When Pritam refused to answer

In one of his excellent GQ columns, Rajeev Masand wrote about the futility of keeping time when it came to Bollywood. Very funny, I thought then. I recently discovered that it’s a riot when you’re the one being stood up. Yeah. A real gas.

Research for a story on plagiarism naturally led me to call Pritam, whose compositions range from Bombay Vikings-type songs to seriously good stuff. When he heard it was about plagiarism (“It’s not just about plagiarism,” I explained earnestly, “but about why it happens.”), his response was more encouraging than I expected. With instructions to call him the next day, I was a happy man. As far as I was concerned, Pritam was a role model (“Yes, he plagiarises, but then he’s so… so open about it!” *Gush*).

Anyway, the man ditched. And so I called him again. He ditched again. And I called him yet again, and it was amazing because he picked up his phone every time, and if he didn’t, he made it a point to call back and explain that he was sick/in a recording/performing at a show at that moment. Every single time. This went on a while, in which time it became clear that I was this time terrorist’s hostage—because a plagiarism story without Pritam is not a plagiarism story—and we both laughed when he answered my phone because we both knew what would happen next. It was like phone Stockholm Syndrome. I started calling him up purely out of routine, just to say hello and ask whether he preferred to give me a false meeting time now or later. We even talked about kids and family.

Then one day colleagues reminded me that the story was several weeks overdue. So I called him one final time and pleaded. “If you’re a night bird and you’re up at three, I can be there at three! Just tell me and let’s get it done.” He laughed and said, “In that case, let’s do it! Three is grrrreat for me! Call me at 11:30 and I’ll tell you where we can meet!” I had a good feeling about all these exclamation marks, and I was warm inside about the superb interview that would soon happen (In my imagination all my subjects break down into tears and confess everything).

Of course nothing happened. For the first time in our phone relationship, he didn’t answer, and he didn’t call back. There was no news of his demise, which meant he was alive.

So that left only the writers to write about. And like every other time, the Bollywood writers got it in the neck.

In one of his excellent GQ columns, Rajeev Masand wrote about the futility of keeping time when it came to Bollywood. Very funny, I thought then. I recently discovered that it’s a riot when you’re the one being stood up. Yeah. A real gas.

Research for a story on plagiarism naturally led me to call Pritam, whose compositions range from Bombay Vikings-type songs to seriously good stuff. When he heard it was about plagiarism (“It’s not just about plagiarism,” I explained earnestly, “but about why it happens.”), his response was more encouraging than I expected. With instructions to call him the next day, I was a happy man. As far as I was concerned, Pritam was a role model (“Yes, he plagiarises, but then he’s so… so open about it!” *Gush*).

Anyway, the man ditched. And so I called him again. He ditched again. And I called him yet again, and it was amazing because he picked up his phone every time, and if he didn’t, he made it a point to call back and explain that he was sick/in a recording/performing at a show at that moment. Every single time. This went on a while, in which time it became clear that I was this time terrorist’s hostage—because a plagiarism story without Pritam is not a plagiarism story—and we both laughed when he answered my phone because we both knew what would happen next. It was like phone Stockholm Syndrome. I started calling him up purely out of routine, just to say hello and ask whether he preferred to give me a false meeting time now or later. We even talked about kids and family.

Then one day colleagues reminded me that the story was several weeks overdue. So I called him one final time and pleaded. “If you’re a night bird and you’re up at three, I can be there at three! Just tell me and let’s get it done.” He laughed and said, “In that case, let’s do it! Three is grrrreat for me! Call me at 11:30 and I’ll tell you where we can meet!” I had a good feeling about all these exclamation marks, and I was warm inside about the superb interview that would soon happen (In my imagination all my subjects break down into tears and confess everything).

Of course nothing happened. For the first time in our phone relationship, he didn’t answer, and he didn’t call back. There was no news of his demise, which meant he was alive.

So that left only the writers to write about. And like every other time, the Bollywood writers got it in the neck.

About The Author

Rahul Bhatia