Just shoot me!

The possibilities are endless – and so exciting – in the world of Indian TV soaps, SUNIL GAUTAM discovers while on the sets of one.

Story tellers of all kinds fascinate me – playwrights, writers, movie directors, politicians – all of them. That is why I was very excited when someone took me for a TV serial shoot on my recent trip to Mumbai. It was one of the most popular soaps on TV and I was like a little kid on the sets, ogling at all the stars and starlets but most of all, the director.

My friend, knowing my enthusiasm, organised a quick meeting with the director. He was a very busy man but when he learnt we were from Australia, he agreed. I introduced myself as a writer of sorts and requested him to educate me a bit on how they go about shooting an episode.

“What are you shooting today?” I asked, wanting to know all the details of the episode.
“The Mehra family is having a get-together when they have an unexpected visitor,” he replied quickly, while correcting some mistakes in the script.
“And?” I enquired innocently, imagining the visitor to break some big news or to spoil their party or perhaps, be the police. I also imagined how all the members would handle the crisis and how every passing second would unravel more action.
“And what?” he snarled, “There is a knock on the door and they look at the door”.
“And?” I knew he was teasing me.
“That’s all we are shooting today.”

“But I thought you were shooting an entire episode.”
“Yes we are, this is the whole episode. There is a knock on the door, the door opens, someone enters and they all look up.”
“But an episode lasts a long time. Is this enough action?”
“Just because many Indian movies are shot in Sydney, is everyone from that city a film director? This is enough action for one episode.”

“But how?” I demanded a better answer, while my friend pretended he didn’t know me any more.
“Look,” he seemed to have taken it as a challenge, “There are 11 people in the hall. Each one is an individual. Each one will have his or her own perspective of the situation.”
“So?”
“So, we’ll shoot each one of them separately, with a few close ups and dramatic angles. It will capture the hidden feelings of every character. Each shot will last about a minute.”

“So, that is eleven minutes in that case…” I persisted.
“You should never try to become a director,” he sympathised with me. “What about the visitor?? Doesn’t he have to look at each person present in the hall? Won’t that take another eleven minutes? And did anyone in Sydney tell you that a TV serial episode is for 22 minutes?”

“Do you realise how loyal my viewers are? And how unforgiving? They demand to know what is going on in each character’s life, and head. If, for example, I don’t show Nirmala’s reaction…. do you know what kind of hate mail I’ll get? It will be the same if I leave Dadaji out. You guys don’t realise the pressure we work under”. “But what about the story going forward? What have the viewers got in these 22 minutes?” I felt like a consumer rights activist now.

“What about them? Do you realise how loyal my viewers are? And how unforgiving? They demand to know what is going on in each character’s life, and head. If, for example, I don’t show Nirmala’s reaction to the visitor to, well, please my Australian guest, do you know what kind of hate mail I’ll get? It will be the same if I leave Dadaji out. You guys don’t realise the pressure we work under.”

“But what about holding people’s interest for so long while just showing reactions?”
“Your innocence is touching,” he said. “There is a small flashback with each reaction as everyone in the hall recalls their previous encounter with the visitor”.

“But haven’t people already seen those encounters? Why repeat them?”
“Does anyone have a copy of TV Serials for Dummies here,” he shouted. “We need to educate someone that a TV soap travels in its own directions – back or forward, and at its own pace, on its own will.”

 “Looks like your intention is to use up an entire episode without showing anything new. By the way, why do you have eleven people in the hall? Where do we have such large families anymore? ”
“We didn’t, originally,” he confessed. “The Mehras were just a family of five. But the producers forced me to discover their other members hiding overseas and bring all six of them back to India. More people, more problems, more episodes, more money, and NRIs also bring their own peculiar issues with them… nothing personal, please…” he was down to a whisper now.

“But how do the viewers keep track of what is going on, where and why?” I was also coming clean now, taking off my critic’s hat.
“They don’t!” he leaned so forward that I could tell he has a kidney problem by looking at his iris. “Why do you think they tune in every week? Only to figure out what the hell is going on!”
We were an inch from becoming soul mates now.

“So who knows really what the next episode will have?”
“We are hoping next week a couple of these eleven actors will be sick and won’t be able to shoot.”
“How will that help?”
“We can then base the next episode on where those missing characters are. Infidelity? Murder? The possibilities are endless – and so exciting.”

I asked my last question.
“How does the story end, by the way? Promise I won’t tell anyone!”
“If the channel keeps us on air, then it will never end. People have children, you know.”
“And if the channel asks you to pack your bags?”
“We have already shot a scene of mass murder-suicide in which no one survives. I hope viewers will forgive me for ending the serial that way.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “They have already forgiven you for making it.”