Continuity Error — Chapter 1

Francis yelled again. His voice carried over the commotion of a film set during lunch time. This time it was because an A.D had forgotten to get the prop of the right size. The prop in question was a loofa. The scene in question was set in a bathroom, which gave plenty of opportunities for gratuitous nudity. Movies, like everything else, sold better if there was a pair of tits involved. And with Kali Arora, they got the best in the business.
The screenplay writers were given the corner of the giant soundstage to squat in. We made the most of it, helped by a healthy pouring of Old Monk in the morning coffee. I rummaged my pockets to find my packet and cursed when I removed my hand, the dumb ring snagging in the pockets again.
Stepping outside, I light up and ogled at the extras as milled about from the shoot next door. Anushka joined me a moment later, but I knew she was on her way about 15 seconds before she did. That damn sickly sweet perfume and her giant jangling bangles announcing her arrival. Made a mental note, never become an unmarried 42 year old who tries to compensate for their loneliness by dressing like Ila Arun at Burning Man.
“Hey fuck face, they need rewrites for the afternoon scene!” She screeches, somehow managing to form coherent words even with a Marlboro between her lips. We share that smoke, my 5th since the morning. Lungs sufficiently burned, I step back onto the set, the corrugated steel creaking loudly and interrupting a rehearsal. Kabeer Sant glares at me, the ferocity of the stare softened by the several makeup man dabbing at his perfectly chiselled face and plucked eyebrows.
“These goddamn college kids have no respect for art….” Francis grumbles, which was ironic because we went to the same college. Before he dropped out. After being caught selling weed and an old bottle of DSP Black to the principal’s nephew. Speaking of, I realized there was a miniature left in my bag. But of course, one of the ADs grabbed me by the arm and chewed my ear of for 10 minutes. The thing that they never tell BMS graduates is that they compensate for their shitty wages by being dicks. Giant, warty, stinking dicks.
The words mean nothing to me, but I know I need to look busy so I nod along, scratching my beard as I do. The ring reflects the bright studio lights in the ADs eyes and he scurries away soon after. Grabbing my yellow legal pad and pulling a pen from my back pocket, I squat against a box of equipment and start writing. Or doodling to be more precise.
I am supposed to be rewriting a breakup scene, and they had hired me to ‘youth up’ the terribly clunky Hinglish words. Which meant toning down sentences like “We are not chill anymore babes….” and making them more “relatable”. My mind wandered after the 3rd sentence. They had started shooting again and it was very difficult to do anything while a Bollywood actress was half naked a few feet from you. Kabir stood next to the sink, not showing an ounce of talent. They were getting paid a Gujju family’s entire inheritance worth of money for this. Well, at least the heroes were. Not the women, because sanskar of course.
Rubbing my sleep deprived eyes, I yawned hugely and began to scratch out what I had written. Francis had yelled cut because Kabeer had forgotten his cue, like the lumbering oaf that he was. The makeup personnel and his PA rushed to him to powder his delicate face and placate his equally delicate ego. Francis was running his hands through his missing hair, sweating under the hot lights. The next three takes went around the same way. My hand had stopped writing legible words at that point.
I’m stuck in purgatory, I think to myself. And even numbing my senses wouldn’t help at that point. And my senses did seem numb at the point. 2 smokes and a tea was not an ideal breakfast I conceded. A mixture of boredom and free time were a writer’s kryptonite. And here I was writing dumbed down dialogues for this dumbfuck while his father paid for his horse riding and dance lessons.
“My name is Kabeer, tu janta hain mera baap kaun hain?” I wrote, chuckling to myself. ‘Kabeer grunts’ I continue writing ‘as he flexes and bangs his chest like an ape’. The ink shimmered on the spot as I puncture the the page with me pen with a full stop. A commotion and Francis losing his shit again makes me look up. Kabeer stands there dumbstruck while Kali covers herself with the shower curtain, looking terrified. The replay being shown on the bank of monitors catches my eye. It shows the big oaf beating his chest, just like I had written down seconds ago.
This, this has got to be a coincidence right. I chew on the end of the pen, leaning against the equipment stack. The swarm of attendants try and calm down their respective masters, everyone already dreading reading about this ‘incident’ in tomorrow’s Page 3. Francis gave his favorite boy a reassuring hug and peck, and he stomped back to his chair, ready for another waste of film.
The whole set fell into silence, but you could still catch a few stray whispers. I stared at my notepad again. I had to test this, but maybe without drawing too much attention to this. ‘Kabeer turns on the tap’. The lumbering oaf swivels on the spot and turns on the tap. Francis loses his shit, attributing this movement of his actor to acting skills and improv talents he’d never exhibited before.
This was fun. ‘Wipe your face on the shower curtain’ The whole set squealed in disgust but Francis let the scene continue. Till the whole curtain came down and Kali yelled a choice few Delhi style cuss words, her native accent seeping through her carefully cultivated American accent. While the grips fixed the bathroom set, Kabeer chomped on a banana, seemingly unaware his actions in the last minute were not dictated by himself. ‘Throw your phone on the ground’ A loud crack echoed through the set.
Interesting. So the star of the year, the GQ Most Well Dressed Man of Lokhandwala and the brand ambassador of Manikchand pan masala was a puppet in my hands. My mind races with the possibilities. Of making him slap Francis. Steal food for me. Drop his wallet into my hands. ‘Rub the banana skin on the camera’ I scrawled, as Francis uttered a guttural yell as his lens was smudged by lead actor with fucking fruit.
Then I pause. I was thinking too small. This was a wealthy kid I was controlling. He could gift me his Audi and do nothing to stop himself. Maybe with a few supermodels still inside it. I grin, ignoring the dirty looks of the ADs they scurried past, unsure of what to do. Hmm. Time for revenge. ‘Fire all the ADs’ I look up, but Kabeer simply sits on his chair, with a more than usual deadpan expression. “Hmm, so no speech, only actions are controllable.” Francis cajoled Kali to get back in front of the camera, with whispered threats of replacing her with a younger actress thrown in. Patriarchy was alive well in this industry, all your women’s marches be damned.
A shadow loomed over me. It was Kabeer. “Oye! Stop staring at my heroine!” Even the spot boys stopped in their tracks to observe this interaction “And give me easier lines. This shit sucks.” He grunts, glowering at me, clearly unhappy that I stared blankly instead of rushing to obey. Francis scurries to us “It’s ok baba, I’ll make sure he does, just get the scene done ok baba?” He leads him away from me, like distracting a tantrum throwing toddler with a shiny toy. I assume that’s the same strategy Trump’s assistants use. But not before the slack jawed fool had grabbed a wet rag the spot boys used to clean the floor and thrown it at my face.
The sniggering had not stopped as I wiped my face and plucked grime and dirt from my forehead. Oh, this jackass was going to pay.
End of Chapter 1
