by Mike Gayle
As we set the worms loose in their home for the first time, added some damp newspaper and allowed Lydia to wish them good night, I couldn’t help but feel smug. This was me and my family going green and saving planet earth one step at a time. How could I not feel smug? It probably would have been a very good To-Do-List day all round had I not checked my emails half an hour later and discovered something that once again would force me to take my eyes off the To-Do List ball.
Chapter 19: ‘Have a quiet (but forceful) word with the Indian film industry about some of their dubious business practices.’
It started with an email:
Hey, Mike,
I’m a fan of yours from Mumbai and I loved, loved, loved your book Mr Commitment but did you know that this book has been turned into an Indian movie as well? The film, Pyaar Ke Side Effects, has been out for about a year now so I’m sure someone must have told you but in case they haven’t I’m writing to you as what’s really angered me is that they didn’t even bother giving you credit! The book was much better anyway.
Have a great day
Preti
I was curious. Was this person really saying that someone in India had made a film based on my second book without asking my permission? It seemed ridiculous. I cut and pasted the name of the film into Google and pressed return. Nothing happened. I pressed return again. Still nothing happened. I pressed return one last time and still nothing: my modem was completely dead. Having called up my ISP I established that ‘due to unforeseen technical difficulties’ my internet connection was dead.
While half of me was curious about the alleged Bollywoodification of one of my novels the other half suspected it was some kind of prank carried out in the name of humour. Steve from the Sunday Night Pub Club once turned up with his coat zipped up to his neck even though it was a warm summer’s day. Halfway through the evening he announced that he was ‘hot’ and took off his coat to reveal a T-shirt with a huge picture of my face on it; another trickster friend, Danny, unbeknownst to me once sent me home wearing a badge bearing the legend: ‘Bobby Davro for UN Secretary General’. It could have been either one or even both working together because when it came to Steve and Danny anything was possible.
By the time my internet was back on the following day, my mind had moved to the List and Item 900: ‘Get the city council’s building regulations people in to finally check all of the changes we’ve made to the house like we should have done four years ago’. I’d spent most of the afternoon searching out the original paperwork and just needed to arrange for them to come out to the house. Having finally ticked off something that had been kicking around my guilty conscience for so long, I’d celebrated by spending what was left of the day playing with Maisie, so it wasn’t until the following morning that I fired up the computer and checked my email. Amongst various notifications from Facebook and MySpace and Amazon were a few emails from my website:
Hi, Mike,
My name is Reyhaneh and I’m based in Chicago. Recently I picked up Mr Commitment and I have to tell you that I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time!!! I’m writing you now because tonight I rented a Hindi DVD of a new Bollywood movie entitled Pyaar Ke Side Effects – translated as ‘The Side Effects of Love’, which to all intents and purposes is your book! Not only was the movie an ‘Indianised’ version of your book but they’ve also literally used parts of it scene for scene (with only a minor diversion copying the movie Meet the Parents). I didn’t see any mention of your book in the opening credits or on IMDB. I couldn’t watch the whole thing without emailing you (not sure how it ends yet as I’m writing to you). Are you in the UK? You should have no trouble getting a copy of this movie. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Again, I have to say – thank you for the intense tickles from your hilarious book!
Best wishes,
Reyhaneh
This was getting weird. Either Danny and Steve were in cahoots or something was up again. I decided to test the theory by Googling the name of the film again. This time the first stop was IMDB where I discovered the name of the producer and that it had been given a user rating of 7.2 out of ten. Flicking through the next couple of entries and reading reviews, various things made it sound a little like Mr Commitment but only when I read the plot synopsis on Wikipedia did I discover how shamelessly close the plot was to my own book. Whoever had edited the film’s entry agreed and had added the doleful comment: ‘The plot shares many similarities with Mike Gayle’s book, Mr Commitment.’
I couldn’t believe it. It had got nothing to do with Steve or Danny. I really had been Bollywoodised!
‘You’ve been what?’ asked Claire in response to my news.
‘I’ve been Bollywoodised.’ My voice was full of indignation. ‘Some bloke in India has taken one of my books and turned the whole thing into a two-hour film without paying me a red cent!’
I could see that Claire was finding it hard to be quite as outraged as I was, but for my sake she ruffled her eyebrows into a big frown.
‘What can you do about it?’
‘I don’t know. Apparently the Indian film industry does this kind of thing all the time. In fact I’m pretty sure they did the same thing to Barbara Taylor Bradford a few years ago and she took them to court over it though I’m not sure that they won as Indian copyright law is pretty lax.’
‘You should call Simon,’ suggested Claire. ‘He’s your agent. That’s what he’s there for.’
‘You’re right, but before I do I want to make sure that I’ve got all my facts straight.’
‘How are you going to do that?’
‘Get hold of a copy of the film and watch it.’
Given that I knew next to nothing about the world of Bollywood films, it was hard to know where to begin my search. I thought about emailing the two people who had alerted me to its existence but as they were based in India and the US they would be of little help to me here in Birmingham. Instead I decided to contact my friend Hassan, a sports writer for the Dalston Gazette, because although he’s only half Indian, I reasoned that half an insight into the Indian community was better than no insight at all. Plus, Hassan was on my To-Do List under Item 577: ‘Catch up with Hassan as you’ve not caught up with him since he got married’.
I called Hassan’s mobile number and waited.
‘Is that you? Who’s died?’
‘No one, you old misery,’ I replied. ‘I’m just calling for a chat. How’s the missus?’
‘Good, thanks. How’s yours?’
‘Great. And we’ve got a new kid into the bargain too.’
‘Congratulations. I must come up and see your brood sometime.’
‘That would be lovely.’ I paused wondering how to segue from come up and see me sometime to ‘Come on, Hassan, give me the inside skinny on your people and the Bollywood film industry.’ I decided to jump straight in with both feet. ‘Mate,’ I began, ‘I’ve been Bollywoodised and I haven’t the faintest clue how to get hold of a copy. Can you help me?’
‘Of course, mate. What’s it called?’
I told him the title and listened as he tapped his computer keyboard. Was he accessing some secret Indian website that only people from the south Asian sub-continent knew about?
‘There you go, mate,’ he said after a few moments. ‘£14.99 from Amazon or £6.00 second-hand.’
I shuddered with embarrassment. Still, at least I had earned another tick and caught up with an old friend.
‘Thanks, mate, you’re a lifesaver. As soon as I get off the phone I’ll order it second hand. At least that way I’ll be getting one up on them rather them getting another one up on me.’
The DVD arrived two days later in a small brown padded envelope. On the cover of the box was a woman on a moped, with a guy with a black eye riding pillion on the back. According to India FM the film is ‘A MASTERSTROKE!!! An Ideal date Flick that will Appeal to everyone in Love!’ Subhash K Jha (whoever s/he might be) is in agreement proclaiming it to be ‘the one romantic comedy which could
equal Hollywood’s When Harry Met Sally.’ I am now completely and utterly captivated. Here I was standing in my office in Birmingham holding a DVD of a film that some guy in India had based on one of my books without even telling me! I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or book a flight to New Delhi to sort this out man to man.
I took the DVD out of its case and slipped it into the slot on the side of my computer but had a change of heart and pressed eject. I wasn’t sure I could face watching the premiere of my book turned into a film on my own without dying inside. I needed help and support. I needed the Sunday Night Pub Club.
Several hours later they were sitting in front of my TV, bowls of freshly made popcorn in their hands and a look of disbelief on their faces.
‘I can’t believe they did that and thought they could get away with it,’ said Amanda as the end credits rolled.
‘I thought it was quite funny.’ Gary grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl in front of him. ‘And surprisingly watchable. Granted it’s no Seven Samurai but it’s no Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo either. A solid three out of ten I think.’
I smiled weakly at Gary who was clearly just trying to wind me up and looked down at the notepad on which I’d made a list of similarities in character, plot or dialogue. After scribbling down over sixteen pages of notes in the film’s first forty-five minutes I gave up. Tearing my own hair out seemed less painful.
‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Amanda stifling a laugh as Gary began singing one of the film’s many dreadful songs. ‘You’re not really going to fly over to New Delhi and poke the guy in the eye are you?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I’m going to do what I should have done when I first heard about this. I’m going to call my agent.’
‘Mike,’ boomed Simon. ‘How are you? How’s that list thing of yours going?’
‘Great,’ I replied instinctively, before remembering why I’d called and that I was very, very angry. ‘Actually, scrap that, Simon, I’m not great at all . . . I’ve been Bollywoodised!’
I told Simon the story and rather than laughing he boomed that he would get on the case with the legal department. I imagined him putting down his phone and running down the corridor turning over secretaries and tea trolleys as he made his way towards legal at full pelt.
Two days later I got the following email from Simon:
Hi, Mike, have talked with legal and it looks like given the way Indian copyright law is we’d stand little to no chance of winning a case.
Have a great day,
Simon.
PS. Don’t let all this stuff distract you from the To-Do List!
At this prompting I looked over the To-Do List lying underneath a large pile of books. It had been sitting there un-opened and un-loved now for the best part of a working week. Simon was right; as annoyed as I was about this liberty that had been taken with my work I shouldn’t let anything take me off task. Picking up the DVD case of my dodgy adaptation I smiled. Legal issues aside it was quite flattering that they liked my book enough to rip it off. I reached for the To-Do List and scanned its pages. It felt good to be back here again in a world where things were more straightforward. My eyes locked onto one particular item and refused to budge. I’d found my next tick and I vowed once again to myself that nothing, least of all dodgy unauthorised adaptations of my work, was going to come between me and the List.
Excerpt from Mike’s To-Do-List Diary (Part 6)
Friday 23 June
3.22 p.m. I am just about to make an appointment for Claire and me to make our wills at the solicitors on the High Street so that I can tick off Item 20: ‘Make a Will because having twice sliced through the cable while trimming the hedge with the electric hedge cutters I believe my time here might well be limited.’
3.34 p.m. The deed is done. We’ve got an appointment for Monday morning.
3.45 p.m. I feel a little bit weird about what I’ve done and tell myself not to dwell on mortality. I think I’ll go and do some gardening.
3.51 p.m. Claire is asking me if I’ll remarry if she were to die tomorrow. I tell her no. I will mourn her death forever. She studies me carefully and tells me that she reckons that I’ll be remarried within six months because I don’t like being alone.
4.02 p.m. Claire is asking me whether I’d like to be buried or cremated. I tell her I prefer to be buried.
4.03 p.m. No cremated.
4.04 p.m. No buried. Definitely.
4.15 p.m. Claire asks me what music I’d like played at my funeral. I ask her if we can stop talking about death because it’s putting me off my hedge trimming.
4.20 p.m. ‘Okay,’ I say putting down the trimmers, ‘since you ask I think I’d like “Tonight” by Richard Hawley as that always makes me feel a bit emotional.’
4.21 p.m. ‘Actually I think I’d like “All Flowers in Time” by Liz Fraser and Jeff Buckley because it’s a cracking song.’
4.22 p.m. ‘Or maybe “The Anchor Song” by Bjork because that’s really sad but quite life affirming too but not the studio version, it has to be the live version recorded in Union Chapel.’
4.30 p.m. ‘Do you know what?’ I sigh. ‘I don’t really care what music I have at my funeral so you choose. Just no Abba, okay?’
Saturday 24 June
4.55 a.m. I am lying in bed thinking about the Will when Claire turns to me and whispers: ‘Are you awake?’ ‘No, I’m fast asleep.’ She asks me if I’m thinking about the Will, and I tell her, ‘No, I’m thinking about sleeping.’
4.59 a.m. ‘Who do you want to leave your stuff to?’ asks Claire who patently doesn’t believe that I am asleep or thinking about sleep. ‘You can have all of it,’ I reply. ‘But I don’t want all of it,’ she says. ‘If you leave me all of it I’ll feel obliged to keep all of it which is unfair. You can’t clutter up this house in death as well as life you know. I don’t mind having the good stuff that reminds me of you but the rest of it either has to go to Oxfam or your mates: you decide.’ ‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘I’ll sort it out.’
Sunday 25 June
9.00 a.m. I’m on the phone to my old school friend John. ‘All right, mate,’ I say. ‘Just to let you know that should I kick the bucket any time soon the fifteen boxes of Scalectrix that I bought off eBay are yours.’
9.35 a.m. I’m on the phone with my friend Jackie who was best man at my wedding: ‘. . . and to you I’m leaving all my vinyl and a couple of books.’
10.35 a.m. I’m on the phone to Arthur from the Sunday Night Pub Club: ‘. . . and to you and the rest of the Sunday Night Pub Club I’m leaving all my CDs.’
12.01 p.m. I’m on the phone with my brother Andy. ‘If I die which things of mine do you fancy?’ I ask him. ‘I’ll have your DVDs and your bike.’ ‘Consider them yours,’ I reply magnanimously.
12.32 p.m. My phone is ringing. It is my middle brother Phil. ‘Andy says that you’re making a Will,’ he says. ‘What am I getting?’ ‘What do you want?’ ‘I’ll have your computer if no one’s got dibs on it.’ ‘I think I’m leaving that to Claire. No one’s got dibs on my 1977 Shogun Warriors toy Godzilla,’ I tell him. ‘It’s really cool. It’s about a foot and a half tall and it’s on wheels and when you waggle the button on the back of his head fire comes out of his tongue.’ ‘Nah,’ says Phil. ‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘You can have my fax machine then.’
1.03 p.m. I text my friend Richard: ‘Should I die I’m leaving you my 1977 Shogun Warriors toy Godzilla. When you waggle the button on the back of his head fire comes out of his mouth.’
1.05 p.m. A text from Richard: ‘Lovely thought, mate. But no thanks.’
1.06 p.m. Me: ‘What about if I throw in a brown ceramic Mr T money box too?’
1.03 p.m. Richard: ‘Now you’re talking! Cheers, mate!’
Monday 26 June
4.08 p.m. Claire and I are dropping the kids round at my mum’s before heading to the solicitor to make our Wills. We’re both feeling more than a little unnerved. ‘What if we die in a car crash on the way to the so
licitor’s?’ asks Claire. ‘Who will look after the kids?’ I’m guessing that’s one of the many questions we’ll have to sort out on the way.
4.35 p.m. We’re sitting waiting for our meeting with Brian the solicitor. Neither of us is saying much but I sense that Claire wants to cry.
5.12 p.m. I am exhausted and emotionally drained. ‘It’s very depressing making plans for your own death,’ says Claire as we head home with the draft Wills in our hands. ‘You’re not wrong there.’ I reach over to give her hand a little squeeze. Claire is not in the right frame of mind for tender moments: ‘Keep your hands on the wheel,’ she screams. ‘What are you trying to do, make our kids orphans?’
5.35 p.m. We pull up outside my parents’ house and practically race to the door. The kids are playing in the garden and we pick them up and give them a big hug. Lydia is more than a little bewildered by her parents’ sudden rush of affection but decides to enjoy the moment without any further questioning.
8.55 p.m. We’ve drawn up a list of people who love our kids nearly as much as we do and once we get over ten we start to relax. ‘No matter what happens to us,’ I tell Claire, ‘they’ll be all right.’ So we sign the papers, put a stamp on the envelope and put it in the post box at the end of our road. Next week some time the papers will be fully drawn up and we’ll have to go in once again and sign them in front of witnesses but as far as I’m concerned this is one To-Do-List item that has been fully ticked off.