‘I had zero expectations,’ Kashyap said. ‘I remember, first week was some 60–70 per cent occupancy. This went up to 90. Third week was 97. Then it was houseful. I was thinking, what the f… is going on?’ Kamran recalled a couple of them piling into Varma’s car and driving from the suburbs to Churchgate, staring in amazement at one full house after another. The gang wasn’t sweating now. Instead, for the first time in their lives, they were getting recognised. Bajpayee heard ‘Bheekubhai, Bheekubhai’ wherever he went. Sometimes, people would come up and speak to him in Marathi, figuring he knew the language; he’d figure out the gist and reply with the few phrases he knew. Shukla got used to being called Kallu Mama by strangers (it’s ‘dark-skinned uncle’ in Hindi). Doors they’d never dream of knocking on earlier were now miraculously open. Outside a washroom at a movie theatre, a few vodkas down, Bajpayee met his childhood hero, Amitabh Bachchan (‘There was some ringing sound in my ears,’ he recalled). Kashyap related a similar story. A frantic search party cornered him at a studio, saying Bachchan was on the phone. ‘Literally, my hands were shivering. I took the call. His first line I remember: “Atal Bihari ko dhoondna aasaan hai, aapko dhoondna bada mushkil hai” (Tracking down Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee is easy, finding you is very tough).’ A couple of months earlier, Chakravarthy was in the edit room when Varma gave a peek of his film to a mystery guest. Sitting in a corner of the dark studio, Chakravarthy listened to the man praise the scenes and wondered why he sounded so familiar. ‘One thing, though, Ramu,’ the voice continued. ‘Why did you cast the South Indian actor? You should have taken someone from here. If the film doesn’t do well, it’ll be because of him.’ In that terrible moment, Chakravarthy realised the speaker was Anil Kapoor. Sometime after the release of Satya, Kapoor was in Hyderabad for a film shoot. Chakravarthy happened to be in the same studio, and went to pay his respects. He was surprised when Kapoor jumped up and hugged him. ‘Kya kaam kiya!’ (Excellent work!), the Mr. India star said. ‘When I was shown your scenes, I told Ramu, if the film does well, it will be because of this guy.’ Some of the most enthusiastic reactions came from those who saw their rough lives playing out on the big screen. At one screening, Kamran and Bajpayee were approached during the interval by a tough-looking group. ‘These guys came up – surely underworld people from the chawls,’ Kamran recalled. ‘They told Manoj, kya kaam kiya, phaad dala (great work, you tore it up). They talked to him like he was a bhai. I’ll never forget that moment. You make a film, and the actual people from this life confront you.’ On another occasion, outside a different theatre, a stranger put his hand on Varma’s shoulder and said, ‘Hum logon ke upar acchi picture banaya hai tu’ (You’ve made a fine film about people like us). Film journalist Anupama Chopra had yet another story. ‘Pappu Nayak is an underworld foot soldier,’ she wrote in India Today, two months after the film’s release. ‘Solidly built, he walks with a swagger in Goregaon, Mumbai. Ostensibly he works in a dairy but actually he’s the local fixer, working with fists and choppers, settling disputes, extorting money and fixing elections. Last Sunday, Nayak saw Satya. For the fourth time. “Boley to, bahut real story bataya hai,” he says. “Bheeku Mhatre ke liye char baar dekha. Wo ladka agar ek do film mein jum jaaye to Nana Patekar ko thanda kar dega” (They’ve told it the way it is. I saw it four times for Bheeku Mhatre. If that guy does well in a few films, he’ll put an end to Nana Patekar).’ (Excerpted with permission from ‘Bullets over Bombay: Satya and the Hindi Film Gangster’ by Uday Bhatia published by HarperCollins Publishers India)
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