‘They’re dead, Daddy,’ said Lydia gravely.
Claire and I exchanged worried glances. Hers said: ‘They are, aren’t they?’ while mine said, ‘How long is our daughter’s obsession with death going to last?’
‘No they’re not,’ I declared eventually. ‘They’re just resting.’ I flicked through the wormery booklet and was relieved to see that the worms’ immobility appeared to be a natural reaction to the stress of the journey.
‘See,’ I said, pointing out the relevant section to Lydia even though she couldn’t read, ‘the worms are just suffering from jet lag like we do when we take a plane to go on holiday.’
Lydia nodded thoughtfully. ‘But that’s not two thousand worms is it, Daddy?’
I shook my head. ‘No, sweetie, I don’t think so.’ I checked the instruction manual and the receipt that came with it. There in the small print was the reason why we only had thirty worms: we have ordered the wormery starter pack. For an extra £24.99 we can order another kilogram of tiger worms or we can wait for two years for the worms to get their breeding up to full speed. I was loath to spend any more money on worm recruits so made the decision to set up the wormery, give the worms we’d got some leftover food and hope that with a bit of luck and the occasional blast of Barry White every now and again, they’ll somehow get their numbers up.
As we set the worms loose in their home for the first time, added some damp newspaper and allowed Lydia to wish them good night, I couldn’t help but feel smug. This was me and my family going green and saving planet earth one step at a time. How could I not feel smug? It probably would have been a very good To-Do-List day all round had I not checked my emails half an hour later and discovered something that once again would force me to take my eyes off the To-Do List ball.
Chapter 19: ‘Have a quiet (but forceful) word with the Indian film industry about some of their dubious business practices.’
It started with an email:
Hey, Mike,
I’m a fan of yours from Mumbai and I loved, loved, loved your book
Mr Commitment
but did you know that this book has been turned into an Indian movie as well? The film,
Pyaar Ke Side Effects
, has been out for about a year now so I’m sure someone must have told you but in case they haven’t I’m writing to you as what’s really angered me is that they didn’t even bother giving you credit! The book was much better anyway.
Have a great day
Preti
I was curious. Was this person really saying that someone in India had made a film based on my second book without asking my permission? It seemed ridiculous. I cut and pasted the name of the film into Google and pressed return. Nothing happened. I pressed return again. Still nothing happened. I pressed return one last time and still nothing: my modem was completely dead. Having called up my ISP I established that ‘due to unforeseen technical difficulties’ my internet connection was dead.
While half of me was curious about the alleged Bollywoodification of one of my novels the other half suspected it was some kind of prank carried out in the name of humour. Steve from the Sunday Night Pub Club once turned up with his coat zipped up to his neck even though it was a warm summer’s day. Halfway through the evening he announced that he was ‘hot’ and took off his coat to reveal a T-shirt with a huge picture of my face on it; another trickster friend, Danny, unbeknownst to me once sent me home wearing a badge bearing the legend: ‘Bobby Davro for UN Secretary General’. It could have been either one or even both working together because when it came to Steve and Danny anything was possible.
By the time my internet was back on the following day, my mind had moved to the List and Item 900: ‘Get the city council’s building regulations people in to finally check all of the changes we’ve made to the house like we should have done four years ago’. I’d spent most of the afternoon searching out the original paperwork and just needed to arrange for them to come out to the house. Having finally ticked off something that had been kicking around my guilty conscience for so long, I’d celebrated by spending what was left of the day playing with Maisie, so it wasn’t until the following morning that I fired up the computer and checked my email. Amongst various notifications from Facebook and MySpace and Amazon were a few emails from my website:
Hi, Mike,
My name is Reyhaneh and I’m based in Chicago. Recently I picked up
Mr Commitment
and I have to tell you that I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time!!! I’m writing you now because tonight I rented a Hindi DVD of a new Bollywood movie entitled
Pyaar Ke Side Effects
– translated as ‘The Side Effects of Love’, which to all intents and purposes is your book! Not only was the movie an ‘Indianised’ version of your book but they’ve also literally used parts of it scene for scene (with only a minor diversion copying the movie
Meet the Parents
). I didn’t see any mention of your book in the opening credits or on IMDB. I couldn’t watch the whole thing without emailing you (not sure how it ends yet as I’m writing to you). Are you in the UK? You should have no trouble getting a copy of this movie. I’d love to hear your thoughts. Again, I have to say – thank you for the intense tickles from your hilarious book!
Best wishes,
Reyhaneh
This was getting weird. Either Danny and Steve were in cahoots or something was up again. I decided to test the theory by Googling the name of the film again. This time the first stop was IMDB where I discovered the name of the producer and that it had been given a user rating of 7.2 out of ten. Flicking through the next couple of entries and reading reviews, various things made it sound a little like
Mr Commitment
but only when I read the plot synopsis on Wikipedia did I discover how shamelessly close the plot was to my own book. Whoever had edited the film’s entry agreed and had added the doleful comment: ‘The plot shares many similarities with Mike Gayle’s book,
Mr Commitment
.’
I couldn’t believe it. It had got nothing to do with Steve or Danny. I really had been Bollywoodised!
‘You’ve been what?’ asked Claire in response to my news.
‘I’ve been Bollywoodised.’ My voice was full of indignation. ‘Some bloke in India has taken one of my books and turned the whole thing into a two-hour film without paying me a red cent!’
I could see that Claire was finding it hard to be quite as outraged as I was, but for my sake she ruffled her eyebrows into a big frown.
‘What can you do about it?’
‘I don’t know. Apparently the Indian film industry does this kind of thing all the time. In fact I’m pretty sure they did the same thing to Barbara Taylor Bradford a few years ago and she took them to court over it though I’m not sure that they won as Indian copyright law is pretty lax.’
‘You should call Simon,’ suggested Claire. ‘He’s your agent. That’s what he’s there for.’
‘You’re right, but before I do I want to make sure that I’ve got all my facts straight.’
‘How are you going to do that?’
‘Get hold of a copy of the film and watch it.’
Given that I knew next to nothing about the world of Bollywood films, it was hard to know where to begin my search. I thought about emailing the two people who had alerted me to its existence but as they were based in India and the US they would be of little help to me here in Birmingham. Instead I decided to contact my friend Hassan, a sports writer for the
Dalston Gazette
, because although he’s only half Indian, I reasoned that half an insight into the Indian community was better than no insight at all. Plus, Hassan was on my To-Do List under Item 577: ‘Catch up with Hassan as you’ve not caught up with him since he got married’.
I called Hassan’s mobile number and waited.
‘Is that you? Who’s died?’
‘No one, you old misery,’ I replied. ‘I’m just calling for a chat. How’s the missus?’
‘Good, thanks. How’s yours?’
‘Great. And we’ve got a new kid into the bargain too.’
‘Congratulations. I must come up and see your brood sometime.’
‘That would be lovely.’ I paused wondering how to segue from come up and see me sometime to ‘Come on, Hassan, give me the inside skinny on your people and the Bollywood film industry.’ I decided to jump straight in with both feet. ‘Mate,’ I began, ‘I’ve been Bollywoodised and I haven’t the faintest clue how to get hold of a copy. Can you help me?’
‘Of course, mate. What’s it called?’
I told him the title and listened as he tapped his computer keyboard. Was he accessing some secret Indian website that only people from the south Asian sub-continent knew about?
‘There you go, mate,’ he said after a few moments. ‘£14.99 from Amazon or £6.00 second-hand.’
I shuddered with embarrassment. Still, at least I had earned another tick and caught up with an old friend.
‘Thanks, mate, you’re a lifesaver. As soon as I get off the phone I’ll order it second hand. At least that way I’ll be getting one up on them rather them getting another one up on me.’
The DVD arrived two days later in a small brown padded envelope. On the cover of the box was a woman on a moped, with a guy with a black eye riding pillion on the back. According to India FM the film is ‘A MASTERSTROKE!!! An Ideal date Flick that will Appeal to everyone in Love!’ Subhash K Jha (whoever s/he might be) is in agreement proclaiming it to be ‘the one romantic comedy which could equal Hollywood’s
When Harry Met Sally
.’ I am now completely and utterly captivated. Here I was standing in my office in Birmingham holding a DVD of a film that some guy in India had based on one of my books without even telling me! I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or book a flight to New Delhi to sort this out man to man.
I took the DVD out of its case and slipped it into the slot on the side of my computer but had a change of heart and pressed eject. I wasn’t sure I could face watching the premiere of my book turned into a film on my own without dying inside. I needed help and support. I needed the Sunday Night Pub Club.
Several hours later they were sitting in front of my TV, bowls of freshly made popcorn in their hands and a look of disbelief on their faces.
‘I can’t believe they did that and thought they could get away with it,’ said Amanda as the end credits rolled.
‘I thought it was quite funny.’ Gary grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl in front of him. ‘And surprisingly watchable. Granted it’s no
Seven Samurai
but it’s no
Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo
either. A solid three out of ten I think.’
I smiled weakly at Gary who was clearly just trying to wind me up and looked down at the notepad on which I’d made a list of similarities in character, plot or dialogue. After scribbling down over sixteen pages of notes in the film’s first forty-five minutes I gave up. Tearing my own hair out seemed less painful.
‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Amanda stifling a laugh as Gary began singing one of the film’s many dreadful songs. ‘You’re not really going to fly over to New Delhi and poke the guy in the eye are you?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I’m going to do what I should have done when I first heard about this. I’m going to call my agent.’
‘Mike,’ boomed Simon. ‘How are you? How’s that list thing of yours going?’
‘Great,’ I replied instinctively, before remembering why I’d called and that I was very, very angry. ‘Actually, scrap that, Simon, I’m not great at all . . . I’ve been Bollywoodised!’
I told Simon the story and rather than laughing he boomed that he would get on the case with the legal department. I imagined him putting down his phone and running down the corridor turning over secretaries and tea trolleys as he made his way towards legal at full pelt.
Two days later I got the following email from Simon:
Hi, Mike, have talked with legal and it looks like given the way Indian copyright law is we’d stand little to no chance of winning a case.
Have a great day,
Simon.
PS. Don’t let all this stuff distract you from the To-Do List!
At this prompting I looked over the To-Do List lying underneath a large pile of books. It had been sitting there un-opened and un-loved now for the best part of a working week. Simon was right; as annoyed as I was about this liberty that had been taken with my work I shouldn’t let anything take me off task. Picking up the DVD case of my dodgy adaptation I smiled. Legal issues aside it was quite flattering that they liked my book enough to rip it off. I reached for the To-Do List and scanned its pages. It felt good to be back here again in a world where things were more straightforward. My eyes locked onto one particular item and refused to budge. I’d found my next tick and I vowed once again to myself that nothing, least of all dodgy unauthorised adaptations of my work, was going to come between me and the List.