a 13-part non-fiction series for a television channel. By their own admission, these guys have an unusually long commissioning process. So unfunnily long that, I’m sure, it would’ve tested poor old Job’s patience. It’s long and unnecessarily complicated. It’s been more than the three months they said it would take and, annoyingly, we’re still some way off. Thankfully, though, not off by too much. If all goes well, which is a rarity around me, the project will formally roll some time this month. The end of the month, maybe early next month, seems the most likely time. But, who knows, it may happen earlier than expected.

We’ll be starting off with what they call a ‘developmental’ episode, which is nothing but a ‘pilot’ by another name. Should the programme then go to series, meaning the other 12 episodes, we’ll be shooting in many parts of the country, of which we’ve already decided on Ooty, Pondicherry, Jaipur, Kothdwara (near Lucknow), Delhi and Bombay. Bangalore and Goa are also distinct possibilities. The ‘developmental’ episode, however, will be shot in Alibaug, near Bombay. And that is what this post is about. Not Alibaug, not the ‘developmental’ episode but...Bombay!

We shall cross the ‘developmental’ episode and Alibaug bridges when we get to them. In fact, I may even post some photographs of the shoot, and the subject of the shoot, if that doesn’t constitute any copyright violations. For the moment, however, I will confine myself to what has often been described as the city of dreams.

I’m not envious by nature. If you live in Bombay, however, there’s a very good chance that you would be the object of my rather acute envy. I don’t know how to explain it but that’s how it is. There was a time when I’d been unable to go to Bombay for very long. During that period, I found that I would feel almost literal stabs of pain each time I looked at photographs and shots of the city. This is the precise emotion I feel each time I’m on my way out, leaving Bombay...that of near panic.

I don’t stay there presently and haven’t done so for a very long time. But, once, it was home to me. I’m not sure what my connection with the place is or why I long to be there but, and of this I have little doubt, that’s where I’m going to be for good.

When I went there in February last year, it was after a fairly long time and, yet, I felt instantly at home. In what was to become something of a pattern for the six or seven trips since then, I first went to Pune and then, from there, to Bombay by road. (The first time over, I just had to see the Expressway and then, having seen it, wanted to see it again. Or, maybe I continue to be fascinated that this distance, which I once spent almost seven hours trying to cover, thanks to August rain and the treacherous ghats, could now be covered in just about three hours or less.) When we reached Chembur, which is where my Bombay begins, I almost got out and kissed the ground. Rare better sense and, I admit, uncertainty about the constituents of the said ground and the ridicule that was sure to follow my humble but far-from-impulsive gesture, nipped the noble intention in the bud. Instead, I employed the less controversial expression of joy, taking in a really deep and long breath, inhaling the lovely, polluted air of Chembur and Bombay. At that moment, it really felt as though I were free again.

Apart from the inevitable and overwhelming flood of memories, the rest of the way to my friend’s house in Bandra was also marked by a sense of wonderment at how much the place had changed. And, at how much it remained the same. It was comforting and reassuring to immediately feel like a part of the Bombay crowd. To fit in and be one of the multitude. It was like I had never left.

My first trip to Bombay was with my colleagues from college, to participate in the drama competition at the IIT-Bombay festival. It wasn’t a bad trip at all but it didn’t reveal anything about Bombay that would either endear the place to me in any way or prompt me to plan another trip. Then, a couple of years later, I found my reason. In the eleven months after that, I made twelve trips to Bombay. The thirteenth trip, which was also made during the aforesaid eleven months, saw me move to Bombay for good. My two stuffed bags and I.

Admittedly, my initial love for Bombay had nothing to do with the city itself but with what it represented to me. Sure, given the nature of my work, that’s where I may have ended up anyway but I cannot be sure I would’ve had the courage, ambition or drive to do so on my own. Either way, there’s no telling now which way that cookie would’ve crumbled, right?

Anyhow, it’s funny that I should even like Bombay because I’m not comfortable with a lot of what it stands for, represents and is identified with. The crowd, for instance. The unending swarms of people who’re perpetually in a hurry to get somewhere. Even if it means having to climb over your toes to get there. The lack of personal space, except when you’re inside your home. The directness of some of the most awkward questions I’ve ever been asked. The dirt. The slush that the rains create and leave in their wake. The smell of rain-dried clothes that permeates the air during the monsoon months because some people don’t have the time or space to dry their clothes. The roads, which are not only small and narrow but are being dug up all the time. The ruthless streak in people. The constant struggle for survival that makes them less than considerate or even respectful of others. Life is pretty cheap here. I’ve been on local trains during accidents, when some poor folk have either lost their limbs or even their lives, only to find that people have grown immune to tragedy unless it involves them or their kin. Neither severed limbs nor lifeless bodies seem like reasonable grounds for delay, no matter how small. It is more important to reach Dadar in time to catch the connecting fast to VT at 8.43.

Maybe I haven’t travelled enough but, among all the large cities, I have no doubt that there are more unemployed and wasted people in Bombay than anywhere else I’ve been. I’ve seen more mentally disturbed people in Bombay than I’ve seen anywhere else. There’re more people here who depend on alcohol and drugs than anywhere else. I’ve seen more sadness in people’s eyes and in their faces, more loneliness and lack of hope, than I’ve seen anywhere else. The divide between the rich and the poor couldn’t be more apparent anywhere else.

It’s the last place you want to be in when you’re lonely. If you’re down and lack a support system, Bombay can be very cruel. It knows no mercy and keeps you pinned to the ground, its stinky foot jammed against your throat. I should know because I spent the worst year of my life there, finally abandoning it when it became emotionally impossible to go on.

Yet, I love the place and, at this moment, there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. Okay, that’s pushing it a bit...but you know what I mean, right? And it completely baffles me...why does the place mean so much to me? Sure, there’re plenty of things to like and admire about Bombay. For instance, the same instinct for survival that makes it ruthless also instills in it the spirit that refuses to let bomb blasts and riots bring life to a halt. An occasional flood, however, proves too much even for the hardy Bombay-ite! :-) If you have a dream, it gives you the hope you need to pursue and achieve it. If you’re enterprising, there’s little you can’t accomplish. There is a certain work ethic here that allows you to trust the person you’re dealing with, within reasonable limits, of course. When you go and work elsewhere, you realise that the professionalism you had taken for granted in Bombay is actually a rare commodity. More often than not, one can rely on an autorickshaw or cab driver and not worry about being fleeced, either by way of being overcharged or by being taken to one’s destination through new, creative routes that you did not even know existed. I can still remember the shock I first felt when a shopkeeper returned the twenty-five paise that was due to me after I’d paid up for whatever it is that I’d bought. As I became more familiar with Bombay, I found that this was more the rule and not the exception I had initially dismissed it for.

I feel completely at ease in Bombay, as though I don’t have a care in the world. It’s all this and much more but is that really what makes Bombay so special for me? I wonder...

Or, do I continue to associate the place with what it first meant to me? Is it simply a desperate attempt to hang on to a memory of a time that was, without any doubt, the best time of my life? Of a certain time and everything that goes with that time, and which I’m never likely to capture again? In which case, shouldn’t I feel increasingly more miserable after every trip there? Because every trip should then remind me of my loss, right? And it does but, the fact is, I don’t feel miserable there...well, okay, only sometimes. But, most of the time, I’m fine. Moreover, if I’m not already there, I’m always planning trips to Bombay. Always looking for the slightest excuse to take off. And, as all my friends have got so used to hearing, if I could, I would shift there tomorrow. Maybe, then, it’s a combination of the two, my liking for the place and the memories it holds for me. Knowing myself, though, I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it.