Pinaki Ghosh www.pinakighosh.com

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“Can you get me the August 15 edition of Elite?” the man asks.
“Which year?” the stall owner asks instinctively. He owns an old bookshop where one can find old books and magazines, one of the many in this pavement of College Street, lined with stalls selling books of all kinds.
“Current year,” the man says, “the cover carried the title ‘Fifty young entrepreneurs of India.’”
The bookseller looks for the edition asked for. It doesn’t take him long to find. The man pays for the magazine, rolls it in his hand and jumps up a tram cruising by. The tram rolls its way through the crowded Kolkata streets, the man gets down before an ancient lane in the northern part of the city. The tram passes by ringing its bell. The man enters the lane lined with old, blackened buildings, walks a few pace and opening a green colored door climbs the dark stairway to the upper floor.
The room is nearly dark, the man sits before a table on which a table lamp glows. He opens the magazine, finds what he is looking for. Bringing a pair of scissors from the drawer he cuts out a picture of a young man. Then he switches on his laptop.
K-A-R-A-N  S-E-N-G-U-P-T-A…
The name forms itself on the screen as he types. He clicks on the Images tab. A number of faces crowd the screen. His eyes rove, and rest on the third on the second row. He clicks on it and it enlarges. A handsome young man in his mid twenties, short crew cut hair, a little goatee on the chin.
His gaze gets intent as he looks, his jaws get firm. He clicks on a link mentioned below the image. The profile of the young man appears on screen. He clicks on a video link. A window opens up, he maximizes it.
Young men and women dancing under psychedelic lights, among them Karan Sengupta, the guy with the goatee beard… 

Karan stops dancing. His head aches under the flashes of purple lights and loud music. He is too drunk tonight, he needs to pee. He pulls himself away from the din and calls his driver.
“Get the car ready at the gate. I am coming in five minutes.”
He comes to the washroom and shrivels in disgust. On the floor lies a guy, flat over his own vomit, its foul smell fills the air.
“F*** !”
Karan curses aloud. How could one be such a… The smelly pouring is splattered all over the floor. He has to step over it to get himself to one of the booths. Karan thinks of emptying himself on the man’s face but restrains his urge. He doesn’t want to get into any kind of altercation. He remembers his dad favorite quote, “It takes years to build a reputation and seconds to lose it.” Of late he is trying to follow his dad’s advice. He comes out of the washroom without releasing his burden.
The driver has brought the car to the gate. Karan gets in, reclines on the seat.
“Don’t disturb me,” he tells the driver and closes his eyes.
“Okay sir,” the driver says.
It takes a couple of seconds for Karan to realize that the voice he heard is not that of his driver Makhanlal’s. He springs up.
“Hey, who are you? You are not Makhanlal!”
“I am his friend. He was feeling sick, that’s why he called me,” the driver says without looking back.
Karan is not convinced.
“No, no… that cannot be, why didn’t he call me then?”
“He did call you sir, you failed to hear the ring,” the driver says still not looking back.
Karan brings out his cellphone… the words are out of focus… is it ‘Makhan’… no it’s not…
Before he could say anything something heavy hits his head, everything goes dark…
The car speeds off.

A ray of sunshine falls over him. Karan opens his eyes and startles out of his slumber. Where is he? This is not his bedroom… He looks up. The ceiling is of red tiles. The walls are painted garish green, plasters falling off. He is lying on the floor of a small dilapidated room that he had never been before. He tries to move his limbs but cannot. His feet are tied, so are his hands. His bladder is bursting, he needs to pee and urgently. But he can’t even call anyone, he is gagged, his lips sealed in tape. He could only let out a mild groan. No one comes. Minutes pass, Karan keeps on groaning, hoping for help, how long could he hold himself back?
Finally, maybe after an hour or so, there is a sound at the door. Karan turns his head. A man enters the room. Small and dark complexioned, a nondescript, fifty something, Bengali guy. Dressed in plain shirt and loose trousers. Karan groans, as loud as he could. But the man pays no attention. He sits on a chair and switches on a small TV. Humming an old Bollywood tune, he surfs the channels and stops at a Bengali news channel.
A news has broken. About him! Forgetting his anguish Karan looks at the screen. His image being shown in loop, again and again.  Industrialist’s son abducted. Huge ransom demanded, the scroll below reads.
“Who could abduct industrialist Rajeev Sengupta’s son?How? How much ransom has been demanded? We shall find out,” the female anchor smiles, “after a short commercial break.”
A footage of Rajeev Sengupta appears right before the break. He is sitting in his office, uniformed police officers standing behind him. Stony faced, he seems to be in control of his emotions.
This is the same look he had in his face when a similar news broke months ago, Karan remembers as he looks at his father’s image on screen.

A storm raging inside him but Rajeev remains stoically calm, his cold gaze grazes upon the faces before him.
“What is the ransom amount they demanded sir?” One of the journalists shoots a query.
He is not going to answer this one, Rajeev decides. In fact he is not going to take anymore questions, he has answered enough. Rajeev gets up from his seat and heads for the door. The journos scramble behind him throwing questions but Rajeev does not pay any heed, he slips into his chamber, his secretary behind him. He closes the door. Calm descends, but not entirely. The two flat screen televisions blurt out the same news in constant cacophony. About Karan, about him…
“Put the sound off!” Rajeev can no longer hide his feelings.
The secretary puts the televisions on mute.
“They were asking about the ransom amount sir,” he asks.
“Why should I tell them that? Should they know everything?” Rajeev bursts out. He sinks into his chair. The secretary reads the mood of his boss, goes silent. Rajeev closes his eyes and contemplates, calculates. They have demanded hundred million rupees, it can be negotiated down to fifty, or even forty. His son’s life is at stake, he won’t be bargaining too much. The guy had called in the morning. Didn’t say much.  Only said that he would let know when and where to make the payment later. Didn’t give any opportunity to begin the negotiating process. Sounded cool, a pro in the business it seems, not in any kind of hurry.
“Police commissioner is coming sir,” the secretary says interrupting his chain of thoughts.
Rajeev nods.

“Give me forty eight hours time,” says Gouranga Chakraborty, the Police Commissioner, “You will get back your son in no more than two days.”
“They asked for hundred million,” says Rajeev.
“Yeah? Bring it down to twenty or thirty. Then arrange for the money. It is on me to bring back your son safely, alongwith the money of course.”
“I’d like to believe you, “Rajeev smiles wryly, “but remember I had a headache already. Now it has doubled.”
The Police Commissioner frowns, “you mean… is it about that ship of yours… what’s is its name? MV…”
“Chandragupta. Got hijacked by Somali pirates. It would be exactly one year next month.”
“Right. Any development in that front?” the Commissioner asks.
“Nothing. The situation remains as it is. At first they asked for three million dollars. Brought it down to one million after six months. Indian navy is of no help. The government washed its hands off it. Wants me to pay the ransom amount, the whole of it. But I have decided not to pay a single penny.”
“Where is the ship now?”
“In a terrible port called Puntland in Somalia. There’s no rule of law there. Somalia is a failed state, the government exists only by name, they don’t have any control over most of the country.”
“Very bad place,” the secretary quips.
“Putland port is controlled by the pirates themselves,” says Rajeev.
“And your ship is stuck there for a whole year? And nothing’s being done about it?” the Commissioner cannot hide his amazement.
“No body cares…,” Rajeev says with a shrug, “neither the government, nor the navy. The media too has lost interest.”
“What about you?”
Rajeev smiles, not avoiding the Commissioner’s gaze. He opens a drawer and bringing out a folded English language newspaper spreads it before Commissioner Chakraborty.
“This is four months old,” he says pointing to article, “the last news on MV Chandragupta’s hijacking. The media is silent ever since.”
Chakraborty takes up the paper and reads the news. 32 Lives Hang in Balance, Families Appeal For The Release of Kins, a front page headline reads. Two snaps side by side. One of a group of pirates on the deck of MV Chandragupta. They stand automatic rifles, grenade launchers in hand. At their feet lies the hostage sailors, their hands and feet tied, mouths sealed. The picture on the right is of an aged couple. Tears in eyes they hold a poster of a young boy in his early twenties. They are Biswapriya and Chirasree Banerjee. The boy in the poster is their only son Snehangsu, he is captive in the hands of the pirates for nearly a year, the caption below reads.
“So they are the only one still making noise, the families of the captives. The rest are silent,” Chakraborty says.
Rajeev doesn’t respond.
Once again the Commissioner looks at the boy in the poster. Wearing sailors uniform, cap in head, he looks rather handsome. An innocent face, a thin moustache above the smiling lips. Snehangshu. So young, hardly twenty two, no older than his own boy. Chakraborty sighs.

It must be hours since he had his last meal. But still he doesn’t feel hunger. His stomach must have shrunk, Snehangshu concludes, a year of starving has killed his appetite for food, the body has adjusted to changing circumstances. Good for him!
But his mind remains as agitated as before, it has not adjusted much, all his efforts to tame it has failed. It still yearns for freedom, for the sunny days of a past that is slipping further and further away.
He got caught in a storm but couldn’t imagine that the storm would last so long. It was a foggy dawn when they came in three small skiffs, not very far from Seychelles coastline. Even before the crew could react, the ship was taken over by the ten pirates from Somalia.
It was a devastating experience, extremely traumatic, but still they hoped it wouldn’t last for long, maybe a few hours, a few days at the most. Seychelles is not far from India. They had pinned their hopes on the Indian Government and its powerful navy, confident that the navy would rescue them in no time. But days passed, weeks, months… nothing happened. They were moved to a hell-let-loose port in Somalia named Puntland. They had not been in Somalia before, but knew that there is not much rule of law there, the Government is almost non existent.  The leader of the Pirates, a guy named Muslux, the only one who could speak understandable English, told them that a ransom of three million dollars had been asked from Rajeev Sengupta, the owner of the ship. But he had refused to pay, saying he doesn’t want the ship back. He had put the onus on the government of India. The Indian government contacted its Somalian counterpart but they too expressed their inability do anything as they have no authority over the Puntland region of northern Somalia. The ship’s owner said he would claim the value of the ship from the insurance company and buy a new ship altogether. The cement company whose cargo the ship was carrying would also claim for the twelve thousand tones of cement from the insurance company. The owner of the ship is not bothered about the crew and has no interest in bringing them back. Muslux understood the situation and reduced the ransom amount to one million. But even that didn’t melt the ice. The situation remains as it is.
Snehangshu feels thirsty. The freezer is in the next room. There’s water there, but no food. Snehangshu opens the deep freeze and takes out two bottles of water. Gulps down a little. There’s strict order not to consume much, water is rationed here. Like everyday he takes the two bottles to Muslux’s cabin and keeps it there. Muslux is in the room. He turns his head at him and smiles.
“You will be released soon,” he says.
Snehangshu remains silent. He had heard such assurances before, but they didn’t turn out to be true. Though this is the first time he heard from Muslux.
Weird guy, this forty something leader of the pirates, Muslux. He always insists that they are not pirates but Somalian coastguards. He told them why he had resorted to hijacking ships. During the nineties there was no government in their country. Taking advantage of the absence of any kind of regulation, ships from other countries would come to their coasts and dispose off all kinds of toxic wastes, including radioactive wastes, in their waters. As a result of such irresponsible dumping, thousands of tones of marine creatures perished. Somalian fishermen used to catch three million dollars worth of tuna, shrimps, lobsters and many other varieties of fish every year. But due to this rampant dumping all the fish died and the fishing industry just vanished. It was then that Muslux decided he should do something about it. He decided to collect tax from the countries that spoiled their coastline and hijacking ships crossing the Indian Ocean was his means of collecting the ‘tax’ that would go towards cleaning the coastline. For him, the countries that spoiled their coastline are the real pirates. He started his operation in 2005 and had collected ‘tax’ from fifty two ships since then.
Snehangshu notices a framed photo in Muslux’s bunk. A dark African teen of about eighteen. He hadn’t seen the photo before.
“My boy,” Muslux smiles, “Maxi.”
“Your son?” Snehangshu can’t hide his surprise. He keeps looking at the photo. Maxi, the boy is smiling. A guileless smile, so much like his father’s…   

Lying in the cold floor of a small, dark prison cell in the Somalian capital Mogadhishu young Maxi muses over his past. So many images float by. He is out in the ocean fishing with his father, how old was he then? Ten- eleven… they would spend two or three days in the ocean fishing day and night and would return to their villages with boat load of shrimps. The entire village would gather in the shore to welcome the cavalcade of boats. They would get heroes’ welcome, he would always keep the biggest lobsters for his mother. She would cook it on fire in the open at night, they would gather by the fire, he and his sisters and father too, eagerly waiting for mother to open the pot. How good were those days… and how they ended, Maxi sighed.
Huge ships hoisting flags of faraway countries began appearing in their shores. The catch of fish gradually declined in quantity as more and more dead fish floated up from the sea. Then one day a group of men carrying guns came to their village. Maxi heard from his father that war had broken out in the country. The men were revolutionaries. From them the villagers learnt that foreign pirate ships from France, China, Egypt and India are pouring poison into their waters, the fishes are dying because of that. The young adults of the villages enrolled themselves with the group that called itself Al-Shabab. His father formed a group of his own to protect the coastline. The days of fishing were over.
Maxi heard from a friend that the government of their country was nothing but a puppet in the hands of America and the United Nations and their President is a pimp to foreign forces. Al-Shabab doesn’t obey the writ of this government; they had plans to overthrow the government and take control over the entire country and establish the writ of God’s law. Maxi’s young blood boiled as he listened. The same friend took him to the Al-Shabab Chief Odawa.
It was such a thrill to take up a AK-47 rifle in his hands for the first time. Adrenalin rushed in his veins, his fears evaporated, he felt he could conquer the world with his gun. The training was tough, very tough but he was determined to make it, so were other boys of his team. Odawa admired his guts, he took a fancy on him. He gave him chocolates made in USA, made in India, made in China. They tasted so good! Hard in the outside, soft inside.
Then one day Odawa discussed with them the secret blueprint of Operation 24 August. Muna Hotel was to be attacked. Three best cadets were selected for the operation. Maxi was one of them. The President and fifty members of Parliament were to attend a conference in Muna Hotel in capital Mogadishu. On the night of 24 August, as the conference was underway, two of his comrades guised in army uniform entered the hotel. He was outside, in the car in which they were supposed to escape. Within minutes heavy gunfire was heard from inside the hotel. Later he came to know that his friends shot dead thirty two people, of them eleven were parliamentarians. The President escaped unhurt. Right after the gunfire, two successive explosions rocked the hotel. His two comrades blew themselves up. The blinding white flashes and the earth shattering noise unnerved Maxi. Fear got the better of him, he couldn’t stick to plan and trying to make a lousy escape got caught in the hands of the security forces. Since then his address is cell number 62 in Mogadishu Central jail. The days of eating foreign chocolates were over, the days of romanticism about carrying automatic rifles were gone. What followed is an unending saga of interrogation and torture of the worst kind. How he survived all that trauma is a mystery to him. They made him divulge everything he knew but still the torture continued, until very recently. The trial has not yet begun though he knew he would get the capital punishment, fair trial or no trial. But the tortures - that in the later stages the jailor himself supervised - had suddenly stopped.
He learnt from a prison guard that his father Muslux had held several parleys with the jailor. A secret pact has been worked out, an amount has been fixed for his freedom. His father is working overtime to arrange for the money. By the end of this week it would be handed over to the jailor. Then by his order he would be shifted to another jail, but before the prison van reaches its destination he would be allowed to escape in a remote wilderness. The guards would be suspended for six months but they would be more than compensated for their dereliction of duty. The jailor had planned everything to the minutest details.
But Odawa, the man because of whom he is rotting in this jail, the person whom he had begun to regard more than his own father, has done nothing to arrange for the release of his ‘boy’,” Maxi wonders and feel the anger within him once again. He had done nothing at all. Odawa has forgotten him altogether. He lured Maxi with chocolates, brainwashed his young mind by blood warming rhetorics, programmed him to become a ‘martyr’ and then when its all over, abandoned him like a used cartridge. And he still keeps him close to his heart!
Maxi gets hold of the locket hanging on his chest. They inspected it during interrogation but did not take it away, perhaps because of the name of Allah engraved upon the silver. What they failed to notice is a minute dent on it. A right kind of pressure on that little spot and the locket would pop open. But Maxi feels no urge to open it now like he had done so many times before, especially when he needed strength, courage. It had failed him when he needed it the most.
Maxi pulls the locket from his chest and throws it away. It hits the wall, falls to the floor and pops open. To reveal a small photo of Chief Odawa. Clean shaved, the head shaved too, he sits in military uniform, the face indifferent but the eyes hard and cruel. Behind him, spread on the wall is the flag of his dreaded organization.   

In his office in the headquarters of Al Shabab, Chief Odawa looks at the plan on the screen of his laptop. He had made a similar blueprint a year ago, the operation was carried as per plan with some success but the real purpose could not be achieved. The President escaped and the government remained in power. But anyway, he had been able to overcome the drawbacks and once again rearing to strike. This time it would be lethal. All the snags of the previous operation had been looked into, the weak links done away with. Only the exceptionally strong ones are hand picked to carry out the operations this time round. No chocolate for these guys, they are real tough ones, already battered and bruised by the ravages of war, no amount of torture can make them speak. He had personally ‘tested’ each and everyone of them. They didn’t squeal a word, even after prolonged exposure to third degree torture. Those who did, received a bullet in the head. This time he is sure of success, one hundred percent. Soon after the lethal blow, his army would swarm into the capital from all sides. Mogadishu will fall in no time. He could already visualize the headlines that would appear in the papers in a month’s time.
Moghadishu falls… The President killed… Rebels take over… The New President is Odawa …
His time has come.
He needs more arms, he won’t be taking any chances. Odawa contacted one of his trusted arms suppliers online. He is the one who had supplied him arms for the previous operation. The two exchanged greetings looking at each other’s video image on screen, discussed about the quality and quantity of the items to be procured and where and when the cache is to be delivered, the exact co-ordinates along the Somalian coast where the two ships would meet.
“You know my Swiss bank number,” the arms dealer tells Odawa, “deposit the full amount today only.”
“Why in full?” Odawa asks, surprised, “it was different the last time, wasn’t it? Half before, half after the delivery.”
“Situation has changed, buddy,” says the dealer, “these days the navy ships are much more in the alert. The risks are far more.”
Odawa laughs.
“Come forth my friend. Tell me the truth.”
“I told you already.”
“No you didn’t. Things haven’t really deteriorated that much over the last year, I am in the game too you know.”
A pause on the other side, then the arms dealer speaks.
“Ok let me tell you the reason. My own son has been taken captive. I have to pay for his freedom. A hefty sum and without delay.”
Owedah looks at his old pal Rajeev Sengupta, the two look at each other in silence. As if trying to read each others thoughts.
“It happens in your country too?” Odawa asks, finally.
“It has happened. And if you’re not willing to believe then check it on the net. My son’s name is Karan, Karan Sengupta.”
“Ok I believe. The entire amount will be deposited in your account in an hour,” Odawa tells his partner while his fingers type the words ‘karan sengupta’ on the keyboard. He clicks on the search tab and a pageful of information relating to the kidnapping of Rajeev’s son appears.
“Load your ship,” Odawa says, any doubt in his voice has disappeared.
“You said and the loading has already started,” Rajeev smiles.
Odawa smiles too, “you are my old pal. How can I be rigid when a friend is in need? And how can I forget the role you played in the success of the August 24 operation?”
The smile in his pal Rajeev’s face deepens.

Rajeev turns to his secretary switching off his laptop.
“The kidnapper will call in half an hour. Give it to me. He will get the money today. We have to know how the delivery has to be made. I want my son back today. Unharmed.”
The secretary nods in comprehension.
Rajeev feels happy; a load has descended from his chest. Hundred million rupees has been negotiated down to forty five million rupees. One million dollars that is.

About a couple of hours after the conversation that took place between Rajeev Sengupta and the Al-Shabab chief, the pirate leader Muslux receives a phone call in his ship anchored in the North Somalian port of Puntland.
“You’d get your one million in twenty four hours,” says the caller, “but all the crew have to be released unharmed and without delay. Send your men to Nairobi. Your money will be delivered there.”
“Your son will return to you in good health, I promise,” says Muslux.
“I want another promise from you,” the caller says, “you know my name. Don’t let anybody know who I am.”
“It will remain between you and me. I promise,” Muslux says, and he meant what he said.

That evening a little boy brought a chit to the jailor of the Mogadishu Central jail. On it written in tiny Afsoomaali script:
Ransom amount has been arranged. Will be delivered to you in two days time. Please honor the contract we made about the release of my son.

A couple of days later a yellow cab stops in front of a green door in an old north Calcutta neighborhood. Gouranga Chakraborty, the Police Commissioner, descends from the cab. He climbs up the narrow, dark stairs and knocks on a door. Biswapriya Banerjee, the owner of the house, opens the door.
“Namasker,” the Commissioner utters the cursory greet.
“Namasker,” Biswapriya returns the greeting with folded hands, “do I know you?”
“I am Gouranga Chakraborty, the Police Comissioner,” says Gouranga and does not fail to notice the sudden drain of color from his host’s face. He smiles and assures, “Don’t worry, this is not an official visit. I have come in a hired cab, it is waiting outside. Did your son come back?”
“My son…,” Biswapriya cannot hide his puzzlement.
“Yes your son. Snehangsu. Wasn’t he outside the country for about a year?” Gouranga says retaining the smile in his face. It helped Biswapriya to retain his composure.
“Oh yes he returned to India,” says Biswapriya smiling wryly, “he is in Chennai now. Will come home tomorrow… maybe…”
“Good! Very good!” Gouranga broadens his smile.
“May I ask why you…” Biswapriya mumbles, still confused.
“I have come to give you a little gift.”
Gouranga unfolds a paper roll he is carrying. A sketch of a middle aged man. His features quite similar to that of Biswapriya.
“Our police artist has drawn this,” the Commissioner explains, “you must have heard about the kidnapping of Karan Sengupta, son of industrialist Rajeev Sengupta. His driver Makhanlal remembered the face of the kidnapper. The guy offered him tea outside a disco where he was waiting for his boss. Naturally it was drugged and he lost his consciousness. Our artist followed Makhanlal’s description and drew this. Nice work, isn’t it? Normally they are far behind the mark but this one came out rather accurate, isn’t it?” The commissioner looks up at Biswapriya and notices blood leave the face all over again. He smiles, “but you know what. The case would remain unsolved it seems. This sketch would be of no use to us. I had seen a photo of yours in a newspaper in Rajeev Sengupta’s office. You and your wife carrying a poster of your son. The image got imprinted in my mind. When I saw this sketch I could not help remembering you. So I thought it’s your sketch, let’s give it to you. You can hang it on your wall.”
The Commissioner hands the sketch over. Carrying it in his hands, Biswapriya stands dumb folded. The Commissioner keeps smiling. At last Biswapriya finds his voice,
“So the kidnap case…,”
“Didn’t I tell you? It’s closed. Gone cold like hundreds of other cases. Is it possible for us to solve each and every case? Take care, Mr. Banerjee,”
Without waiting for further response the Commissioner climbs down the stairs in hasty steps and gets into the waiting cab. The driver steps on the gas.
A drizzle has started pouring. Two crows drenching sitting over the electric wire. One must be a daddy crow, the other his son. As the pouring gets heavier they spread their wings and fly off.

Marcos returned an unfriendly stare at the housekeeping guy, “You waiting for something?” The housekeeping guy raised his head, stole a glance at Marcos and replied, “No sir.” “In that case, thank you my friend and good bye.” With a bang, Marcos closed the door on his face. “Good day, sir!” Said the Indian housekeepng guy. Hardly twenty seven. By then the door had closed on his face. His words of thanks remained unheard by Marcos.He was expecting some tips, was he? Bloody loser. Thought Marcos. Why the hell? Does the hotel pay him peanuts, that this bloody loser was waiting to be tipped to bring his luggage upstairs? Marcos was disgusted. He pulled the curtains apart. It had started snowing outside. The first snow of this winter. Marcos will have to halt in this Buffalo, New York hotel for a day before heading towards Mexico. His country. His home. It isn’t possible for him to take a flight to Mexico. That’s dangerous and suicidal. He has to travel by road and sea. Marcos struggled in vain for over five minutes, trying to open his old fashioned steel trunk. He tried several of the tiny keys. But opening it seemed impossible. He was quite sure he had lost the key to the trunk. Asking for help from the hotel would mean an additional expense of at least a hundred dollars. Why not call that Indian housekeeping guy and request him for a personal favor? That’ll be a lot cheaper. Marcos called the room service guy. The boy surely knew some magic. With a twisted hairpin he pried open the lock in two minutes. Magic is probably infectious, because Marcos’ mood also improved like magic. “Wow, that’s magic, man! You know some mumbo jumbo, huh? Asian?”“Yes sir. Indian” “What’s your name, son?”“Sam.”His real name was Sambaran Bandyopadhyay though; a traditional Indian name, somewhat uncommon, uncomfortably long and difficult to pronounce, especially in this country; named by his grandfather twenty seven years ago. He had himself shortened his name to Sam after coming to United States for a career. Marcos fished out two ten dollar bills from his wallet, thought for a couple of seconds, put back one into his wallet, and handed the other to Sam, thanking him. Sam, the housekeeping guy stared at the large wooden statue of a horse with curiosity as it popped out from the trunk. Curiosity kills the cat, thought Marcos. “Curios. It’s my business” he smiled at Sam. “I collect rare and ancient objects of art. Buying and selling curios is what I do for a living, son.” For his business Marcos has to travel a lot. Century old objects of interest, ancient furnishings, paintings, and statues get sold at illogically high prices. The shady part is that among these there are some stolen items too. Some have been missing from some museum for the last few years. They get sold in Mexico through Marcos. This calls for secrecy. He cannot carry these items along normal routes. That is why he had to resort to either road or waterways that are comparatively safer. He could not possibly tell all that to this young Indian housekeeping guy.  The guy left the room still looking astounded. In the evening it started snowing heavily. The mercury was falling and that could be felt even in this temperature controlled hotel room. Through the window panes he could see the horizon getting foggy and darker. Rows of high-rise building blocks were getting covered under a film of white snowflakes. Down below, on the snaking road which was turning white from grey, rows of cars passed incessantly. The lights in the room were flickering. The voltage was fluctuating. This irritated Marcos. He picked up the phone and abruptly called room service.  At last he found some time to admire his wooden horse. In the afternoon he had fallen asleep without changing his clothes. He had been dead tired of travelling from one coast to another. He took a hot shower; before planning to go down to the restaurant below. But then the lights started flickering again. This horse would be at least a hundred and fifty years old; the handiwork of some unknown Dutch sculptor. The horse belonged to that period, when Dutch nomads left Holland to settle down in America permanently. The old Dutch gentleman from whom he had bought this piece had said so. Black Stallion. An unusually beautiful work of art and craftsmanship. Every muscle on the horse’s body looked surprisingly real and came alive.   Marcos hoped to make at least a few thousand dollars by selling it. The door-bell rang. Room service. “Good evening sir. May I help you?” The Indian guy was at the door.“Come on in. Look at my lights. Something’s wrong with them. They’re flickering like hell. Now, when I pay for a hotel room, I do not expect…”“That’ll be okay sir. It has been happening in all the rooms. Our electrical engineers are working on the line.”“Won’t take long, I suppose, because it is getting on my nerves.” “No sir, just a little longer. … The statue… is it very old sir?” “Oh that? Yeah, about a hundred and fifty years.”“No sir. It is older than that. Two hundred and seven years,” replied Sam.“You mean… you know the exact age of this wooden horse?” Marcos’s hands paused while lighting his cigarette.“Yes sir, I know more than that. When I saw it for the first time this afternoon, I recognized it. I had seen its picture on a website. This very same sculpture. I had read about it too.” “Yeah? Which website? Have you seen its photograph?”“No sir, just a hand drawn sketch. The site was probably called something like, ‘truehalloween.com’”“True Halloween? You mean there is something mysterious and spooky about it? Marcos’s hand, the one with the cigarette trembled a little. The light in the room became very dim at that instant.  They stared at each other silently, without batting an eyelid. Then Sam started. “There is a small village some forty miles from here. Beside the Hudson River. It’s called Sleepy Hollow.”“Wait, I’ve heard this name”, said Marcos.“There’s a movie by this name sir. That’s why you know the name. The village is surrounded by a forest. The forest is known as the woods of the Sleepy Hollow. The place is so quiet that you’d think the entire village is sleeping. In this quiet village, in 1799 some strange incidents started happening. Occasionally, headless bodies were found lying on the village road.”“Headless bodies?”Marcos, listening intently, startled as the cigarette burned down and scorched his middle finger. He had forgotten to smoke. Marcos took out another cigarette from the box and offered Sam. “Thank you.” “Coffee? Let me order some coffee?” Marcos picked up the phone and ordered for two coffees.  “Thank you sir. So, in the evenings people steered clear off the road leading to the woods. Not only so… soon they stopped coming out onto the village road after sunset. Those who had the courage to peep through their windows said that they saw an armored knight holding a sword in his hand, riding on a horseback, galloping along the village road during twilight. The fate of whoever crossed his path was doomed. The rider would chop off the head and take it away with him. They also noticed with awe, that the rider himself had no head! A headless mounted knight. “Police officer Ichabod Crane came from the city to investigate. His investigations revealed that a Hessian soldier had been killed near Sleepy Hollow twenty years earlier, in 1779. The enemies had beheaded him and took his head as a booty. Since then he often visited the terrain in search of his lost head. His horse was always with him. The name of his horse was Daredevil.”The doorbell rang with a jarring ugly sound that startled Marcos. Coffee had arrived. Snowflakes were gathering outside the window pane. A strong wind rattled the window.“Interesting story” said Marcos Gabriel Lenovez, sipping his coffee. “Officer Ichabod took the help of Katerina, a local tomboyish girl and together they found the huge tree from under which the headless soldier came out each evening. After galloping through the village on his horse with an open sword he would return to the tree and finally jump into its trunk.  “At last one day he found his head. It was with Katerina’s stepmother, known in the village as a witch. The soldier killed Katrna’s stepmother and got back his head. There ends the story of the headless phantom of Sleepy Hollow. Author Washington Irving, who had his roots in that village, later published a novel, ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ which was later made into a movie.”“Spooky story, but what is the relation of my horse with this story?”  “The story in the novel ended here, but many incidents happened after that are not docemented in the novel and the film, about which most people do not know.” Sam said. The lights in the room went off, and pitch black darkness rushed in through the windows.“Oh, f***!” Marcos grumbled.“Our engineers are working on it, sir. It’ll be okay.”“Awww. Hmmm. So… what happened after that?”“Right. After that, that ominous-looking tree was cut down by the villagers. The felled tree was profusely bleeding blood. Within a month, Peter Van Garret, the woodcutter who had cut the tree, died mysteriously. You know how he died? Thunderstruck! His entire head smashed and vanished after a lightning struck his head. An atheist artist, Baltas Van Tassel, who lived in the village took the tree trunk home in a carriage and carved this horse out of the wood. He gifted the horse to the police officer Ichabod and his newly-married wife Katerina. On his way home from the police officer’s house, Baltas was attacked by a band of robbers who chopped off his head. It was in the year 1799. Another horrific and terribly sad incident happened the same year during Christmas. There was a bank-robbery in Tarry Town near Sleepy Hollow. The thirty year old brave police officer Ichabod fought a gun battle with the bank robbers and died in the gun battle. His skull was shattered by a bullet, like a water melon.”The wind was growing stronger outside, because the windows rattled rather noisily. The sky was dark. The dots of light were blotted through the thick fog outside. The chilling wind was probably entering through some leak in the window, because Marcos shuddered. “After this incident, Katerina didn’t want to keep the wooden horse with her. The old and wise elderly folk of Sleepy Hollow advised her to get rid of the statue. They told her to throw it into the marshland inside the jungle. Katerina went into the forest with the statue. But since that fateful day, nobody had ever seen either Katerina or the statue.”Both men sat quietly for some time.“Strange story,” said Marcos after a long silence.  # # # #Marcos woke up at midnight with a shudder. The TV was on. He fell off to sleep while watching TV. He checked his wristwatch. It was past midnight. The TV was on mute and the changing images changed the color of the room every second. He had been sleeping on the sofa. What was that? Why was he seeing the shadow of a horse on the wall? His skin gave goosebumps. Was it because of the chilling weather? He turned around to see the statue of the horse standing on the table and realized his folly. The shadow was of the statue, caused by the light from the TV. He tried not to think about the horse. But strange thoughts haunted him again and again. Is the statue still haunted? He thought. The snowstorm had stopped. You don’t see a snowstorm in New York every day. What was that sound? A nagging sound of water dripping from a faucet came from the washroom. Had he forgotten to close the tap properly? He went to the washroom and hesitated to enter. Is anyone there? He thought. Stealthily he entered the toilet and switched on the light. Nobody was there. But somehow there was a feeling that someone was present in the hotel room. To shake off the uneasiness, there is nothing like a fag, he thought and took out a cigarette. He put it between his lips and went to light it. The next moment he threw the cigarette lighter away with a jerk. What was that? “Jesus!” he muttered. The cigarette fell from his lips. This cigarette lighter was one of his favorite curio collections that he had kept with himself for three years. It was a little mermaid made of metal and glass.The mermaid’s head was broken. Marcos’s heart was galloping. He was perspiring even in this chilling New York winter. Did the mermaid fall from the sofa? Or has anyone broken it? Marcos walked up to the horse. It is made of wood from Sleepy Hollow. From the tree in which the headless horseman took shelter. Marcos, now definitely felt that he was not alone in the room. He didn’t know why, but he felt it for sure. After this Marcos saw something that made the color of his face fly. His throat dried up, something fluttered inside his stomach and a cold wave rolled down his spine. On the side of the wooden horse there was distinctly a stain of fresh flowing blood.Marcos lost consciousness. His six-foot figure collapsed on the rug, with a thud. # # # #It was 5PM, the next day. Darkness will set in any time now. Marcos was sitting inside his car, parked in a deep jungle. The headlight was on. A thick winter fog was rising from the ground making the forest look even more eerie. He was now forty miles away from Buffalo, deep inside the woods of Sleepy Hollow.Where was Sam? In the morning he had discussed the paranormal happenings of last night with Sam and both agreed that it would be wise to throw the statue back into the bog inside the heart of the jungle. What was that sound? The cry of an owl. An owl flew past. The cry gave Marcos goose-bumps. It was much colder in the woods, than it was in New York, though the two places are no more than forty miles apart. Marcos raised the glass of the window.Someone was approaching through the fog. Marcos sat up straight on his seat, in alert attention.Sam.“Hello, Mr. Marcos” Marcos opened the door. “I thought you weren’t coming. Get in”. He started the engine. It had become darker and the fog denser. The car was moving slowly through the woods, breaking twigs and branches under its wheels. Both men were quiet. “Wait. Turn left. The bog is on that side.” Sam said.The car turned. But after driving a few meters, Marcos had to apply brakes. What was that, shining on the ground in front of the car? Unless it was moved the car couldn’t go. Sam got down and walked up to the object. He almost disappeared in the fog. “What’s it?” Marcos shouted from inside the car. There was no reply. Marcos pressed on the horn again and again impatiently. “Come out and see.”Marcos trudged ahead. He could feel his legs weakening.“A sword!” Sam pointed towards it. A shiny large sword was vertically stuck into the soft ground, as if it fell from the sky.Marcos’s heart missed a beat. He pulled Sam’s hand sharply and dragged him towards the car. “Let’s get out of here.” he shouted.“No. The marshland is right in front. Open the boot of the car.” They opened the boot and took out the large statue of the horse. Together they carried it to the dark waters ahead. After dumping the haunted figure nto the shallow waters of the marsh, they ran back towards the car. After getting in, Marcos drove it swiftly in reverse gear. The red rear lights of the car made the foggy trees of the woods look ghostly. The hanging branches of trees waving in the wind seemed to beckon them with their hands. “Faster… move faster…” Sam said, looking behind him.  # # # #Marcos was returning to Mexico on a Virgin flight. The statue wasn’t there anymore. So, there was no reason not to take a flight. He relaxed with eyes closed and listened to his favorite numbers on his iPhone. There’s nothing like music to soothe the nerves. The stress of the last two days was still throbbing inside him. It may never completely abandon him. He needed a pillow. Where was the flight stewardess? He got up startled. He walked along the aisle. Strange! Such a massive aircraft, and there was not a single passenger! All the seats were empty. But when it left New York, it was packed. The cockpit door was open. He went in. But what is this? The plot didn’t have a head! He was beheaded! The beheaded plot turned towards him.He woke up gasping for breath. A flight stewardess was offering him a pillow. He was in his seat, sleeping. What a dream! How gruesome.
At the same time a car stopped inside the cold and foggy woods of Sleepy Hollow. The door opened and Sam got off. Sam… Sambaran Bandyopadhyay. He removed the sticking plaster from his finger. The cut had almost healed. He walked ahead and picked up the sword. It had to be returned to Harry. Harry lent out these things on hire to movie makers. Sam too, had taken it on rent. He went into the cold soggy mud and found the hundred and fifty year old wooden horse easily. Though the story of the mysterious tree of Sleepy Hollow and the website ‘truehalloween.com’ were all made up instantly by him, Sam was sure that the antique horse would fetch at least five thousand dollars. Actually… that Mexican was mean. Had he offered some reasonable tip to Sam, would he have bothered to play this game with him! Sam needed to get even and teach him a lesson. To make him believe in his yarn, he had done just two things. The moment the light in the room went off, he broke the head of the cigarette lighter mermaid. And then he cut his own finger a little with the nail-cutter and smeared the blood on the back of the horse standing in the dark. The rest just happened inside the mind of the Mexican, after hearing the instantly cooked up tale of Sleepy Hollow.  Sam whistled as he opened the boot of the car, and placed the horse and the sword carefully inside. His car moved through the snowy and foggy jungles of Sleepy Hollow. His destination, New York.

PLEASE ADD TO THIS LIST IN THE COMMENTS SECTION. IF YOU LIKE THIS, WE’LL COME UP WITH A SIMILAR LIST ABOUT BOLLYWOOD MOVIES SOON.

During all police investigations, it will be necessary to visit a strip club at least once.

All beds have special L-shaped sheets which reach up to the armpit level on a woman, but only to waist level on the man lying beside her.

All grocery shopping bags contain at least one loaf of French bread or bunch of celery that sticks out the top of a full bag.

It’s easy for anyone to land a plane, providing there is someone in the control tower to talk you down.

Once applied, lipstick will never rub off, even while scuba diving.

The ventilation system of any building is the perfect hiding place. No one will ever think of looking for you in there, and you can travel to any other part of the building without difficulty.

If you need to reload your gun, you will always have more ammunition, even if you weren’t carrying any before now.

You’re very likely to survive any battle in any war, unless you make the mistake of showing someone a picture of your sweetheart back home.

Should you wish to pass yourself off as a German officer, it will not be necessary to speak the language – a German accent will do.

If your town is threatened by an imminent natural disaster or killer beast, the mayor’s first concern will be the tourist trade or his forthcoming art exhibition.

The Eiffel Tower can be seen from any window in Paris. The Taj Mahal from any window in India. The Howrah Bridge from any window in Calcutta.

A man will show no pain while taking the most ferocious beating, but will wince when a woman tries to clean his wounds.

If a large pane of glass is visible, someone will be thrown through it before long.

Most dogs are immortal.

If being chased through town, you can usually take cover in a passing St. Patrick’s Day parade – at any time of the year.

When paying for a taxi, don’t look at your wallet as you take out a bill – just grab one at random and hand it over. It will always be the exact fare.

Interbreeding is genetically possible with creatures from anywhere in the universe.

Kitchens don’t have light switches. When entering a kitchen at night, you should open the fridge door and use that light instead.

Word processors never display a cursor on screen, but will always say: ENTER PASSWORD NOW.

Mothers routinely cook eggs, bacon and waffles for their families every morning, even though their husbands and children never have time to eat.

Cars which crash will almost always burst into flames.

The Chief of Police will always suspend his star detective – or give him 48 hours to finish the job.

A single match will be sufficient to light up a room the size of the Astrodome.

Medieval peasants had perfect teeth.

Although in the 20th century it is possible to fire weapons at an object out of our visual range, people of the 23rd century will have lost this technology.

Any person waking from a nightmare will sit bolt upright and pant.

It is not necessary to say hello or goodbye when beginning or ending phone conversations.

Even when driving down a perfectly straight road, it is necessary to turn the steering wheel vigorously from left to right every few moments.

All bombs are fitted with electronic timing devices with large red readouts so you know exactly when they’re going to go off.

It is always possible to park directly outside the building you’re visiting.

If you decide to start dancing in the street, everyone you bump into will know all the steps.

Most laptop computers are powerful enough to override the communication systems of any alien civilization.

When a person is knocked unconscious by a blow to the head, they will never suffer a concussion or brain damage, and nobody involved in a car chase, hijacking, explosion, volcanic eruption or alien invasion will ever go into shock.

Any lock can be picked by a credit card or a paper clip in seconds – unless it’s the door to a burning building with a child trapped inside.

Police Departments give their officers personality tests to make sure they are deliberately assigned a partner who is their total opposite.

When they’re alone, all foreigners prefer to speak English among themselves.

You can always find a chain saw when you need one.

An electric fence which is powerful enough to kill a dinosaur will cause no lasting damage to an eight-year-old child.

Television news bulletins usually contain a story that affects you personally at that precise moment, and it’s never necessary to listen to the complete bulletin.

It doesn’t matter if you are heavily outnumbered in a fight involving martial arts – your enemies will wait patiently to attack you one by one. They’ll dance around in a threatening manner until you have knocked out their predecessors.

Cartoon courtesy: John Crowther

By Pinaki Ghosh

Oops! No blog posts since 27 Sept is an unpardonable sign that we neglected our blog. On the other hand it also speaks about how busy we were at www.TheScreenplayWriters.com during this period. An average of two new screenplay writing projects seem to land up every week and if a week passes without any new project getting confirmed, we start thinking something is wrong and Nick starts testing our contact form and calling up our webmaster Anindya to make sure the contact form is working.

During this apparent hibernating period, we have also strengthened our screenwriters’ teams considerably. We now have 5 solid city based teams in New York, Los Angeles, London, Mumbai and Kolkata. While my friend Nick (Blake) was working on building our USA teams, I was working on strengthening our 2 Indian teams: Mumbai and Kolkata. Nick will probably write about his team building experience soon.

We realized within days of launching our screenwriting service, that there was a steady need of Hindi screenplay writers. From day 1 our team had Rajan, the extremely experienced Hindi screenwriter and assistant writer of films like Mujhse Shaadi Karogi, Phir Hera Pheri and No Entry. Later Shivani, the Hindi screenplay writer of ‘Dus Kahaniya’ (Ten Stories) became a part of our team. In the recent weeks I have befriended what I feel are extremely talented Hindi screenplay writers, Antara (3 National Award winner!), Sumit, Indranil and Anirban.

I need to explain here how we normally develop a Hindi screenplay. Our system has evolved in a creative way and is probably quite a unique way of handling a Hindi script writing assignment. Whenever there is a Hindi screenplay project, we first allow our American screenplay writers to handle the basic job. Our American team expands the treatment into a basic screenplay. Nick polishes the first draft and passes it to me. We then allow one of our Hindi screenwriters to work on the first draft. Dialogs are changed to Hindi; new scenes and sequences are added. Some are omitted. Modifications are made. After the Hindi screenplay writer has completed his or her work, it comes to me and I polish it once again.

What this means is an emerging trend of Hindi screenplays made in America. I am quite sure this is an emerging trend and we have consciously set our working system in accordance with this emerging trend, to cater the demands of our clients who are not against this trend.

Shah Rukh Khan has hired American screenplay writer David Benullo (who is also in friendly terms with us) to write the screenplay of his science fiction Hindi film ‘Ra 1’. American screenwriter duo Joshua and Brian (who can be hired through us) have written the screenplay of the blockbuster Hindi movie ‘Blue’ (2009).

The opposite trend is also true. I’ll write about that some other day.

By Pinaki Ghosh

Till date most of my blog posts have been aimed at screenplay writers only. However the visitors of our site TheScreenplayWriters.com include both screenwriters and filmmakers, producers, directors, studios who are looking for screenwriters. Now here is something which is aimed at both screenwriters and clients who are looking for screenwriters.

What is the format of a screenwriter contract? What legal points should be covered in a screenwriter agreement that fairly represents both the parties – the screenwriter and the client?

Given below  is a compact screenwriter agreement format which you can confidently use, whether you are a screenwriter, or a client looking for a screenwriter.  You have to simply change the phrases in ALL CAPS with relevant information.

Agreement Over Writing A Screenplay For A Film

By this memorandum of understanding, signed this DATE; both the parties described herein under as, represented by CLIENT’S NAME of CLIENT’S ADDRESS, phone number CLIENT’S PHONE NUMBER, also described as the ‘client’; and SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME, SCREENWRITER’S ADDRESS, phone number SCREENWRITER’S PHONE NUMBER, also described as ‘screenplay writer, do hereby agree to all the terms described and given below:

1. CLIENT’S NAME is commissioning screenwriter SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME to begin the project of writing the screenplay of a (approx) NO. OF MINUTES minutes long feature film.

2. The tentative working title of the film shall be ‘NAME OF MOVIE. This title is subject to change.

3. The deadline for completion of this screenplay is NUMBER OF DAYS days after the signing of this agreement.

4. CLIENT’S NAME  agrees to pay SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME a consolidated sum of TOTAL FEE AMOUNT  for the project that will include the following:

a. Writing the screenplay on the story/treatment laid down by CLIENT’S NAME .

b. Editing it thoroughly before submission., so that the final version is free from errors like spelling and grammar errors, and typos.

5. The fees of the screenplay writer will be paid as follows:

a. 1/3 as advance to get the project started.

b. 1/3 after 40% work submission.

c. The remaining 1/3 fees will be paid on 80% work submission and approval.

6. SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME is subject to NO royalty or commission on the sale or business from the screenplay. He is only entitled to the one time project fees of TOTAL FEE AMOUNT.

7. SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME (screenplay writer) will maintain full confidentiality and secrecy about this project. At no point during the project will he reveal any idea or concept of the film, to anyone, in any form; even if this contract gets terminated at any point during the project.

8. If SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME is unable to complete the project for some reason, he will convey that in writing as email as soon as possible. In that case he will be entitled to a payment which is proportionate to the amount of work he has completed; subject to approval from the client.

9. The screenplay will be 100 – 120 pages in length.

10. The screenplay writer will get credit for his/her contribution to the film.

11. SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME agrees that he will not take the help of any plagiarism, meaning he will avoid using borrowed material in this screenplay exactly as they are found elsewhere.

12. SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME agrees to do necessary coordination with the director or any other person or persons referred by the client, for proper shaping up of the project if necessary.

13. CLIENT’S NAME will own all copyrights for this screenplay.

14. CLIENT’S NAME will have full freedom to deal with any filmmaker, producer or agent. SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME will have no say on these matters.

15. CLIENT’S NAME can request SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME to make a reasonable number of changes and edits during the period of production of this screenplay and within 1 month of completion and submission of the screenplay.

16. Any disputes arising between the parties related to this contract and project will be settled by courts in NAME OF YOUR CITY.

Both the parties do hereby agree to the terms laid and set above.

Signature

CLIENT’S NAME  (client)

Signature

SCREENPLAY WRITER’S NAME (screenplay writer)

Date:  _______________

By Pinaki Ghosh

Good news is that we at TheScreenplayWriters.com have been writing a number of animation films this month and a few more are in the pipeline. Somehow the word went around that we have specialist animation screenwriters.

But how different is animation screenwriting from usual screenwriting for live action movies? Let’s check out.

1. First, if you are writing the screenplay of an animation movie, in other words, if you are an animation screenwriter, you should be ideally someone who has grown up reading comicbooks and graphic novels. Writers who have vast knowledge of comicbooks and graphic novels will be better animation screenwriters than the ones who have never really loved reading comicbooks and graphic novels.

2. The animation screenwriting format is usual. Exactly similar to live action movies. You can write it using Microsoft Word, Open Office Word, Final Draft or Movie Magic Screenwriter in the usual screenplay format.

3. Keep the dialogs brief and interesting. Ideally single sentences. Long, boring dialogs are usually unusual in animation screenplays.  Keep that in mind as an animation screenwriter.

4. However, keep your action descriptions vivid. That is one way animation screenplays are different from normal screenplays. The animation artists should be able to understand the actions and depict them exactly. As such the animation screenwriter must pay attention in clearly describing each action. You cannot afford to cut it short here, as your vision may not reach the animation artists if your action description is too brief.

5. Maintain a fast pace. Two talking heads covering 7 minutes in one location is not what animation viewers are prepared to watch. As an animation screenwriter, keep changing scenes frequently and avoid stagnation.

6. Avoid overcrowding of characters in one scene unless you are specifically told to do so. Try to keep two to three characters in a majority of scenes. Only a few scenes should have a large number of characters. It is difficult and expensive to put up a scene with a large number of animated characters.

7. It is a good idea to watch a number of good animation films for a week before starting to write your animation screenplay. Not to pick up ideas, but to tune your mind. It is said what we write has 10% experience and 90% inspiration in it. Good works inspire us. The one week will be a good investment to boost your inspiration.

By Pinaki Ghosh

Last Saturday I watched ‘Mamma Mia‘ on HBO. While it was like a little vacation for the mind, it set me thinking, are Hollywood and Bollywood films influencing each other? In other words, are Hollywood movies becoming more Bollywoodish, and Bollywood movies more Hollywoodish? Are our films set to prove ‘the world is flat’?

Several recently successful Hollywood movies like ‘Mamma Mia’, ‘High School Musical’, ‘High School Musical 2′, ‘The Love Guru’, ‘The 40 year Old Virgin’ and ‘The Cheetah Girls: One World’, show clear Bollywood influence. On the other hand scores of Bollywood movies are strongly influenced by Hollywood. The very popular Bollywood movie ‘Ghajini’ was influenced by ‘Memento’ so much that it could not avoid the critics’ scorn. ‘Dhoom’, shows influences of ‘The Fast and the Furious’. The Bollywood movie ‘Blue’ looks very Hollywoodish.

These influences have become more obvious and exposed ever since the Bollywood styled movie ‘The Slumdog Millionaire’ won 8 Academy Awards this year. But even before that Bollywood and Hollywood were slowly and discreetly influencing each other. Director Baz Luhrmann has openly agreed that he is influenced by Bollywood. His smash hit movie ‘Moulin Rouge!’ has strong Bollywood influence and also uses Bollywood songs. That was back in 2001. According to Baz, Bollywood movies are much like Shakespeare’s plays; a package of everything entertaining.

This influence and trend has resulted in an increasing demand of offshore screenplay writers and directors. American filmmakers are looking for Indian screenwriters more often than ever before. On the other hand Bollywood movie makers are hiring American screenwriters for every major project. Joshua and Brian, the American screenwriter duo (and an important part of our team) were hired to write the story and screenplay of the Bollywood movie ‘Blue’ (2009). Bollywood megastar Shah Rukh Khan has hired American (Hollywood) screenwriter David Benullo to write his science fiction Bollywood blockbuster ‘Ra 1’.

No wonder TheScreenplayWriters.com (premier screenwriter service with a team of Hollywood and Bollywood screenplay writers) is flooded with requests and offers ever since launch, from both the continents.

Writing a movie script – 10 things you should do to get your screenplay rejected

By Pinaki Ghosh

Writing a movie script? Want to know the 13 secrets to get your screenplay rejected for sure? Read on.

1. Offer camera directions in your screenplay

Don’t trust the intelligence of the director or cinematographer and offer camera directions in your script like, ‘pan’, ‘zoom’, ‘dolly’, ‘trolley shot’ or ‘low angle shot’. That will make your script look like one from history and is a definite way of getting it rejected.

2. Offer editing directions in your screenplay

Similarly, go ahead… show a complete disregard to the editor’s intelligence and write editing instructions like ‘cut to’, ‘dissolve’, etc. and your screenplay will look like a thing of the past. In modern day screenplays editing directions are no longer in vogue. Only ‘fade in’ and ‘fade out’ are used twice or thrice in an entire screenplay.

3. Do not capitalize character names

Do not capitalize the character names while writing a movie script. Leave them in lowercase text and your screenplay will be rejected for sure. Similarly, leave words that denote sound, like WHOOSH, or CLANG in lowercase, to show how little you know.

4. Make your screenplay shorter than 90 pages or longer than 130 pages

While writing a movie script, you should definitely make it longer than 130 pages, or shorter than 90 pages to make sure your screenplay goes straight into the trash bin, because normal screenplays are 90 pages to 130 pages in length.

5. Write very lengthy dialogs

Writing a movie script? Love writing interesting dialogs? Then go ahead and make them lengthy. Make each dialog lengthier than 5 lines and that will ensure your screenplay is ripped and made into paper airplanes.

6. Write very lengthy scenes

While writing a movie script, make sure your scenes are lengthy enough to get the screenplay rejected. While normally scenes are less than a page in length to maximum three pages, with 5 page scenes being an exception; you should concentrate in making your scenes more than 5 pages in length… to join the rejected screenplay writers’ club.

7. Write lengthy descriptions

While the normal length of writing a scene description is 1 to 4 lines, you should break the rule and write at least 10 line scene descriptions to be a part of the frustrated screenwriters’ league.

8. Use character names that sound and spell similar

Make your character names sound confusingly similar. Or make them start with the same letter, so that the viewers are thoroughly confused.

9. Use character names for very minor characters

Give character names to even minor characters that appear just once and have one line dialogs, to prove you want to get your screenplay rejected. While the rule is, you should use the professions to identify minor characters, rather than names, a violation of the rule is recommended if you want to do the opposite of normal.

Eg. POLICE OFFICER

Show me your driving license. God save you if you don’t have one.

The above is normal, if this POLICE OFFICER appears only once in the entire movie. In a good screenplay, a name like ‘HARRY’ or ‘TOM’ or ‘DICK’ would have been inappropriate for this role.

10. Use wired slug lines.

Scenes start with slug lines like:

INT. COFFEE HOUSE – NIGHT

Or

EXT. BEACH – DAY

While normal screenplay writers use only ‘day’ or ‘night’, you can be a rebel and use wired slug lines like DUSK, DAWN, SUNSET TIME, SUNRISE TIME, to stay ahead in the race of getting your screenplay rejected.

11. Make a mess of the alignment

And finally, make a mess of the alignment. While the rule is, scene slug lines and action descriptions should be extreme left aligned, character names should be center aligned and dialogs should be left aligned, but an inch towards the right.

Eg. Correct format:

EXT. ROAD – DAY

POLICE OFFICER

Show me your driving license. God save you if you don’t have one.

Sees the license

POLICE OFFICER (CONT’D)

This license has expired three months ago. Please come out of the car mister.

He opens the door and COLLIN walks out of the car.

Wrong format:

EXT. ROAD – DAY

POLICE OFFICER

Show me your driving license. God save you if you don’t have one.

Sees the license

POLICE OFFICER (CONT’D)

This license has expired three months ago. Please come out of the car mister.

He opens the door and COLLIN walks out of the car.

12. Use plenty of mood descriptions throughout the screenplay

Use of phrases in brackets like (smiles), (looks worried), (laughs out loud) with every possible dialog to prove yourself to be a complete novice. Experienced screenwriters avoid using such phrases as far as possible because these are for the director to decide. Three such uses in a complete good screenplay are allowed.

13. Do not visualize

While writing a movie script, write it just for the sake of writing it. Do not visualize anything in your mind’s eye. Do not bother if your scenes will be picturesque or boring.

By Pinaki Ghosh

From our Google Analytics data I discovered that a lot of keywords leading visitors to our site www.TheScreenplayWriters.com were related to screenplay writer rate and other keywords close to that. It suggests that a lot of people are looking for more information about how much screenplay writers charge to write a screenplay. Since screenplay writers almost always do not announce their rates in public, there is ambiguity about how much it costs to get a screenplay written and ‘how much is a screenplay writer’s salary’.

WGA Rates

Writers Guild of America (WGA), which actually are two organizations (unions to be precise), one for the West Coast and another for the East Coast have fixed some minimum and maximum rates for all writers who are their members. This is basically to ensure writers are not underpaid, and there is no unhealthy competition and undercutting of rates.

The lowest, the highest

Roy McCardell, probably the first screenwriter of USA sold his short screenplays for $15 each in 1900. Going by the rate of depreciation, $15 today would have been less than $350.

In 2003, Manoj Night Shyamalan, the American director and screenwriter of Indian origin charged $7.5 million for writing the screenplay of ‘The Village’.

Screenwriters Terry Rossio and Bill Marsilii received $5 million for the screenplay of Déjà vu in 2005, which is a record for spec screenplay rates. Spec screenplay is a screenplay which is written without a formal order, or without the writer receiving any fees for it initially. He or she writes it without being paid and then tries to sell it to a studio or filmmaker.

In Bollywood, rates of busy screenwriters start from INR 400,000 and goes up to INR 3 million. Recently one of the highest fees in Bollywood was paid to Joshua and Bryan, the American screenwriter duo who wrote the screenplay of ‘Blue‘ (2009). Joshua and Bryan are a part of our team of screenplay writers.

‘Against’

Often we hear terms like a screenplay writer is paid $75,000 against $150,000, which actually means, the filmmaker guarantees the screenwriter a payment of $75,000. If the film is not made, the screenplay writer does not receive anything more than $75,000. But if the movie is made and released, the screenplay writer receives $150,000, which means an additional $75,000. Interesting, isn’t it?

TheScreenplayWriters.com screenplay writers’ fees: 20% – 40% less than WGA rates

So, the big question is what is the screenwriter’s salary if you choose to order a script with TheScreenplayWriters.com? We are very democratic regarding this, and have kept into consideration the inde filmmakers and student filmmakers who are tight on budget as well as big studios and producers, who want nothing but the best. Our rates start from $3,000 and goes up to over $100,000. The rate really depends on the writer who is writing your screenplay. But we are still the most reasonably priced screenplay agency around. Our rates are at least 20% to 30% less than WGA rates and that is one of the main reasons why more and more studios and filmmakers are choosing our service. We also offer innovative cost cutting solutions like getting your screenplay written by a middle order screenplay writer and then getting it refined and polished by a top order screenwriter. The result is a world class screenplay for a rate which is almost 40% less than WGA rates.