The Sultan of Swing- Part II

Eagle Studios sounded a shady enough name for a film studio in Uttar Pradesh. I hadn’t heard of a Film City anywhere above the Aravalis, and it was with this sense of doubt that I entered the vehicle that was to take us there. Past acres of land supporting omnipresent apartment buildings, the Sumo lunged and leaped to a more open road, to the relative relief of my seemingly claustrophobic co-passengers. The road was finally smooth, and I reached down for my water bottle, before the oily teacher from the previous night’s dinner gasped “What is that huge golden statue of Lord Shiva?”. I smirked at his self-answering question, and continued to look for my bottle, as the driver explained in his gutka-chewing sideways voice, “Gulshan Kumar’s studios. T-Series, you know? Lots of good music.”

We reached the venue after five more minutes- in the final stretch, the car had once again gone off that good road, and hit bumps that propelled our heads through the roof, almost. I mentally patted myself on the back for not having had too heavy a breakfast, and stepped out to a building not very different from the ones surrounding it- only a storey or two smaller. An overly-fancy fountain welcomed us to the side entrance of Eagle Studios. A neat garden on our right was full with smartly-dressed school kids. Across the salmon facade of the building, near the edge that bent away to the even more fancy front entrance, stood a small table bearing a water container and a coffee machine. Huddled around it, and up ahead in front of it, were a group of teachers, chattering politely. I noticed a couple of lookers in there, but was disappointingly reminded that I had no one to point them out to. A dinner and breakfast didn’t give enough time to make acquaintances, and my partner seemed anything but interested in the fairer sex (I’d heard he was committed; I hadn’t much of an idea of the class one year senior to mine).

The guy who’d accompanied us asked us to wait as he ran inside screaming on his walkie-talkie. Before anyone could move, I grumbled to our teacher “Look, none of them are wearing blazers. Why are we being forced to wear them when they’re not part of the school uniform? I’m burning in here”. “Oh, come on, don’t be a baby. When they’re inside, even they’ll be wearing theirs. Don’t be impatient. You can take it off if you’re not comfortable now. But once we’re inside, you better be in that green coat!” As I continued to make a face, a couple of people beckoned us inside. The otherwise dully-coloured walls were replete with movie posters, with a small glass-framed plaque below each showing the year and room it was shot in. I could only spot a few I knew- Mrityudaata and Shahrukh’s Chamatkaar, amongst others. The irritatingly catchy title tune of the eponymous TV series started playing in my head. Trying to shake it off, we walked on towards the lounge, where we could watch the proceedings, as a huge applause resonated from the wall beside us. A few metres ahead, a door opened, and out he walked. “Phew! That was a close one, wasn’t it?”. He seemed to be talking to no one in particular. We walked into the lounge, where faces with contrasting emotions stared at us from cushy sofas. I was still smiling in the glory of finally seeing the man I’d previously only admired on television. The nine of us took some spots, and looked to the guy who’d ushered us in. “Sonia will be here in a few minutes. She’s the producer. Yours is the first episode tomorrow morning; the first one for the South Zone. Make yourselves comfortable.” We snuggled into the couches, as the crowd from the previous episode barged into the now-jam-packed lounge: it was time for the West Zone finals of the ESPN School Quiz 2003...

The next morning began with me complaining about our blazers again. “This is my brother’s. It hasn’t been used for almost five years, and just barely fits me. When we joined in the winter and wore this, we weren’t even allowed to go in with this! And now, suddenly, it’s the pride of the school. Those Chennai schools don’t even have ties, for goodness’ sake, forget blazers! They’re fine with coming with their collar buttons open, but we have to wear blazers. Show-offs, I tell you!” My partner calmly heard all of this, and proceeded to have his breakfast in relative peace after that...

Our episode was good, our teacher said. “You shouldn’t have gone for the win, though. Respectability could’ve been fought for. I mean, after last year’s -1, -6 isn’t...”, he stopped as I glowered at him. “Sir, in quizzes, you go out to win. If not, try keeping your school’s pride intact by giving a good show. I know -6 is a horrible score to end up at, but do you intend to insult our commitment out there?”. As soon as I said that, I feared a harangue, and bigger problems at school, but he smiled and said “I know you guys gave your best. Don’t worry, you’ll do much better next time, I know”.

Then, it happened. Harsha Bhogle (yes, it’s him centimetres from you, I pinched myself) came out of nowhere, patted us on the shoulders, and said “That scoreboard doesn’t always tell the true story. You’re a good team, DPS Vizag.” He smiled and walked to his room. My day was made, or so I thought.

As our teacher walked back to the lounge, I and my partner stayed back for water. The water cooler in the studios was just outside the main set where the episodes were shot, almost obscured by the stairs. I passed my partner a glass, and a clear voice said from the top of the steps “Yaar, thoda mere liye bhi paani lena.” A long flashy pair of black pointed boots strutted down, topped by a blue denim jeans. A tight black shirt clung to a tall muscular body, and as that left hand with a Rolex watch came for the glass in my outstretched hand, I finally saw the face with the sunglasses. It was unmistakeably clear, yet distinctly unreal, that the Sultan of Swing, and ODI cricket’s highest wicket-taker had just said “Thanks, man!” to me and shook my hand. Wasim Akram stood for a moment sipping, when Harsha walked back and said “Ah, so you’ve met the man already! Come, everybody, let’s go have a little intro session in the lounge”. The word had spread, and before they reached the lounge, Wasim was bombarded by pens and scratchpads. My teammate had run to find his bag, too. I still stood at the water cooler, dazed. I never even got an autograph, or even a photo. But, I somehow, couldn’t care less.