On April 29th, my phone buzzed with a text so shocking, I nearly dropped my sookhi-roti mid-bite. Shreya Dev Verma, head of development at Panorama Studios, invited me to the premiere of Raid 2, a film starring Ajay Devgn and directed by Rajkumar Gupta.
Why the palpitations? My research on India’s juiciest income tax raids of the last half century, notably a deep dive into the affairs of one politician (which no reviewer has yet noted), led to this 150-crore+ blockbuster.
As part of the initial story development, I also tossed in plot ideas and directions the story could take. But in Bollywood, only one thing you can take for granted: ghosting by those in power. So, when Shreya confirmed she had given me credit, I half-expected her to add, “Happy April Fools…29 days late.”
Now, logically and ethically, this shouldn’t have been a big deal. Panorama Studios had a contract. They followed it. Applause, maybe. Standing ovation, why? However, Bollywood’s relationship with logic and ethics is akin to Salman Khan’s relationship with shirt buttons: strained, inconsistent, and occasionally controversial.
After nine years as a starving screenwriter-researcher—16 full scripts, 150+ projects, and one indie feature that got made—I’ve learned that credits in the industry are rarer than a silent moment in a Rohit Shetty film.
Let me pull back the velvet curtain a bit. Bollywood is a glittering circus where egos soar higher than Hrithik’s jumps in Krrish, and ethics sink lower than the box office numbers of Bade Miyan Chote Miyan. It’s a place where “collaboration” often means “I’ll take your idea, deep-fry it in melodrama, and serve it as my own, forgetting even to mention it was your idea.”
The TV industry? Even worse. Imagine Scrooge McDuck’s cheaper, pettier cousin, who’d bill you for the air you breathe during negotiations.
Take this gem from a TV contract I recently signed. One point in it said that if they didn’t ‘like’ my work, I’d have to refund them, with exorbitant interest. "Are they serious?" is a question I have often asked myself, just as I mumbled again.
In another clause, I almost broke my nose face-palming. It stated that I couldn’t go to a court of law, regardless of what they did. I don’t know which genius came up with that. Still, even an idiot like me knows such a clause is illegal and unconstitutional because the Constitution grants every citizen the right to approach the court to remedy a wrong, even those in prison. So, in effect, this law was like a diet plan stuck at a halwai shop. But hey, it’s a reminder that in this industry, “agreement” is just a way to codify harassment and that you’re always at the mercy of the producer.
And don’t even get me started on the flagbearers of indie cinema, the ones who cry that the biggies exploit them while they exploit everyone they can on the sidelines.
One such person, a “friend” (note: air quotes thicker than an Ambani wedding invitation), paid me Rs 50,000 to write a script about an incident reported in a small news story. I put my sweat, blood, and tears, aka the incidents and experiences from my own life, to write a screenplay that won awards and got selected to be made solely because of that award. And my reward for that: the joker takes writer-director credit while he gave me only screenplay credit.
Not only was I not invited to the set while filming, but he also didn’t inform me when he released it. And that was my first film ever to go on the floors. You have no idea how immeasurably it hurt, how much it still does.
But he wasn’t my first, nor did he remain my last asteen ka saap.
Another director (a darling of liberals) fired me because I refused to camp in an office set up for him with his sycophantic “co-writer,” whose leading talent seemed to be making PowerPoints prettier than Preity Zinta’s eyeliner in Jiya Jale.
“Did you see the presentation he made for the actor, so beautiful,” he told me while firing me. I didn’t know whether to land a punch or puke on his ugly mug.
Months later, guess what? I learned that the film’s basic idea, which I had suggested, he was going ahead with it, served to the actor with a glass of amnesia and his chela’s nifty presentation. I considered sending him a stinker wrapped in a glittery “Thank You” card, but alas, dignity is a luxury when you’re rationing Maggi.
Over the years, my ideas for other scripts, both commercial and indie, have birthed films, fueled careers, and even won international awards. My credits? Buried in the “Special Thanks” section between the caterer and the guy who lent the producer his lucky pen. That too, not always. But hey, no complaints because in Bollywood, gratitude is like a cameo by Shah Rukh Khan - brief, dazzling, and over before you can say “Chhaiyya Chhaiyya.”
Think about it! Credit. It’s just six letters, fewer than the feet Ranveer Singh jumps in the air just because he has nothing else to do. Someone sweats over your film - give them a name in the end credits. A tiny one. Unreadable. Tucked between the “Junior Artists’ Hairdresser” and “Catering by Uncle’s Dhaba”. Even one that’s misspelt. What’s the harm? But no. Bollywood guards end-credit real estate like Shah Rukh Khan guards the perimeter of Mannat. Why? Because along with dreamers and artists, this industry attracts the greedy, the insecure, the lowlife scumbags, like maggots to a festering wound. They love to have people grovel at their stinking feet and rotting souls, hellbent on filling their existential voids by vacuuming yours.
Which brings us back to Shreya’s text. Now, Shreya’s a pro-efficient (check out the number of hits she’s delivered), no-nonsense, and possibly immune to the industry’s chronic drama-ria (like Shahrukh’s loveria). Yet, I wouldn’t believe her until I had my own confirmation. Having read this far, I hope you understand why.
Alas, I missed the glitzy premiere (mom duties in Guwahati outweigh Ajay Devgn’s intense brooding as he hunts tax evaders). Instead, I dragged my niece and nephew to a screening in Guwahati. I was pleased that the stories I found, the bits of plot, and the ideas I suggested had made it into the film, including many nefarious dealings of that politician.
Film over and mandatory overpriced crappy item number played but the end credits flashed by so fast and so small, you’d need a complex particle detector of hadron collider to read. My niece Anindita - bless her Gen-Z eyes - spotted my name.
“They spelt your surname wrong,” she complained, “It starts with ‘Ba,’ not ‘Bo’!” I shrugged. After years in this circus, a misspelt credit feels like a warm hug. An awkward, typo-ridden embrace, but a hug nonetheless.
Shakespeare asked, “What’s in a name?” Clearly, he never dealt with Bollywood execs. Because out here, it’s less Romeo and Juliet and more Kabhi Credit Kabhi Ghost. But hey, I’ll take my “Ba” over a “Boo” any day. After all, in an industry where ethics are as mythical as Rekha’s sightings, a misspelled credit is the closest thing to a happy ending.
Cut to: me finally putting some ghee over my sookhi roti, duking it in malai kofta, raising it to the heavens and whispering: “To the small mercies… and the next Raid.”
