A Spot Boy’s Account of His First ‘Rape Scene’

A Rape in Three Acts

For 3 generations now, our family has produced eminent spot boys. My grandfather held spot (as the industry calls it) for Nargis when she was in a white and wet saree. My father held spot for Sridevi when she was in a whiter and wetter saree and today I entered Bollywood to do some spotting myself. Waking up and seeing Deepika Padukone’s picture the first thing in the morning brought me a lot of luck. I would advise all spot boys to start the day with her poster. Lucky, because on the first day I got to hold spot for a rape scene. In my world, this is the equivalent of getting a first ball wicket. Ask Nilesh Kulkarni if you don’t believe me!! Now, to describe the exciting day I had.

Act 1:

The scene started with the villain entering the heroine’s sister’s room. I didn’t have to wait for action. Within a few seconds they were exchanging heated words before his eyes landed on her hot body. In spite of his size he quickly jumped over the double-cot towards her. Because of her size, she reacted quickly, reducing the 40V bulb in the table lamp to small pieces, with a deft flick to his head. Very romantic I thought. Those 5 stitches would slow him down. Clearly, all articles in the room were bought on a discount sale. She continued to throw each one at him with a decent accuracy while he continued to chase her with indecency. There reached a point where only the double-cot, the cupboard and the handy ceramic sink were left. Any of them being thrown would have been fatal to him. But alas! The director turned out to be a nice guy. “Cut!” he shouted loudly. She didn’t cut anymore of the villain.

Act 2:

Some of the broken articles were replaced with dignity by me. The heroine’s sister was replaced with much less dignity by a “double” as the director called her. Looking at her, it was clear why he thought she was double – must have been from the Southern parts of the country where weight has weightage I hear. Villain Sir continued to be the athlete he was and soon pinned the double to the double-cot. By now, I was asked to spot only the villain. The glee on his face reminded me of one who had received a chicken biryani in spite of voting for the opposition. In the meanwhile, the “double” exercised her vocal chords like it was time to return it to the creator tomorrow. The entire studio could feel her urge to use a pointed reference to the villain’s mother, sister and immediate family. But she held back with dignity. At this point I heard the director yell “cut” for the second time in the day. The excitement in me was superseded only by the lights I held.

Act 3:

The director and cameraman were very clear on what they wanted me to spot on this time. They said I had to be fast with the spotting. Villain Sir continued to mud-wrestle with the double, while the camera focused on the rest of the room. Quickly the cameraman and I focused on the bangles of the double and the watch of the villain. A second later, I was spotting the table lamp in the corner which had escaped being broken, quickly followed by the table lamp on the floor, which tried getting away in the earlier throwing spree, but couldn’t. The mirror on the cupboard was our next target with the reflection of the characters’ legs being our focus. What creativity from the director I thought to myself. All the while the double continued to call out to the gods, her sister, her sister’s fiancée and anyone who cared to listen. I only wish she knew my name too.

The scene quickly came to an end, as she let out her loudest shriek in sync with the villain’s loudest, lousiest laughter. With a last attack of creativity, the director instructed, that the camera focused on the ceiling fan, the speed of which was quickly being reduced from 3… to 2… to 1… and then turned off completely. Silence prevailed. The director for the last time cried out “Cut”!! The entire crew cheered on a rape well done. With awe, I looked at the director walk away. He had opened my eyes to the one truth of great Bollywood cinema making – Every Bollywood movie needs a brilliant rape. I picked up the broken table lamps with this wisdom in my head. Tomorrow was going to be a wet saree dance day. I couldn’t wait.

~ Suri

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Talking Bollywood with the altar ego !

‘Heard you’re writing for an online portal and all’, altar ego snapped suddenly, breaking the calm of the mid night nothingness.

‘Eh…..ya’, I replied uneasily. I hate it when he appears uncalled and unexpected. Just when you don’t want questions. Just when you don’t want conversations.

‘And I heard it’s about Bollywood and all’, he laughed. I hate that laugh. That questioning laugh. And the general sound of sarcasm that it brings along.

‘How do you know?’, I wanted to ask. But what the hell; he’s my bloody other half. How would he not know?

‘So, what are you gonna write about. Movie reviews eh?’

And before I could reply, he continued ‘The reviews that Masand guy gives on IBN is good I hear. You may want to rip it off from there if you want. Think of you sitting in front of the TV with pen, paper and other imposter paraphernalia’. Laughter.

‘Hey, hey, wait a minute’, I interjected vainly.

‘So did you watch that Akbar flick yet. Whatdya think of it? Three, four or five. Stars I mean.’

Why does he ask the questions if he doesn’t want the answers, I wondered. I had half a mind to smash his face which peered out of the mirror with that all questioning smile plastered on it.

‘Listen. Its not movie’s we’re writing down here. It’s something different altogether. You wouldn’t even understand. It’s Bollywood through the eyes of a cynic; Bollywood through the eyes of one in awe. Bollywood through the eyes of someone who has still not seen Sholay completely. One who does not find Shahrukh Khan brilliant and thinks Rahul Bose should run for president. It’s that virgin view of how without me even knowing, it still is a part of my life and yours (pointing at the mirror).

Laughter. Uproarious laughter.

Sound of shattering glass. I hate it when he laughs like that.

There are no stitches; but take rest, the doctor told me. And mom is still wondering how the mirror mysteriously fell onto my hands and shattered. ‘It’s those kids upstairs, who keep jumping up and down’, I said sheepishly. Hate those brats.

Nursing the hand. Boredom. ‘Watch ‘Taare Zameen Pe’, uncut DVD version’, altar ego popped in to suggest. I may as well take his word for it.

~ Preeth

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In search of Fort Chapora !

It was on our list of top ten things to do before we turn senile. And little did we realize during those days, that more than finances and all else, it would actually be finding time and being at the same place together that would stop us from living that classical ‘Dil Chahte He’ scene. So it came as little surprise, that when two of us of the college trio were in the city recently, we decided it was probably time. And when Paaps, our good friend called up and pleaded us to wait till he returned from Yankee land, we like all good friends pondered and deliberated and finally told him – ‘F*** you. We’re going’.

But what I still can’t figure out is why we wanted to be there of all places. Why that scene and nothing else. Why not, the scene where the protagonists drive down to Goa in an open top Mercedes speedster? Or better still, why not the scene where they play beach volleyball with PYT’s at Palolem or some such exotic beach? Why did it have to be – standing along the fort wall, staring into the azure blue distance and saying ‘Wo jahaaz dekh rahe ho….’, I know not. But there was something dramatic about that scene that touched us in those days and what was promised shall be done we concluded.

‘It’s fort Chapora’, a friend of mine messaged whilst we waited for the Panjim bound bus to start off. And we poured into our two page treatise (which we had dubbed ‘syllabus copy’) on what to do and what not to do whilst at Goa. Chapora was not listed. But with a never mind, we shall find it resolve, we took off. Past the chaotic night roads of Bangalore; past the sleepy small towns lining the highway and into the pristine sun swept wonderland that is Goa.

South Goa happened the first two days. And keeping in line with the ‘when you stop being a tourist, you become a traveler’ adage, we went in search of all that was listed as secluded. But secluded it was, twenty years back. It was pretty evident that unless we ran out of aviation fuel, there was practically nothing that would fit into the secluded bracket (the Gobi desert of course, not included). Goa is like a pilgrimage to the reveler. One sandy expanse after the other. And we did them all, like the highly devout. The business as usual fisher folk beaches of Covalessum, the Gaulish sounding white sandy expanses of Utorda and Majorda and the beach at Benoulim, where a honeymooning couple intrigued us with a weird version of ‘come let’s get wet and spread the love’. Bar that game, all else was beautiful.

Sun burnt and a couple of shades darker by now, we lazed into North Goa on day three. This is where the shacks are; this is where the parties are. This is where the folks at DCH would have headed in their designer tees and snazzy convertible. And somewhere in the midst of a lavish breakfast spread, we lost our syllabus copy. Mapusa or Calangute? we pondered at the crossroad. And when we saw three hot women board the bus to Calangute, our gut and gumption pointed us in that direction as well. And when out of the clouded smoky haze of Tito’s, realization dawned that there was but half a day remaining and Chapora still undone.

‘Chapora bahut door he’, a local replied with an uninterested swagger. ‘Mapusa ke pas he’. We looked at each other accusingly; with a ‘it was you’ written all over it. Dammit!!!

But then we went to Aguada; where the fort looks similar in sections to what would be Chapora. And we clicked photographs feigning to be the three blokes in DCH; the three guys with one of them away on a pee break.

~ Preeth

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