Around two o’clock, we walked into the Copper Chimney restaurant in Worli to have lunch with Pulak Ghoshal and Tribhuvan Gupte, the dialogue writer. The place was packed, but Mr Ghoshal had reserved a table for us. ‘I say, Pulak,’ Lalmohan babu asked, ‘what is the name of your film?’ I, too, had wondered about the name, but hadn’t found the chance to ask Mr Ghoshal, All I knew for sure was that the film was not going to be called The Bandits of Bombay. ‘You cannot imagine, Laluda,’ said Mr Ghoshal, ‘the trouble we’ve had over the name. Whatever we chose had either already been used, or registered by some other party. You can ask Gupteji here how many sleepless nights he’s spent, puzzling over an appropriate name. Only three days ago— suddenly, out of the blue—it came. A high-voltage spark!’ ‘High-voltage spark? Your film is called A High-Voltage Spark ?’ Lalmohan babu asked in a low- voltage voice. Mr Ghoshal burst out laughing, making those sitting at neighbouring tables turn their heads and stare. ‘Are you mad, Laluda? You think a name like that would work? No, I was talking about a sudden flash of inspiration, a brain wave. It’s Jet Bahadur.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘Jet Bahadur. You’ll be able to see hoardings go up all over the city, even before you leave. You couldn’t find a better name for your story. Just think. Action, speed, thrill. . . you’ll find all three in the word “jet”. Plus you’ve got “bahadur”. We’ve sold the film—on all circuits—on the strength of that name and casting alone!’ Lalmohan babu had started to smile, but the joy on his face faded a little as he heard Mr Ghoshal’s explanation. Perhaps he was thinking: name and casting? Did only those things matter? Did no one appreciate the story? ‘Have you seen any of my previous films?’ asked Mr Ghoshal. ‘Teerandaj is running at the Lotus. You could catch the evening show today. I will tell the manager, he will keep three tickets for you in the Royal Circle. It’s a good film, it did a silver jubilee.’ None of us had seen any of his films. Lalmohan babu was naturally curious, so we accepted Mr Ghoshal’s offer. If one didn’t have friends in Bombay, the evenings sometimes became long and boring. The car would remain with us. It would take us to the Lotus whenever required. While we were eating, one of the men from the restaurant came and said something to Mr Ghoshal. Judging by the warm smile on every waiter’s face since we arrived, Mr Ghoshal was a frequent visitor here. Clearly, in a place like Bombay, a successful director was a welcome figure. Mr Ghoshal turned quickly to Lalmohan babu. ‘You’re wanted on the telephone, Laluda.’

Lalmohan babu had justed lifted a spoonful of pulao. Thank goodness he hadn’t yet put it in his mouth. If he had, he’d certainly have choked. As it happened, when he gave a start, a