A post-plagiaristic adventure

“My name is Dev and I’m a serial plagiarizer,” I say to the room of six nervous-looking faces, which also includes the moderator of this meet. “Hi Dev," they mumble in almost-unison. No one here needs introductions; we’re all famous—literally—in our own right. So famous that we were caught with our idiomatical pants down, doing the dirty. But we had kept doing what we had done, anyway, knowing this day would come. Although I never imagined being part of an Alcoholics-Anonymous-type meet, sitting around a table and discussing our individually embarrassing, but collectively stupefying idiocy of pilfering with wild abandon others’ copyrighted work.

We go ahead and introduce ourselves, clockwise, one by one, more in keeping with the accepted decorum of such a meet than out of any sense of social enthusiasm. The moderator nods aggressively throughout, his bristly mustache and dead-eyed stare probably a mask for his feelings of abject disgust or desperate boredom towards the rest of us. I could not care any less than I do for this portly, flatulent sidekick, except all the methane he’s passing into this room begets the danger of someone lighting a cigarette and sending us all to a fiery grave.

To my left is a well-known director from South India, plagiarizer of at least 3 films in full—meaning scenes were ripped nearly scene for scene (with a little South-Indian sambhar thrown in for that extra zing)—and numerous others in part, in which the Director felt particularly inspired to put in ‘original’ stuff. He looks stuffy and uncomfortable in his white kurta, chewing betel nut, the smell of which wafts through the room (commingling with the methane exuded by our honorable moderator), and seems to most bother the eminent personality to his left—a Bollywood director, maker of the film that was sent to this year’s Oscar’s as India’s entry for foreign film, whose plot was ‘inspired’ from at least half a dozen English films, yet was nationally hailed as the coming of age of Indian cinema. It quickly became obvious to anyone with even a working knowledge of Hollywood films that this particular, claimed-to-be-original, Oscar-nomination-worthy entry was embarrassing on an international stage. Frankly, his body of work is good but it’s time he realized that if you make a mass market film, it’s likely someone is going to spot a copy. I sometimes wish for the old days when audiences used to be ignorant of world cinema and our inspired works were seen as originals.

The industry, of course, was embarrassed at the sudden, alarming spike of ‘unoriginal’ works (more like they were left red-faced at being caught with their hands in the laddoo jar — while supposedly dieting — by a very furious significant other), and a meeting of the biggest producers was called after a public outcry and shaming which resulted in actual problems like governmental apathy with running this country, corruption, etc. taking a backseat. They, the producers, put their collective feet down and here we are, treated like addicts four times a week, starting today.

“I don’t know why I did it; I just know that I've watched a lot of films and that I *may* have taken inspiration from some,” I had said. I had rehearsed that all morning, nicked my face with the razor while shaving and alarming my dog with the curses. “I truly rue my error in judgment, and have already set in motion that all the current scripts I’m working on be gone over to make sure this won’t be repeated in the future.” This is to say I’ll just have to be more careful about how original my stuff looks, from now on. I really would rather be home, sleeping or playing on the Xbox or watching some foreign art films, which are all the rage these days with the artsy or hipster crowd, and worthy of ‘emulation.’

Adding to the people I've already mentioned, the other two are lesser known directors, who’ve ironically found fame because they were sued by the people they copied from. Amateurs!

It's the Southie's turn next. "My name is Veddukut and I am being a plagiarizer, too!" There we go. I glance at the clock on the wall in front and wish the Mayans could have predicted an earlier time for the apocalypse. Like in the next two minutes.

The others have a fair bit to say and I pretend to listen for a while, but eventually tune out.

Only a few minutes to go and we're out of here. Feels like school all over again, waiting for the damned bell to ring and erupting into a commotional “Screw you, Teacher, your time's over.”

I walk out the building alone, and my driver pulls the car in front—a BMW series 7—and I slide my ballooning body into the back seat. Mental note: rejoin the gym, soon. But first things first: get home, shower, and wait for my secretary to come by and take notes on tomorrow's meeting with a big-time producer who's taken a liking to my new script. Original, I assure you, as original as can be, but some critics won’t see it that way. To hell with them.

We get to my complex, and I ride the elevator up to the 7th floor, and walk down the corridor to my apartment. I slide the key into the keyhole and turn, but the door gives in as if it was already unlocked. I'm sure I'd locked the door. I probably didn’t and this is just another sign of old age creeping upon my 40-year-old self. Next thing you know I'll stick my glasses on my head and look everywhere for them.

"Get in and be quiet; I've got a gun here and I will make an extra hole in you if you are any trouble!" says the gruff voice. That's my cue to comply. Being a hero is all well and good in the fantasy worlds I create, but right now I need to stay alive to support the charity towards the welfare and continued nourishment of one Dev Pai. The man is strong. He drags me in, and I stumble grossly and fall on my shoulder, sending shock waves that bounce around in my cranium. He’s wearing what looks like a poorly-made mask hastily put together: a plastic bag with cutout holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth; and adhesive tape that’s going to hurt coming off, tearing stubble hair from their roots on its departure. He grins at me with a lovely set of teeth, too good for the felon type, I notice. "Who are you? What do you want?" I ask him, with what passes for my ‘unruffled’ demeanor. One thing I've learnt as a Director who's around actors is, well, acting. And there was that time when I wanted to be in front of the camera but decided to be behind it instead. So I know my theatrics. He says he's here for payback. That I copied a movie that was owned by a Don in Dubai and the Don wants to make an example of me. "You Directors, you got no respect for the small guy who's just trying to make a living making films. You just steal, and you make your money!" he says. Great. I'm being taught ethics by a hit-man sent by the Bombay Mafia.

"Look", I say. "There's no need for violence. I've got money, I can pay you, the Don, and the guy I stole the story from; it's all good!" I’m stalling. He's exchanged the gun for a knife. This somehow seems more menacing than the gun. Don't like the look in his eyes or his intentions with the knife but I'm sure as hell not going to wait to find out.

He heads towards me with the knife. "Lalabhai needs a token, so you never forget what you've done." A token. What kind of token, I ask. "A finger, of course. I need to take your right thumb, boss!" This factual statement loaded with enthusiasm alarms me. My mask of nonchalance slips off like dirt off a stone facade in the monsoon’s first rain. I notice him more clearly now. He looks fit and I'm no match. I had taken some Krav Maga classes, but that was years ago. If only I can recollect my training...

The doorbell rings. Mr. Hitman tells me to see who it is. I pray fervently that it’s the watchman or my driver bringing something up I may’ve forgotten. “Better not be thinking of raising an alarm, or it’ll be a lot more than a finger you’ll lose,” he says. He can read my mind. I see him sweating and this gives me a moment's peace. Keeping my thumb just got a little more probable. He’s right behind me with the knife in my back as I walk and look through the peep-hole, and see it's my Secretary, Amisha on the other end. What a stroke of luck, or probably dumb-luck, because she's going to be hurt, too, if I let her in. If I could somehow alert her that I'm in trouble maybe she could go downstairs and get some help before Mr. Hitman makes off with my precious right thumb. It may not have launched a thousand ships, but I care for it a lot nonetheless, and I'd be loathe to lose it to a bugger with an offbeat career choice and great teeth.

"Who is it?" he whispers. I tell him it's my secretary, come to discuss tomorrow’s meetings. He looks at me skeptically with a yeah-right-sure-and-I'm-the-Queen-of-England face. That expression is not necessary, I'd like to tell him, but hold my tongue. "She's got to go; tell her to go away. Wait. Don't say anything and she'll go away," he says.

This is good; he's not thinking this through. I have my cellphone in my pocket, set to play the title track of Infernal Affairs. Amisha is sure to call my phone and hear the sound and know I'm indoors, and then I don't know what, but either she's going to be in trouble or she'll rescue me somehow, with or without right thumb attached.

“This knife, your liver, I’m warning you,” he says, surprising me with his knowledge of human anatomy. Damn all this. I'm not going to endanger Amisha and this clown Hitman has annoyed me to the max, now. Time to bring him down! Not that I have a plan or anything. I should just rush him, I think. Throw my weight right on him. That ought to do the trick. If it doesn't I'll probably be out a lot more than just a thumb, but what the heck. Nothing ventured, and all that fluff. I swing around and charge at him. He's caught momentarily by surprise; I can see it on his face, the eyes and mouth, mainly, through the plastic bag. I swing my right arm at his face but by now he's ready. He thrusts his right arm with the knife toward my mid-section but my fist connects with the left side of his face first, causing him to lose his driving thrust and hit the emptiness of the air a half inch to my left. He loses balance and I put my left leg out to trip him, grab him by the back of his neck and throw him over my knee onto the floor. The knife flies out of his hand and lands a few feet away. Not so tough. He looks back at me in alarm, then gets up and reaches into his coat. The gun! I stretch my right leg out and my boot’s steel-tipped toe connects with his mid-section, then, rushing in, I throw a left at his nose with all the strength a left-handed guy who’s boxed in High School is capable of putting into a punch. I feel his nose crunching under my knuckles, the impact of which travels up to my shoulder. He's out like a light during load-shedding season.

I remember Amisha is at the door. I take the gun and knife off Mr. Hitman before letting her in. "Are you all right?! I heard some sort of commotion in here. What’s going—" She looks beyond me and her eyes open wide in alarm. "Whoa, Dev!" I tell her to shush and dial the ACP, who I let play a minor role in one of the films I did, and who owes me for much more. Better let him take care of this. I tell Amisha to get us drinks while I tie Mr. Hitman up.

The cops take their time getting here. The ACP, Inspector Desai, after some small talk, thanks me profusely. "We've wanted this guy for a long time, Devbhai. He's been trouble and we're happy you caught him for us. You’re a hero, just like your actors," he grins. He wishes me a good night and he and his posse leave Amisha and me alone.

My phone rings. I pick it up to see it's an unknown number, and looks to be an international call. What now?

"Lalabhai speaking," says the voice. "Dev? I hear the news. You take out my guy, give him to police, I no like it."

"Now, now hold on, Lalabhai. I only defended myself. I can't help it if he was incompetent at his job!" This is my best argument. It has been a long night.

"But you have to pay for what you did, na. What kind of example I am setting if you don't? So you say. What to do with you?"

"Uhm." Think Dev, think. "How about, how about… I pay you for the film I stole plus the trouble I've caused you, what with hiring a hitman and him failing at his job and all that?"

"You make fun of me, ha? You’ve become big now, hain?"

"Absolutely not, Lalabhai! I would never do that. I’ll tell you what, I'll get SRK on my next film and fly him down to Dubai for a scene and get you to meet him, how about that?! And I'll throw in whatshername ooh-la-la actress from that film..."

"Vidya Balanji! She is so, so hot!"

"Yes, yes, her! I'll get her too, and you can meet her and SRK and get your kids and wife along and have a fun, family get-together. What say you?"

"Devbhai, you really know how to please the people, no? I would like them very much to be in Dubai and entertaining my family! I have to go now. Time for my evening massage. Chalo, milte hai."

I'd say that went well. Amisha looks at me with that what-was-all-this-about look. I just shrug my shoulders and tell her, "We should discuss this great idea for a script I have with the producer tomorrow. It’s completely original, and about this underworld Don, and a Bollywood Director who steals a film script..."