Balle Balle with Bill Singh

In Punjab, low-budget music videos are churned out by the minute. There are no special effects, slick sets, no Shiamak Davar or Saroj Khan to make you sashay, no Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy kind of music, and no astonishing camera angles. There is, instead, Bhagwant Singh, the director who’s lost behind a black curtain with his neck craned towards a monitor settled on a very doubtful cardboard box, burly producers overseeing the shoot, dancers who compose and boogie on the spot, garish costumes that set the screen on fire, our chief photographer and his family as my personal pep up, an audience, and a dance master who refuses to call himself a choreographer. “It’s plain bhangra—everyone knows how to do it,” Ravi, the ‘dancer master’, said.

But on the brighter side, the entire crew is grounded. There are no false pretences, no tantrums, no airs. And the first thing you get on the sets is “garam garam cha and pakoras”. We had to skip that one because Ravi had begun to show some basic moves to his lead pair. By the time we got to him, he had vanished leaving the rest of us to pick up our moves. Moves? What moves?

“In five minutes, we begin our rehearsals. There is a take, edit and cut. The synchronisation has been done. Now it’s story time in a wide shot. This is where you step in with the dancers and dance,” Ravi barked his orders, gave me my position amidst a skinny lot of girls and boys dressed in kadhi-chawal yellow kurtas and white pyjamas. I am glad I don’t fit into those kadhi-chawal outfits—sometimes being a size too large can have its advantages.

“Madam, tusi ithe aao,” Ravi directed me to stand right behind the lead pair. Hang on, will that camera perched precariously on the rickety tripod zoom in here? Where are the lights and the clap board? Who will take the light check? Soon I gave up asking myself silly, panicky questions. “This is a Punjabi music video and a low-budget one at that. You see the sun, that’s the light,” buzzed a voice of wisdom in my head.

Propped in front of the camera, my query was a valid one, “What are my steps?” “Just watch her and you’ll know,” Ravi said, leaving me with Manjit and Vandana, my ‘co-stars’. “Follow me. It’s one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight….” And Manjit stretched out her arms, bent her right foot and did a typical Punjabi thumka. Before I could grasp that, she was on to her second move—her hands fanned out like a snake as she swayed . The song was titled Sapp (snake) and the move made sense.

I followed Manjit’s steps and soon, the huge bunch of onlookers wrapped in their shawls and monkey caps no longer seemed intimidating. I was actually shedding the ‘oh-my-gawd-everyone’s-looking-at-me’ fixation and getting used to the thumkas.

It was now time to begin. “Oye Bholu, audio. Happy, move to your right. Vicky, go behind…Manjit, match the steps, Madam, please don’t forget to write about Loveleen Music Company…” voices flew around. Bholu switched on the audio—a desi truck driver song, the kind that boxes your eardrums—spot boys scurried all over the place and Ravi clapped his hands. That was the hint. Bill Singh and Miss Pooja, the heroine, joined in. For the next few seconds, it was a state of total anarchy. I did my snake movements and the bhangra. I didn’t know if I was doing it right but I was beginning to enjoy every bit of it—right from posing in front of the camera, doing the gig and stopping over for some pind da gur with our photographer and his family.