Ekalavyan looked at the cigar. It was half-done. He extinguished it gently against the step he was sitting on, pulled out a piece of paper, wrapped the cigar in it and returned it to its box.
‘There is one problem, however…’ he said.
‘What’s that, sir?’ said Ray.
‘Where the hell do I hide the box?’
It was about an hour later and they were at the bottom of Greenwood Apartments.
‘My advice is that you keep a low profile,’ said the old man, pressing the button for the tenth time. From ten floors above, they heard the lift’s feeble electronic protest about its doors being improperly shut.
‘Why?’ said Ray.
‘Just before we left Loyola, I caught a glint from my bedroom window. My son’s on to us,’ he said.
‘Thanks, sir. Thanks for everything.’
‘You father must have loved films.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your name. After Satyajit or Nicholas?’
‘Satyajit, sir.’
‘Good choice.’
17
Ray looked at the man lying on the floor touching his feet. He didn’t seem to care that his whites were getting soiled.
‘Get up, Selva. This is embarrassing,’ he said.
Selva looked up but remained prostrate. ‘Saar, why didn’t you tell me, saar,’ he said.
‘What? And miss out on the most memorable night of my life?’
‘That’s true. I would have never put thanni with you if I’d known you were Raman-ayya’s son.’
A little later, not only did Ray have Selva back on twos, but had him sitting on the sofa, with a promise from him that the ‘saar’ tag would be dropped.
‘Like they do in your boss’s films, I’ll cut to the chase,’ Ray said.
Selva looked uncomfortable on the sofa. He absently took the coffee Andal offered him.
‘Do you want to get Rajarajan?’ Ray said.
‘You joking? If there was a way I could kill him without getting caught, I’d do it.’
‘Well, there is. In a manner of speaking. Will you help me?’
‘Sollunga, saar, I mean, Ray saar, what do you want me to do?’
‘This BKR Productions film your RR is doing, how much of it is complete?’
Selva looked at the ceiling and did some maths.
‘About twenty-five to thirty per cent, maybe,’ he said.
‘Can you get me a copy of the script?’
‘There is no “script” script as such. In this town, they have what you call “scene papers”. I can get them, if you like.’
‘Of the entire film?’
‘No. The film shot so far. They make photocopies to hand over to the ADs, etc. Easy enough to get. Will that do? I know the rest of the story anyway.’
Ray took a moment, thinking. ‘You say you’re a writer, right?’ he said.
‘What a thing to ask. Your father himself said I was one.’
‘How would you like your first professional writing assignment?’
Selva made like he was going to grab Ray’s feet again.
‘Can you write a little novel for me, say, in a week?’ Ray said.
‘Week-aa?’ said Selva.
‘Why, what’s the problem? Do you know the writer Rajesh Kumar shot off over fifteen hundred novels in thirty years? That’s about one every week.’
‘Okay! If he can, so can I. On what subject? Historical, romance. Maybe adult?’
Ray shook his head.
‘It should be the exact same subject as your boss’s current film. Minor alterations okay. Change the names, the locations if you wish, but retain the plot and its central point. Can you do that?’ he said.
‘First attempt-ey copy-va?’
‘Isn’t that the tradition here?’
Selva laughed. ‘For an NRI, you are quite hushar,’ he said.
‘The problem is we can’t use your name.’
Selva started to protest but stopped midway as his brain caught up with him.
‘Think of a good pen-name,’ said Ray.
‘Gangai Kondaan!’ said Selva. He made no attempt to conceal his triumph.
‘Ah,’ Ray said. ‘Rajaraja’s successor. Good one.’
~
‘Tell him it’s an old friend,’ said Ray.
The operator spoke into the phone: ‘He says he’s an old friend, sir.’
She was young and had the look of someone who would soon move on to more glamorous pursuits. She pointed to the door that said Abraham Verghese. Ray knocked softly before entering.
‘What the—?’ said Abie by way of greeting.
Ray grinned and plonked himself on a plush leather chair meant for visitors.
‘Not bad,’ he said, giving the cabin the once-over, ‘not bad at all for a Suriyani shyster.’
‘When did you get back, you fucker?’ said Abie.
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘Why didn’t you call? I could have picked you up.’
‘I figured a call-taxi would be cheaper. It costs ten dollars. An eighteen-year-old Macallan costs fifty,’ Ray said. ‘Anyway, know a good printer?’
Abie stared. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Can he typeset, print and bind double-quick?’
‘Hey, slow down, buddy. What’s this? We send you off a week ago, all teary and broken. You rebound like a bad cheque and start talking about printers out of the blue. What’s up, da?’
‘Digital printing. Print-on-demand. Do you guys have it here?’ Ray said, deliberately ignoring Abie’s questions.
‘Cheeky bastard. Of course we do. Why do you think all your books and journals get printed here?’
‘Just checking,’ said Ray.
‘Oh, I get it. You want to write a soppy novel and dedicate it to Padmini, right? A see-me-boo-hoo-how-much-I-love-you saga. I’m with you, bro. Include tons of boobage, automotive lubricants and sex in weird locations, like printing presses, vegetable shops. It should have a catchy title like Nookie Ninja’s Nightie Nights or something. Even if she doesn’t ditch whatsisname, you’ll make tons of money. Like that Chetan Bhagat fellow.’
‘Boobage, bondage, Chetan Bhagat? Do you even read?’ said Ray.
‘Seriously, why do you need a printer?’
‘I need a book printed. Don’t worry, I’m not the author. Just the publisher. Can you get me one or are your contacts limited to hitmen?’
Abie picked up his phone.
~
The little girl looked at Ray’s hands, then peered into his shirt pocket. Finding nothing, she stuck her hands in the gap between the sofa and his back and felt around. Her hands came out empty.
‘Why does this uncle never bring chocolates?’ she said.
‘That’s because he’s a penny-pinching paapaan, darling,’ Abie said.
‘What’s a paapaan, Appa?’ she said.
‘Your mama’s one, sweetie,’ said Ray.
Kriti ran away singing, ‘Mama is a paapaan, Mama is a paapaan.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ Abie said.
‘No big plan as such. Just playing it by ear,’ said Ray.
‘What’s with the book you want printed ASAP?’
‘Just a shot in the dark. Might amount to nothing.’
Abie went to the bar and poured himself another drink.
‘Sure you don’t want one?’ he said.
Ray shook his head. The effects of Palleer Nagar were yet to wear off fully. Abie added a couple of ice cubes to his drink. Kriti skipped around the sofa a couple of times, stopped, gave Ray a tough look and tiptoed away into her room. Sumi and the cook were laughing in the kitchen. And he was thinking of printing a fake book.
‘How about Sixty-nine Ways to Love Someone?’ said Abie.
‘What about it?’ said Ray.
‘Another title option for your novel.’
‘No. I think that one’s a joint project for you and Vatsyayana.’
‘Who the fuck is Vatsyayana?’
‘The Abie of the Ancient World.’
~
The third gear of the Tata Indica fell in place like an obedient daughter-in-law. He had figured his way around the reluctant rod on his way back from the local bar the other night. While Selva had become increasingly incoherent, he had begun to see things clearly. Cheap alcohol did that sometimes. Like the night before their maths finals when Abie, he and PK, their nerves stretched taut by calculus, had substituted the midnight tea with Naga rum. They had all ended up scoring centums.
The low-on-lubrication lever wasn’t the only thing he had got around that night. On the long drive back, he had realized another thing. That the starting point of Operation Rajarajan lay in the present. And that was why, of all the points he had frantically typed up, it was BKR Films that had figured most prominently in his discussion with Ekalavyan.
When he stopped his car outside Sai Nivas Apartments, he realized that there was still a lot he didn’t know. Like what he was doing outside Padmini’s house, yet again, in the dead of the night.
He looked at the sit-out on the fifth floor. The light was switched off. Obviously. What did he expect? That she would telepathically know to leave the light on so her old friend and one-time-only lover could travel across oceans in the dead of the night and look at it? The watchman’s cabin had the light on. What had the man thought of him, turning up in the middle of the night wearing track pants, accompanied by a seemingly retarded Lab? Sometimes it was good to consider the opinion of strangers. After all, the watchman was the one who had seen him at his most vulnerable – as an auto driver had on an earlier occasion.
He picked up his phone.
‘You are mine. I love you. You will never be happy with anyone else. Come out right now and marry me.’
As he drove off, he wondered. What if he sent the message scrolling across his head?
18
‘This is a bit worrisome,’ said Pramod Reddy.
The Kodambakkam office of BKR Films hummed like a lightsaber. The Art Deco building had been designed to look like a Cedric Gibbons set. Story went that old man Reddy had been a big fan of the MGM musicals and wanted something that evoked that era. It had been his pet project and he had overseen its construction, brick by brick, spending several years and tons of money to get it just right. More than half a century on, it stood pretty much unchanged, flipping the bird to the ugly skyscrapers around it and the new-age film-makers living in them.
Rajarajan, who had had to cut short his location hunt and hurry back from Thailand, shifted his backside in the chair across the veteran producer.
‘This is bullshit,’ said Rajarajan, turning the book with the lurid cover around like an umpire examining a questionable cricket ball. He didn’t know that the oddly sweet smell was lamination glue that hadn’t dried fully.
‘That might be so, but the charges these publishers – Instant Karma Publications – and the writer, Gangai Kondaan, are levelling are serious. Their document isn’t a legal notice but it sure as hell sounds like one.’
‘Sir, please understand. Every film I’ve made, some bastard or the other has tried to make trouble. They just want money.’
‘Have you read the book?’ said Reddy.
‘I have. Skimmed through it, actually.’
‘And?’
‘Yeah, it’s somewhat like our film…’
‘Not somewhat. Ninety per cent similarity. I read it twice. Only the names and some minor details are different.’
‘These sons-of-bitches need to be roughed up a bit, that’s all. Leave it to me, sir, I’ve handled such things before,’ said Rajarajan.
He had gripped the book so hard that it had got partially stuck to his hands. He shook it so violently that it flew off his hands, bounced on the table and fell at the producer’s feet.
Pramod Reddy picked up the book and riffled through its pages. ‘Here, for instance,’ he said.
Rajarajan peered at it.
‘Exact same scene in our film.’
‘Leave it to me, sir,’ Rajarajan said, barely in control. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘No. We’ll take care of it,’ said Reddy. ‘You know our method, RR. It’s quite different from yours. My father had certain policies.’
‘Your father’s dead,’ said Rajarajan.
The expression on Pramod Reddy’s face made Rajarajan realize he had crossed a line. The producer looked away and tapped his fingers on the book.
‘That might be so. But his values live on,’ he said, after a while.
His voice was soft as a lion tamer’s. Rajarajan nodded. It was one of those rare occasions when he was punching above his weight.
~
‘What the hell do you mean the phone number and address don’t exist? You mean some son-of-a-bitch published this just to fuck my trip and … and vanished into thin air?’
Rajarajan’s knuckles were white around his phone and his face was the colour of the Chicken ’65 they served in Palleer Nagar. Selva averted his gaze from the rear-view mirror a nanosecond too late.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ Rajarajan said.
Selva kept his eyes on the road. Not reacting – he had had years of practice at this. But the murderous rage he usually felt, the one he feared would seep out through his pores one day and turn his white uniform blood red, was absent now. Instead, the reassuring face of the man called Ray popped into his head.
‘Have you seen this shit anywhere?’ said Rajarajan.
Selva looked at him through the rear-view mirror. The director was holding a copy of the book. It said Marma Manithan in gold with the author’s name, Gangai Kondaan, in scarlet below. The cover sported a man partially in shadow holding a big gun in one hand while his other hand was wrapped protectively around a woman with even bigger guns. The background was a city skyline engulfed in flames.
Selva had done it all himself. Written the damn thing, had it typeset, christened the fake publishing house, bunged in the non-existent address and phone numbers, downloaded the pictures for the cover from the web, chosen the fonts and figured out the colour scheme and hung up a few copies in the potti kadai outside RR’s house. Ray had taken care of the printing alone. A seventeen-year-old, who ran a DTP unit in Palleer Nagar, and who had been sworn to secrecy, had been his second-in-command. His most important contribution being Photoshopping the woman to make her three cups bigger. After all, what was the point skimping on the details? He felt rather proud of his effort. What was it that they called someone like him, a guy who did the story, screenplay, production and the whole shebang all on his own? He had read the word somewhere, it was ‘otter’ or ‘atter’ or something like that.
‘No, sir, never seen it before,’ he said. ‘Why, is it good?’
Selva’s maiden literary effort zipped towards his head. He managed to weave out of its path just in time. The book thudded against the windscreen and landed next to him. Selva vacuumed the grin that threatened to give it all away off his face.
‘Why the fuck don’t you read the fucking thing yourself and decide?’ said Rajarajan.
Selva couldn’t resist the response.
‘Sure, sir. At once, sir.’
Rajarajan didn’t take the bait. He stared out of the window, his face impassive as a cut-out.
19
The room must have had a mile of wire. It was everywhere, in every variety possible – thick, thin, red, blue, twisted, frayed, naked, taped – strewn all over the floor like Medusa having a bad hair day. In fact, a dreadlock of it, its crackle barely concealed, slithered around his cautiously placed feet. Ray wondered if it could turn his chair electric.
‘What’s your grouse?’ said the man with the long hair. Four randomly placed computer monitors glowed behind him. An off-kilter bookshelf displayed spines with the names of the big guns of film lit: Pauline Kael, Donald Spoto, Richard Schickel and his dad’s favourite, David Thomson.
‘Why should it be a grouse?’ said Ray. ‘Just interested in plagiarism, academica
lly, that’s all. Found you on the net. All searches led to your site, www.pilferingpenis.com – so here I am. Interesting name, by the way.’
The man grinned, revealing discoloured teeth. Cigarette butts and crushed coffee-stained paper cups were strewn everywhere.
‘“Pricks” was the word I’d wanted. Had to tone it down – to bring in the family audiences, so to speak.’
‘Everything you want to know about copyright theft in Indian Films’ was what one reviewer had called it. Wikipedia had a page on him. His blog had 195,654 dedicated followers at last count.
Debdutta De was a bona fide underground legend. IIT topper, guy who had got one crore as his opening salary, invited by every Ivy League school, predicted to be the next big thing from India in the field of nanotechnology gives it all up and disappears to reappear a couple of years later with, of all things, www.pilferingpenis.com, an exhaustive, exhausting site dedicated to intellectual property theft by the Indian film industry. Story was he had refused ads, refused to sell and actually mooned the one guy who had come all the way to Kodaikanal to threaten him. By his own admission, he and the Indian film industry were alive only because the general public didn’t care where their fare came from as long as it was garnished with local masala; also, the creators of the originals from around the world had found it far too cumbersome to sue the plagiarists.
When Ray had looked at the site the first time, it was obvious it wasn’t the hobby horse of a disgruntled film reject. It was a work of encyclopaedic proportions, thoroughly researched, cross-referenced and indexed. It was scholarly, and it meant business.
To begin with, there was a rogue’s gallery which featured nearly all of the ‘who’s who’ of the Indian film industry in alphabetical order. The lifetime achievement (‘Thief of Thieves’) award for that year was conferred on a south Indian giant, an actor–producer–director who had a dubious doctorate and a Padma Shri as his first and middle names, a man his legion of fans referred to as ‘People’s Hero’. The list of films he had stolen from included Butterflies Are Free, Godfather (again and again), Mrs Doubtfire, Nine-to-Five, Rashomon, She-Devil, Singin’ in the Rain (with copies named alongside).
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