He wasn’t surprised to see a grinning Rajarajan featured, too, though he was still a long way from a lifetime achievement award. After all, he had kept his main thieving in-house. According to the site, two of his films were blatant rip-offs – one of a recent Korean film and the other a Brit film from the sixties. There were references to scenes he had lifted from other films as well. There was also a box item on the lawsuits the advocate Chari had spoken of, with special mention of the plaintiffs’ sudden ‘change-of-heart’.
Other than this, there was a department-wise categorization – songs, poster design, title design, dialogue, background scores, costumes and sets – the hapless originals and their shameless Indian copies featured side by side. Even editing patterns, fight sequences, CGI and camera angles weren’t spared. If De was right, the only original departments in the Indian film industry were catering and transport.
‘Let me reverse the question,’ said Ray. ‘What’s your grouse?’
De looked out of his window. From a loudspeaker across the hill a Tamil film song floated out, rode the mist and
reached them clear as crystal, announcing a wedding or a death. A dog howled in protest.
‘Do you know why the US will always be the richest country in the world – in spite of the greed, arrogance and laziness of its people – guess?’
‘Because they have the largest reserves of fresh water?’ said Ray. He was only half joking.
De looked at him. ‘Actually, they are only the fourth in that department. But, to answer my own question, because they own all the intellectual property in the world that matters. Be it science, medicine, space research, every important idea is theirs. Not many people know it, but it’ll see them through several recessions.’
‘And that’s your reason for thepilferingpenis. What’s the connection?’ said Ray. ‘What’s any of that got to do with films? It isn’t as if Hollywood makes the best films. The Europeans, the South Americans, not that I know too much, but aren’t those the guys who make the really good ones?’
‘Absolutely,’ said De. ‘See, my site isn’t a paean to Hollywood films. It is … a … a…’ He searched for the right word. ‘A rectal probe,’ he said, finally, satisfied with his choice. ‘A rectal probe that hopes to examine the unwashed orifices of our films and film-makers. If you noticed, Hollywood films form only a fraction of what our chaps flick from. My funda is this, if you want to make the average cretin understand something, you need to piggyback on something, right?’
‘Right.’
‘What’s the one big passion of every asshole in this country, other than cricket, that is?’
‘Films, I suppose.’
De’s hands did a there-you-have-it. ‘While my site may look like a hate-fest of Indian films, my real reason is something else. By visiting my site, I hope the average idiot understands the value of creating original art, ideas, concepts and so on – some day.’
‘Seems like a roundabout way,’ said Ray.
‘Maybe,’ said De. ‘But it sure as hell is fun, babu moshai.’
His imitation of Rajesh Khanna was dead-on.
‘Moreover,’ said De, ‘I love films. They go great with the mushies you get here.’
‘Ha,’ said Ray.
‘Which brings us to why you’re here.’
‘Fair enough. I’m here because I want a list of your top five perpetrators. Let it be director, composer or lyricist, I don’t care. Just the top five, according to you. The ones you think are the very antithesis of original thinking, the blatant, the remorseless … who steal, mutilate…’ He stopped mid-sentence unable to find words that weren’t obscene.
De scratched his goatee. ‘Hmmm, interesting. That’ll take some doing. It’s neck-and-neck out here, as you can see. Off the cuff, how about “People’s Hero” to begin with?’ De said.
‘Anyone other than him,’ said Ray.
‘Why?’ said De.
‘For some reason, my dad liked him.’
De let out a cackle.
‘Oh, I get it now – a father–son saga, huh? That’s why you’ve come all the way up the Palani Hills, trekked to distant Vilpatti, an unimportant village outside sleepy Kodaikanal. It’s a revenge saga. Love it. Is it original or are you going to rip off Yaadon ki Baraat or Barood which in turn had ripped off a hundred spaghetti westerns which were channelling Kurosawa?’
Ray smiled. ‘Every chance of it being original, my friend,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t have a plot as yet.’
As Ray walked out into the crisp Kodaikanal night, he thought of the last time he was here. That was twenty-odd years ago. He remembered the photo of all of them in its rusty frame and the reason he was here again.
But why was De here? What had the world done to him that he had given it all up and burrowed himself in a little cottage in the clouds, old books, DVDs and magic mushrooms his only company?
A little later, the night sounds of the shola trickled in through the closed windows of his cab. He had a mid-morning flight to catch in Madurai but he had no reason to wait. The driver negotiated the hairpin bends on autopilot, completely oblivious to the pea-souper. Ray was too far away to worry.
20
It was a mismatch of odours. The man in the middle smelt of Clive Christian No.1 Pure Perfume for Men while the crowd surrounding him smelt of reality.
‘Where did you get this from?’ said Rajarajan, pointing to the last unsold copy of Marma Manithan in the tea shop.
The book swung in the sea breeze, suspended from a makeshift line of packing rope. Its literary companions, glossy Tamil weeklies featuring cleavage-baring starlets on their covers, nodded in agreement. Selva stood on a culvert on the other side, not too close to get it in the neck but not so far away that he couldn’t hear the proceedings.
‘I told you, sir,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Some fellow gave five copies and left.’
‘Didn’t you ask him where he was from?’ said Rajarajan. His tone reeked of on-set-director.
‘Yenna, saar, who am I to ask if a fellow leaves something here and doesn’t come back for his payment?’ said the shopkeeper.
Rajarajan bit back his favourite expletive. He couldn’t antagonize the mob of kuppam dwellers who encircled him. When one had white walls and bay windows it made sense not to tangle with neighbours with good aim and an inexhaustible supply of cow dung.
He pushed his way out of the crowd and strode across the road, hoping to make a quick exit. But his massive maroon-and-gold gates were closed on account of the duty-conscious watchman. The crowd moved from one side of the road to the other like a swarm of ants in pursuit of a lone grain of sugar, surrounding him yet again. Rajarajan’s suppressed expletive shot out like a bullet, ostensibly directed at the errant watchman who hadn’t anticipated his master’s entry. The delighted crowd echoed his sentiment as one voice. Rajarajan stormed in and Selva gave the shopkeeper the thumbs up.
~
‘I don’t get it, you’re telling me there’s no trail,’ said Rajarajan.
Ananth Sundaresan, bar-at-law, tried not to look helpless.
The freezing steel-and-glass cabin in the director’s office didn’t have its usual buzz. It was just the two of them. And there hadn’t been a single phone call or obsequious assistant with a whispered requisition in the last half hour. In fact, the whole battalion of celluloid bottom-rungers sat in the large room outside, awaiting their official pink slips. Ananth’s twenty-two-year-old daughter, Shruti, was one of them. She had joined Rajarajan as second assistant, having completed a degree in visual communication. He had nodded imperceptibly at her on the way in. That had been her request – not to let on to her colleagues that she was the director’s friend’s daughter.
‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you,’ said Ananth Sundaresan. ‘Found the book in three shops, random localities, one in Anna Nagar, one in Velacheri and one … somewhere else … doesn’t matter. Same MO in all three places. Nondescript ma
n drops off five copies and goes away, leaving no sign.’
‘What next? How do we nail this guy?’
‘What nail? There’s no guy to nail. My usual agency worked on this. You know they’re good. If there was a trail to find, they would have found it. My suggestion is you forget it.’
‘Easy for you to say, you fucker. I’m sitting here, fucked. My most ambitious project dropped because of a book published by a ghost. I had set a year aside for this project, goddammit. What the fuck am I going to do? Even if I rustle up a producer from somewhere, which fuckhead “big” hero will give me dates at such short notice? And where the fuck do I go for a new subject. Goddammit. If only Raman was here.’
‘Well, he would have been here if…’ The lawyer nipped his rare foray into the realm of truth quickly. That sort of thing could become a habit.
From a crackling log spitting sparks, Rajarajan turned into an ice-cube.
‘You were saying?’ he said.
‘No, the thing is, why don’t you continue the same project with another producer? I’m sure there’ll be enough takers,’ said the lawyer. Diversionary tactics were his stock-in-trade, after all.
‘You think I didn’t think of that?’
‘Well, then, what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is BKR Productions and their fucking morals,’ Rajarajan spat out the last word like a watermelon seed. ‘They don’t pass on any of their abandoned projects. Anyway, why the fuck are you asking me this? You’re the one who drafted the agreement. They own the copyright of the subject and Clause 26B or C, I’m not sure, talks of dissolution or abandonment of project. It’s theirs to make, burn or shit on. These good guys are the fucking pits. They don’t want to live, won’t let others live.’
Sundaresan tried a sympathetic nod. He was on a bridge, and it was rickety. He couldn’t afford to lose RR. The domino effect would be terrible for business.
He got up from his chair and walked behind Rajarajan.
‘Don’t worry, pa. We’ll figure out something,’ he said, massaging the film-maker’s shoulders.
Rajarajan settled into his chair.
‘A little lower,’ he said.
The lawyer obliged.
‘Listen, Ananth. I’m sending all these assistant fellows off till I figure out the next project. I mean, who the fuck is going to pay for them, right? But ask Shruti to continue. I need her. She’s a great girl, da. I need someone like her to brainstorm with.’
‘You’re the boss, RR,’ said Ananth, relieved to be back on buddy footing. ‘She’s all yours.’
21
The frantic black-and-white figures were everywhere. Popping in and out of the lone lift, scurrying up and down the stairs, lurking in corners, paper cups in hand, referring to files a tad too late to help, and handing out bad tidings far too casually to care. To Vinay, they looked like soiled penguins, all seemingly trying to find a shortcut to the southern hemisphere. He liked coming to the consumer court, though. Parking the car near the Kapaleeswarar Temple, walking half a kilometre through the permanently dug-up R.K. Mutt Road, climbing up two flights of stairs and waiting endlessly in an airless room with unyielding seats – it was all worth it to see Padmini on her home turf.
He sat on the last bench and watched her, ignoring the vibrating phone in his pocket. Padmini was holding the hands of a man in his seventies. A woman roughly the same age as Padmini stood on the other side. A large cloth bag full of papers hung from her shoulders. Their turn had come. Three lawyers, highly paid by the look of their freshly laundered robes and restless air, leaned in turns to whisper something to the judge. A woman sitting next to the judge, a government-appointed jury member, suppressed a yawn. Padmini stared at the floor.
Twenty minutes on, Vinay watched Padmini give the old man a hug. The woman bent down in a bid to touch Padmini’s feet. Padmini stopped her with a playful slap on her shoulder and embraced her.
‘You were fantastic,’ said Vinay, as he reversed the car a little later.
‘Not that great,’ she said.
‘C’mon, don’t be modest. Six lakhs is decent compensation.’
‘The man lost his wife of thirty-five years. Six crores wouldn’t have been compensation. He has been fighting the hospital for a botched-up hysterectomy for seven years. Seven years. This was the best we could do.’
‘I thought consumer courts were supposed to be speedy.’
‘They are, if you have the right lawyers.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘These poor fellows were given the run around by three sets of lawyers. They were about to drop the case. Somehow, they came to me last year. Did what I could.’
‘Did I tell you, you were fantastic?’
‘Not in the last ten seconds,’ said Padmini, pinching his arm.
~
‘Glad you could come during the day,’ said Ray.
‘The bastard’s taken off to the Pondicherry guest house, saar. Self-driving, which means he’s got some slut with him. I’m free,’ said Selva, taking the coffee from Andal with one hand and fobbing off Dog Raj, who was greeting him like a long-lost brother, with the other.
‘Are you familiar with the internet?’
‘What a question, saar. I’m on FB. Got eight hundred and thirteen friends. People are under the impression I’m a writer–director.’
‘Good. I need you to get to RR’s laptop.’
‘Aiyyo,’ said Selva, ‘impossible, saar. He carries it with him even when he goes Two Bathroom.’
Ray quickly stamped out an image of Rajarajan simultaneously abluting and updating his FB status. ‘It’s the most important part of my plan, Selva,’ he said.
Selva tried wiping off the large stain of drool on his jeans and wagged a finger at Dog Raj. The Lab wagged his tail.
‘I can’t promise, saar. But I’ll try,’ he said.
‘Good enough for me,’ said Ray, pulling out a pen drive from his pocket.
‘You know what this is?’ he said.
‘Don’t insult me, saar.’
‘Sorry. Well, all you’ve got to do is bung this into his laptop, run the programme, which should take, say, seven to eight minutes to download and … that’s it.’
‘Seven to eight minutes, you say. I’d be lucky to get seven to eight seconds.’
‘Can you do it?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘No,’ said Ray, thumping him on the back. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘Tomorrow? The bastard’s back tomorrow all right, but such short notice.’
‘No time, Selva. We don’t have time.’
Selva nodded and looked up to see if the family deity was hovering around offering to co-pilot his suicide mission.
‘By the way, does your boss access the internet through his cell phone, tablet, desktop or any other device?’
‘No. Told you, the fellow’s nearly blind. He only uses the laptop for everything.’
‘Good. If not, our plan’s useless,’ said Ray.
‘Our plan?’
~
Ray switched off the DVD player. The pirated print may have been blurred but its intent wasn’t. He was no expert on south Indian films, or Indian films for that matter, but he figured you didn’t have to be Leonard Maltin to realize Arali was a good film, barring the two unnecessary songs and one pasted-on fight sequence. As a matter of fact, it was more than that. It was hard-hitting, moving and entertaining. Rajarajan may have taken the film out of his father but he hadn’t been able to take his father out of the film.
His early childhood had been filled with previews of the Tamil films Appa and his friends had worked in. After his mother’s death, he had found himself making excuses, the free soft drinks and samosas at the interval not enough of a draw any longer. In the US, he had seen the occasional Indian film with friends who had dragged him along. But this was something else. It was like no Indian film he had ever seen.
He looked at the paper he had found in his father’s drawer.
>
Arali
(Oleander)
a synopsis
Vivekananandan (Vivek), a thirty-something NRI, settled in the Bay area, comes to India to attend a cousin’s wedding. This is his first visit in seven years. He is accompanied by his wife and five-year-old daughter. Vivek’s parents, Jagannathan and Kalaichelvi (and a horde of relatives), receive him at Chennai airport with garlands and fanfare. Vivek is embarrassed by the welcome but happy, too, to see his parents.
As they drive up to Vaniyampatti, his ancestral village in southern Tamil Nadu, Vivek reminisces about his childhood in a flashback.
His father is an uneducated but wealthy landlord who the entire village looks up to. When Vivek does well in school, his parents tell him that he should study hard and follow his dreams. Vivek’s childhood is nothing short of idyllic – a sylvan setting, loving parents and endless adventures that only a rural backdrop could offer. It is marred only by two incidents: the anticipation and joy, followed by sorrow and disappointment when his mother’s two pregnancies are followed by the death of his siblings at childbirth.
The incidents are forgotten by the child through the caring and affection of his parents. In course of time, Vivek goes to Madras to study. The parents buy a flat for him and equip it with a cook and an ‘uncle’ to take care of his every need. They continue visiting the boy at regular intervals and give him everything he requires. Vivek goes to IIT, then the US and eventually, via an arranged match, marries Shanti, who is studying in the US. The wedding is conducted with great fanfare, and Vivek and his new bride return to the US. Two years later, they have a daughter, Sanjana.
Back in the present, Vivek, his wife and his daughter are received like royalty at Vaniyampatti. It is a one-week-long celebration with relatives from all over visiting. Vivek’s joy is doubled when he finds out Shanti is pregnant.
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