“Just a simple miscommunication,” he said. He showed me a piece of paper confirming a wire transfer for $11,000 from the Bank of India to my agent’s escrow account in Los Angeles. “See? It’s there. It has been sent. Just not received. These things can take up to a week to process. You don’t worry.”
Filming started the following day, so I decided to table any concerns about delinquent payments for a few days. It was time to focus on the work I had traveled there for. I dove into my craft. Even though Gangster Producer was sketchy, the exact opposite was true of the cast and crew I was working with. They had all worked together several times before and didn’t hesitate to make me feel like a member of the family. My fellow actors wasted no time inviting me to dinner and making every effort to ensure that I was comfortable. The shoot was going great. When I checked back in with my agent a week later, the money still hadn’t arrived.
I called Gangster Producer. This time, he admitted there was an error in the processing. “So, send it right now without the error.”
“See. Tomorrow is a bank holiday, so it will take some time. You don’t worry.”
As the weeks went on, a few of the Bollywood actors on the project got wind of what was happening and pulled me aside. “Kal, you’re too nice. At this rate, you’re never going to get paid. This is India. The guy is lying to you,” one told me.
“He showed me a new bank transfer confirmation!” I protested.
“That was most definitely fake. It’s a trick. They show you these fake documents and then don’t pay the salary. Don’t be so naive!”
“Are you guys telling me this dude went through the trouble of forging multiple fake bank escrow documents?!”
“Yes.”
“Okay, that’s actually pretty impressive.”
“It is,” one of them agreed. “Some of these documents are very well faked. Excellent craftsmanship. In any case, if you want to be paid, you quietly don’t turn up to work one day. That’s how we operate here. Don’t show up, then they’ll pay you.”
I may be a terrible poker player, but I understood the strategy.
The following week, I told anyone who would listen that I would not be coming to work unless I got my salary: Gangster Producer, the director, the crew, the other producers, the production manager. “I don’t intend to work tomorrow unless I am paid!” Everyone nodded casually and said they understood. It was as if I was stating the obvious: Tacos are tasty. This shirt is green. Kal won’t come to work anymore unless he gets paid. Surely the threat of not turning up to work would do the trick, right?
The money never came, and I kept going to work like a chump. Another week and a half went by. Was I the idiot who cried wolf?
With two days remaining before the film was set to wrap, I pulled Gangster Producer aside. “Look. I just wanted to let you know that I’m really not coming to work tomorrow unless I get paid.” He gave me the infamous Indian head wobble and said, “You don’t worry.”
At seven thirty the next morning, the telephone in my room rang as it did every day when my ride showed up. “Sir, your car is downstairs.” I took a deep breath, finally ready to play their game. “Please let the driver know he is free to leave. I’m not going to work today, thank you.”
I hung up.
Five minutes later the phone rang again. It was Gangster Producer. “Mr. Kaaal Painn. I understand we have a PROB-lummm?”
“Nahi, kuch problem nahi hai. There’s no problem. As you know, I just haven’t been paid yet, so I can’t come to work unless that money hits the escrow account.”
Gangster Producer feigned disbelief. “Oh, Kaaal! How can you do this? How will I wire the money in just one day’s time?!”
The thing about me? People think I’m nice. And I am nice. But I’m also from New Jersey. And in the unfortunate event that you mess with me the way Gangster Producer did, my inner Jersey comes out. Don’t make me Jersey. You wouldn’t like me when I’m Jersey.
I lashed out, berating Gangster Producer, reminding him that he had weeks and weeks to wire the money, and so far had only come up with weeks and weeks of excuses. First it was a bank holiday, after that a wire issue, then there was another bank holiday. Only an idiot would not be able to get it together. “But Kaaal… if you don’t come to work today then I won’t be able to finish the film!”
“I KNOW, ASSHOLE! THAT’S THE POINT!”
Silence.
Neither of us spoke for what was probably ten seconds but felt like hours. Did I cross the line? Should I not have called him an asshole? He broke the silence, his tone no longer pleading. He was calm and confident, like real gangsters in gangster movies.
“I see. You do one thing. Just remain in your room. In two hours’ time, my boy will come. You don’t worry.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘You don’t worry’? Stop saying that! Also, why do I need to stay in my room and who is this ‘boy’ who’s coming in two hours?”
“Please. Mr. Kaaal Painn. You remain there.”
Click.
My heart raced. This is how you get murdered, Kal. Remember the book Maximum City? This is the part where you yell at a gangster on the phone because he hasn’t paid you, and he sends one of his goons to slit your stupid throat. Why did I let my inner New Jersey come out and offend? This project was about pushing myself creatively! Couldn’t I have quietly not shown up to work and waited for the wire transfer to go through like the Bollywood actors said?! Remain in your room.
Should I remain in my room?
I remained in my room.
Indians are never on time for anything, ever. Anywhere. On the planet. So, it surprised me that there was a knock at my door exactly two hours after I hung up the phone. This must be the “boy” he was sending over. I hesitantly looked through the peephole and saw only the very top of someone’s head. Oh, he has literally sent a small child so short that his hair is barely visible in the peephole. Maybe I won’t get stabbed. I trepidatiously opened the door to ask the child what this was all about.
Surprise! In front of me stood a four-foot-eleven-inch-tall fiftysomething-year-old man. On his faded yellow T-shirt was a giant white drawing of a panda with the caption “I love Giraffe.” This was beyond surreal. This teeny panda giraffe uncle was holding an excessively wrinkled brown paper bag that he motioned for me to take. I peered inside. It was full of American twenty-and fifty-dollar bills.
“COUNTIT,” he said.
I emptied the cash on the table. Bills spilled out, and I counted $5,500. The phone rang.
“Everything okay?” It was Gangster Producer. “Car is downstairs.”
“Hang on a minute, man. This is only half of what you owe me.”
“Correct. You have two days of filming remaining, so second half you’ll receive tomorrow. Car is downstairs.”