It happened one afternoon. A peppy publisher, with a penchant for Bollywood tomes, flew me down (up actually) to New Delhi, economy ticket with an upgrade coupon. Aaah but those coupons are always scoffed at by the pretty girl at the check-in counter.

Being something of an airplane seat snob, I nearly reverse-geared homewards, then a garbled voice from the public address system announced, “Buzz crackle buzz… last announcement for Flight so-and-so…buzz, crackle, buzzzz.” No time to procrastinate.
So there I was squatting between two yoga instructors, their knee joints plonked on mine. Snacks had to be paid for, pricier than multiplex gelatos.
Publisher had me taxi-lifted from Delhi’s Indira Gandhi airport. In his vast Gurgaon office he announced, “This book has to be done by you. No one else can do it. What’ll you have — tea, coffee or thanda, ha ha!” I didn’t specify any of these, but since he was obviously eager to please, a goblet of premium jasmine tea arrived on a tray served by a robotic Ra.One resembling valet.
To cut a short story, shorter, Peppy, with a terrific twinkle in his eyes, declared, “We would love you to do an analysis of the Khan.” Inexplicably, the faces of Fardeen Khan, Arbaaz Khan and Saif Ali Khan flashed across my mind’s monitor. Would this analysis sell? He intervened, “Please don’t look so upset. It’s a besteller, 200 per cent, we’ve already collected super pix of Shah Rukh.”
The publisher struck a daredevil, eye looking hellwards, just like the SRK pose from Ra.One. This Ra.One was making me compulsively disordered. Out out, think Lagaan pause, think Bodyuard-body language.
Er, I asked, “But what makes you think I’m qualified to do the same?” There I’d done it, I hate it when anyone says ‘the same’. I could have easily said ‘to do it.”
Publisher reasoned, “Because you’ve seen all their films, you’ve kept track.” Oho, so have millions. Never mind, I rather liked the enthusiasm of the peppy one. And started on my anecdotes on the koolest Khan, which I was sure would clinch the deal. If it didn’t, okay, no issues. “Tell tell,” the publisher twinkled like a starry night.
“Well, SRK I thought was so brilliant in the TV serial Circus that he would be a superstar. That mop of silken hair, the eyes, acting prowess, all brilliant. Super energetic, outgoing, wants everyone to love him. But pssst I saw him the way he actually is in a New York night club. It was called Machine Head, Machinist, Mechanic, or something. Dark, dark, dark, a hundred bodies wriggling to techno-rock. Shah seemed as if something was bugging him, he didn’t speak, though all the rest of us — Arjun, Karan and the ladies — were dancing madly.”
“You dance?” balked Peppy. “Occasionally, occasionally,” I apologised. “Anyway, what I am trying to tell you is that he does have his bouts of introspection… feeling low... and even flashes Deewar-style anger. At a concert show at a Wembley stadium outside London…”
“My goodness, you have travelled with SRK all over the world! This is going to be one helluva bestseller. Much better than that coffee table thing you did with Mr Amitabh Bachchan.”
“Please,” I nodded non-commitally. “Okay so SRK was very upset that the big burly security guards at Wembley were being patronising with the desi audience. He wanted to take on those guards single-handedly, but we all pulled him back. He calmed down, then said, ‘I was just kidding, keeping you guys entertained’.”
“Wow! This rocks.” “But so many books are already out on him. Mine will be very boring, academic, and serious.”
“Never mind, never mind, never mind,” Peppy wrapped up. “Done deal, start writing rightaway. The cheque will be couriered to you before you reach home.”
I got the cheque but whenever I start writing, strangely, my words are all about Fardeen Khan.