A little over a month later, on 22 February 1993, life had settled back into its familiar rhythm after the memorable vacation in France or at least, it was supposed to have settled. Adil stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his office at Zenith Pictures, watching the Mumbai traffic crawl through the late afternoon haze. The city looked the same as it had before they'd left: chaotic, relentless, indifferent to the dreams of any individual caught in its machinery.
But he wasn't the same.
France had been a revelation,not just the romance of it, though God knew that had been intoxicating, but the clarity it had given him. Walking through Parisian streets with Madhuri, Monica, and Aishwarya, he'd felt the weight of possibility settle on his shoulders like a mantle. Five screenplays. Five films. Five chances to reshape Indian cinema.
Now, back in Mumbai, that weight felt less like a mantle and more like a millstone.
They'd returned on the 21st, yesterday, and after a day of rest that had felt more like restless pacing, everyone had resumed their professional commitments. The actresses had scattered to their various obligations: Madhuri to a magazine shoot, Aishwarya to a brand endorsement meeting, Monica returned to Italy for a while, She will join the production of the movie directly.
He turned from the window and surveyed his office. The five completed screenplays sat in a neat stack on his desk, their covers pristine, their pages filled with dialogue and stage directions that existed only as potential. 'Awarapan, Barfi, Sanam Re, Devdas,18 Again.' Each one represented months of work, countless revisions, sleepless nights wrestling with character arcs and thematic resonance.
And now they were just paper, waiting to become something more.
Arjun entered with his characteristic efficiency, carrying a leather portfolio under one arm and wearing an expression that Adil had learned to read over their months working together: focused, slightly anxious, ready to tackle whatever impossible task Adil was about to assign him.
"Welcome back, sir," Arjun said, settling into the chair across from Adil's desk. "How was the rest?"
"Restless," Adil admitted with a wry smile. "I kept thinking about everything we need to do. Speaking of which," He pulled the 'Devdas' screenplay from the stack and slid it across the desk. "This one is our priority. But before we move forward, I need you to handle something critical."
Arjun opened his portfolio, pen poised. "Of course."
"Devdas" is adapted from Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay's novel. I need to know, definitively, whether we need anyone's permission to produce this film. Copyright status, adaptation rights, any potential legal complications. I don't want to invest crores into production only to face a lawsuit halfway through shooting."
Arjun nodded, making notes. "I'll contact the Copyright Office first thing tomorrow morning."
"Not tomorrow morning. Today." Adil's voice carried an edge he hadn't intended. He softened it. "I'm sorry. I know it's late afternoon already, but this is urgent. We have a tough schedule this year. If there are any legal hurdles, I need to know now, not after we've assembled cast and crew."
Understanding flickered in Arjun's eyes. "Is there something, you worry about sir,"
"I'm worried about Time schedule," Adil corrected, though they both knew it amounted to the same thing. "I want Zenith Pictures' 'Devdas' to be definitive. But I won't risk the company on legal quicksand."
"I'll handle it personally," Arjun promised, rising. "I'll call you as soon as I have answers."
After Arjun left, Adil returned to the window. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the Mumbai skyline in shades of amber and rust.
The Copyright Office of India occupied a building that seemed designed to crush the human spirit through architectural malice alone. Arjun stood in the lobby, studying the directory board with its faded lettering and cryptic department names, and felt his optimism begin its slow death.
'Third floor. Copyright Registration and Inquiry Section.'
The elevator was out of order, of course it was, so Arjun climbed three flights of stairs in the February heat, his shirt beginning to stick to his back. The hallway on the third floor stretched endlessly, lined with doors bearing nameplates that seemed to have been installed during the British Raj and never updated.
He found the Copyright Registration and Inquiry Section at the far end: a large room divided by a wooden counter, behind which sat three clerks at desks piled high with files. The air smelled of old paper, stale chai, and bureaucratic indifference.
Arjun approached the counter. The nearest clerk, a middle-aged man with thick glasses and a spectacular comb-over, didn't look up from the form he was stamping with methodical precision.
"Excuse me," Arjun said.
The clerk continued stamping. *Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.*
"Excuse me, sir."
*Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.*
"Sir, I need information about..."
"Wait your turn," the clerk said without looking up.
Arjun glanced around the empty room. "There's no one else here."
"Wait. Your. Turn."
Fifteen minutes later, after the clerk had finished stamping what appeared to be every form in existence, the man finally looked up. "Yes?"
"I need information about the copyright status of a novel. 'Devdas' by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay."
The clerk's expression suggested Arjun had just asked him to explain quantum physics in interpretive dance. "Copyright status?"
"Yes. Specifically, whether the novel is in the public domain, and whether anyone holds exclusive adaptation rights."
"You need to fill out Form CR-7."
"Where do I get Form CR-7?"
"Second floor. Forms Distribution Section."
"Can't you just tell me."
"Form CR-7," the clerk repeated with the finality of a judge pronouncing sentence.
Arjun descended to the second floor, found the Forms Distribution Section, after asking three different people for directions, waited in another line, obtained Form CR-7, and discovered it required information he didn't have: the original copyright registration number, the date of first publication, and the author's date of death.
Back on the third floor, he presented this problem to a different clerk, a woman who at least had the courtesy to look at him while being unhelpful.
"You don't have the registration number?" she asked.
"No. That's why I'm here. To find out the copyright status."
"But you need the registration number to inquire about copyright status."
"How do I get the registration number if I need it to inquire about the registration?"
The woman blinked at him as if he'd spoken in ancient Sumerian. "You fill out Form CR-7."
Arjun felt something snap inside him, not dramatically, but with the quiet resignation of a man realizing he'd entered a Kafkaesque nightmare from which there was no escape except through sheer, bloody-minded persistence.
"Let me try a different approach," he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay died in 1938. Under Indian copyright law, copyright expires sixty years after the author's death. That would make 'Devdas' public domain as of 1998, wait, no, that's not right. The Copyright Act was amended..."
He trailed off, realizing he was arguing with himself while the clerk watched with the detached interest of someone observing a mildly entertaining insect.
"Sir," she said, not unkindly, "you should speak with Mr. Deshmukh. He handles literary copyright inquiries. But he's at lunch."
"When will he be back?"
"After lunch."
It was 2:47 PM. Arjun found a bench in the hallway and sat down to wait, pulling out his pocket notebook to review what he knew about Indian copyright law. The Copyright Act of 1957 had established that copyright lasted for the lifetime of the author plus sixty years. But 'Devdas' had been published in 1917, which predated the Act. Did that mean it fell under the previous Copyright Act of 1914? And if so, what were those terms?
His head was beginning to ache.
At 3:30, a portly man in a rumpled shirt ambled down the hallway, carrying a tiffin box and humming tunelessly. Arjun intercepted him.
"Mr. Deshmukh?"
The man stopped, regarding Arjun with the wary expression of someone who knew he was about to have his post-lunch tranquility disturbed. "Yes?"
"I'm Arjun Mehta from Zenith Pictures. I need information about the copyright status of 'Devdas' by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay."
Something shifted in Deshmukh's expression, a flicker of actual interest. "The novel? You're planning an adaptation?"
"Yes, sir. But we need to confirm the legal status first."
Deshmukh nodded slowly, then gestured for Arjun to follow him into a small office crammed with filing cabinets. He settled behind his desk with a sigh that suggested the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.
"Devdas," he mused, pulling out a ledger. "Published in 1917. Author died in 1938. Under the Copyright Act of 1914, which governed at the time of publication, copyright lasted for the lifetime of the author plus fifty years following the year of death."
Arjun's pulse quickened. "So the copyright would have expired in..."
"1989," Deshmukh confirmed. "The novel entered the public domain four years ago. No individual, family, company, or studio holds exclusive adaptation rights. Anyone is free to produce their own film adaptation without seeking permission or paying royalties."
Relief flooded through Arjun like cool water. "You're certain?"
"Absolutely certain. We've had several inquiries about 'Devdas' over the years. The status is clear." Deshmukh paused, studying Arjun with shrewd eyes. "You're not the first to ask recently, you know."
Arjun's relief curdled into anxiety. "Someone else inquired?"
"About three weeks ago. Another production company. I didn't catch the name." Deshmukh shrugged. "But as I told them, the novel is public domain. There's no exclusivity. Multiple adaptations can exist simultaneously."
"Of course," Arjun said, though his mind was already racing ahead to how Adil would react to this news. The copyright status was clear that was the victory. But the confirmation that a rival producer was indeed moving forward with their own 'Devdas'? That would only intensify the pressure.
He thanked Deshmukh profusely, obtained written confirmation of the copyright status, and practically ran down the three flights of stairs. Outside, the late afternoon sun felt like a blessing after the fluorescent purgatory of the Copyright Office.
He found a phone booth and dialed Zenith Pictures.
"Sir," he said when Adil answered, "I have the information."
Adil listened to Arjun's report with a stillness that belied the calculations racing through his mind. The copyright status was clear, that was good. The information of a rival production, that was unexpected.
"Come back to the office," he said. "We need to accelerate everything."
When Arjun arrived forty-five minutes later, Adil had already begun making lists. The office had taken on the atmosphere of a war room: screenplays spread across every surface, production schedules pinned to a corkboard, casting possibilities scrawled on a whiteboard.
"Sir," Arjun said, settling into his usual chair, "I've confirmed everything. The copyright on 'Devdas' expired in 1989, and the novel has been in the public domain for four years. No individual, family, company, or studio holds exclusive adaptation rights anymore. We don't need anyone's permission. We are completely free to produce our own film adaptation."
Adil nodded, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. "Good. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
"But," Arjun continued, his tone careful, "the Copyright Office official confirmed that another production company made the same inquiry three weeks ago. He didn't have the name, but"
"It doesn't matter," Adil interrupted, though they both knew it mattered very much. "We're not racing them. We're making the best possible film. If we do that, their version becomes irrelevant."
Arjun nodded, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced by this logic.
"With the legal uncertainty resolved," Adil continued, "there's nothing left to delay production. I want to enter pre-production on all five films immediately. 'Awarapan, Barfi, Sanam Re, Devdas,' and '18 Again'. Separate production teams for each project. We'll need art directors, costume designers, music composers, cinematographers, assistant directors, production managers."
"Sir," Arjun interrupted gently, "that's an enormous undertaking. Five films simultaneously? The logistics alone."
"Are manageable if we're organized," Adil finished. "I know it's ambitious. But we have the capital, we have the screenplays, and we have the momentum. If we wait, if we do these one at a time, we'll lose years. And in this industry, years might as well be decades."
Arjun studied him for a long moment. "You're not just worried about the rival 'Devdas', are you? This is about establishing Zenith Pictures as a major player. Making a statement."
"This is about not wasting the opportunity we've built," Adil said quietly. "How many producers get the chance to make even one film exactly as they envision it? We have five. I won't squander that by being cautious."
"Then we'd better get started," Arjun said, opening his portfolio. "Where do we begin?"
They began with 'Devdas', because it was the most urgent and the most prestigious. Adil had already decided he would play the title role himself, because he'd written the character with his own interpretation in mind, and he trusted his vision.
But he needed a director. Although he can direct it but it will be difficult for his tough schedule that's why he need a director, Not just any director, someone with the artistic sensibility to honor the source material while bringing fresh perspective. Someone hungry enough to pour their soul into the project.
"I've been reviewing potential directors," Adil said, pulling out a folder of headshots and résumés. "Most of the established names are either too expensive or too set in their ways. I want someone young, someone with vision, someone who"
He stopped, his attention caught by a name on one of the résumés.
'Sanjay Leela Bhansali. Assistant Director. Currently working under Vidhu Vinod Chopra.' Adil recognized him, the original director of Devdas movie. He made his decision.
"This one," Adil said, tapping the page. "Tell me about him."
Arjun leaned over to look. "Sanjay leela Bhansali? He's been assisting Chopra for a few years now, apparently waiting for his break. According to the industry insiders he is very creative"
"Set up a meeting," Adil said. "As soon as possible."
"Sir, if he's working under Chopra, there might be complications. Chopra won't be happy about us approaching his assistant director."
"Then we'll deal with those complications when they arise," Adil said. "But I want to meet this Bhansali. Something about his background feels right for 'Devdas'."
Arjun contacted Bhansali over phone. Bhansali was surprised that this rising new star contacted him, An assistant director. But he decided to go and meet Adil.
Sanjay Leela Bhansali arrived at Zenith Pictures two days later, and Adil knew within the first five minutes that he'd found his director.
It wasn't just Bhansali's obvious intelligence or his articulate passion for cinema, though both were evident. It was the hunger in his eyes, the way he leaned forward when discussing visual composition, the barely suppressed energy that suggested a creative vision straining against the constraints of his current position.
They met in Adil's office, late afternoon light slanting through the windows. Bhansali was younger than Adil had expected, early thirties, perhaps, with intense eyes and an air of coiled intensity.
"Thank you for meeting with me," Adil began. "I've heard impressive things about your work with Vidhu Vinod Chopra."
"Thank you, sir," Bhansali said, his voice carrying a slight tremor of nervousness. "Though I should clarify, I'm an assistant director. I haven't directed anything of my own yet."
"Yet," Adil repeated, smiling. "That's the operative word, isn't it? Tell me, Sanjay, may I call you Sanjay?"
"Of course."
"Tell me about your vision for cinema. Not what you think I want to hear. What you actually believe."
Bhansali blinked, clearly not expecting such a direct question. Then something shifted in his expression, a decision made, and he began to speak with the fervor of someone who'd been waiting years for someone to ask.
"I believe cinema should be operatic," he said. "Not in the sense of being overwrought, but in the sense of being unafraid of emotion, of beauty, of spectacle. Indian cinema has this incredible tradition of melodrama, of heightened reality, but we've become almost apologetic about it. We try to make everything gritty and realistic, as if beauty and truth are somehow incompatible."
Adil nodded.
"Actually," Adil said, pulling the screenplay from his desk drawer, "I did. Or I'm about to."
He slid the screenplay across the desk. Bhansali stared at it as if it might be a mirage.
"I'm producing an adaptation of *Devdas*," Adil continued. "I've written the screenplay myself, but I need a director who understands the material's emotional core while bringing their own artistic vision. Someone who can make it operatic, to use your word, without losing the human truth at its center."
Bhansali's hand trembled slightly as he touched the screenplay. "You're offering me the director's position?"
"I'm offering you your directorial debut," Adil corrected. "Under Zenith Pictures, with full creative support and a budget that will allow you to realize your vision. I'll be playing Devdas myself, and we've already secured Madhuri Dixit and Aishwarya."
"Madhuri and the newcomer Aishwarya," Bhansali breathed. "That's... that's extraordinary casting."
"So is this an extraordinary opportunity," Adil said. "But I need to be honest with you about the complications. You're currently working under Vidhu Vinod Chopra. If you accept this position, you'll need to leave his production. That might create professional friction, possibly burn bridges. I won't pretend otherwise."
Bhansali was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant. Adil could almost see the calculations happening behind his eyes: loyalty versus opportunity, gratitude versus ambition, the safe path versus the leap into the unknown.
"How long have you been waiting for this chance?" Adil asked quietly.
"Seven years," Bhansali said. "I've been assisting for seven years, learning, watching, waiting for someone to trust me with a film of my own."
"Then stop waiting."
Bhansali looked up, meeting Adil's eyes. "When would production begin?"
"Pre-production starts immediately. Movie shooting will also start, we have a shooting schedule for three months."
"Three months," Bhansali repeated. It's will be tough, Sanay thought. But he did hesitated. With a smile he said. "Yes. Yes, I accept. Thank you, sir. Thank you for this opportunity. I promise you won't regret it."
They shook hands,They shook hands, and Adil felt the electric thrill of a decision that would reshape both their futures.
"Welcome to Zenith Pictures," he said. "Now, let's make something extraordinary."
After Bhansali left, practically floating with excitement, Adil sat alone in his office, feeling the weight of what he'd just set in motion. Bhansali's talent was undeniable, but so was the professional fallout that would follow. Vidhu Vinod Chopra was a respected director with significant industry influence. Poaching his assistant director would be seen as aggressive, possibly even disrespectful.
But Adil hadn't built Zenith Pictures by playing it safe.
The phone rang. Arjun's voice came through, tight with tension. "Sir, we have a situation."
The situation, as Arjun explained it, was Vidhu Vinod Chopra.
News of Bhansali's recruitment had spread through the industry with the speed of wildfire. By the next morning, Chopra had called Zenith Pictures three times, each message progressively angrier. The third message had been explicit: he wanted to speak with Adil personally, and he wanted it to happen today.
Adil agreed to meet him at a neutral location, a restaurant in Bandra where industry people often conducted business over lunch. He arrived early, ordered chai, and waited.
Chopra arrived fifteen minutes late, his expression thunderous. He was a stocky man in his early forties, with the bearing of someone accustomed to being the most important person in any room. He sat down across from Adil without preamble.
"You have some nerve," he said.
"Good afternoon to you too," Adil replied calmly.
"Don't play games with me. You poached my assistant director. Sanjay has been with me for years. I trained him, mentored him, and you just swoop in and steal him away?"
"I offered him a directorial position," Adil corrected. "Something you apparently weren't planning to offer him anytime soon."
Chopra's jaw tightened. "He wasn't ready."
"Or you weren't ready to let him go." Adil kept his voice level, non-confrontational. "Look, I understand you're angry. But Sanjay is a grown man capable of making his own decisions. I didn't coerce him. I offered him an opportunity, and he accepted."
"An opportunity you knew he couldn't refuse," Chopra shot back. "You dangled a project with major stars. What was he supposed to do, say no?"
"Yes, if he felt loyalty to you outweighed his own ambitions."
"That's not how loyalty works in this industry, and you know it." Chopra leaned forward, his voice dropping to something more dangerous. "You're new to this business, Adil. You've had some success, and now you think you can play with the big boys. But you're making enemies. People talk. And when you need favors and you will need favors, you'll find doors closed that you didn't even know existed."
Adil met his gaze steadily. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a reality check." Chopra stood, throwing money on the table for chai he hadn't ordered. "I hope it's worth what it's going to cost you."
He left, and Adil sat alone with his cooling chai, feeling the first real tremor of doubt since returning from France.
Was he moving too fast? Making too many enemies? Risking too much?
Then he thought of Bhansali's face when he'd accepted the position, the pure, undiluted joy of an artist finally given the chance to create and the doubt receded.
This was the cost of ambition. He'd known that from the beginning.