October 1992 – The Fields of Jalandhar, Punjab
The Punjab schedule was meant to be the heart of the film—the visual representation of "home" that would make every Indian living abroad weep with nostalgia. Ashutosh had spent nearly 2 Crore Rupees of his budget just on the logistics for this leg of the shoot. He had rented nearly five hundred acres of prime mustard fields at their peak bloom, ensuring the "Golden Yellow" would be the dominant color of the screen.
As the sun began to rise over the horizon, casting a soft, amber glow over the landscape, the crew was already buzzing. Ashutosh stood on a custom-built camera crane, his body a silhouette against the dawn. With his Stage 4 Physique, he had been awake for twenty-two hours, overseeing the placement of the tracks for the iconic "train-side" shots. His mental processing was so sharp he could hear the slight misalignment of a wheel on the track from thirty feet away.
"Binod-da, the focus pull is lagging by half a second," Ashutosh called out, his voice echoing across the silent fields. "Adjust the tension. I won't have a soft frame on Shah Rukh's close-up."
Just as the first shot was being prepped, the morning peace was shattered. A line of trucks roared down the narrow dirt path, kicking up clouds of dust that settled on the expensive German lenses. Thirty men climbed down, led by a man named Bakshi, a notorious labor "fixer" known for shaking down film crews.
"Work stops!" Bakshi roared, slamming a heavy wooden lathi against a studio truck. "The Cine-Workers Union hasn't cleared this location! You want to shoot? You pay the 'Punjab Surcharge'—five lakhs, cash, right now."
The crew went pale. Shah Rukh and Kajol, who were in the makeup van, stepped out, sensing the tension. Ashutosh's DOP, Binod, whispered urgently, "Ashu, this is Girdharilal's work. Bakshi is his man in the North. If we pay, we lose the budget. If we don't, they'll break the cameras."
Ashutosh jumped down from the crane, the impact of his landing heavy and deliberate. He walked toward Bakshi, his presence so imposing that the men behind the fixer instinctively took a step back.
"Five lakhs?" Ashutosh asked, his voice deceptively calm. "That's a lot of money for a morning stroll, Bakshi-ji."
"It's the price of doing business here, kid," Bakshi sneered. Behind him, the crew members—the gaffers, the light-men, and the loaders—started putting down their tools. They had been "reached" by Bakshi's men the night before. They were striking in solidarity.
"I see," Ashutosh said, glancing at his striking crew. "You think because I'm eighteen and from Varanasi, I don't know how this works? You think I'm trapped because I have a schedule to keep?"
"You are trapped," Bakshi laughed. "No crew, no movie. And nobody else in Punjab will work for you once I say the word."
Ashutosh smiled, a cold, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Ananya! Bring the ledger and the camera."
Ananya stepped forward, already recording the scene on a portable video unit. Ashutosh looked at his striking crew—nearly forty men who had worked for him for months. "Last chance. Pick up your tools and get back to work, or you are terminated. Not just from this film, but from the industry. I am blacklisting every name on this payroll from Trilogy Studios, and I have the legal team to ensure no major production house in Bombay touches you again."
The men wavered, but Bakshi barked a command, and they stood firm, thinking Ashutosh was bluffing.
"Very well," Ashutosh said. He turned to Abhishek, who was waiting by the vanity van. "Bhaiya, call the contact from the Punjabi Local Cinema Association. Tell them I need fifty technicians, gaffers, and loaders immediately. Tell them I'll pay double the standard rate, and I'll give them a 'Trilogy Certification' that guarantees them work on our next three projects."
Bakshi's face turned purple. "You think you can just replace an entire crew in a day?"
"I already have," Ashutosh replied. "I knew you were coming, Bakshi. Girdharilal is as predictable as a bad script. The local Punjabi film workers have been waiting at the nearby guesthouse since 3 AM. They know the equipment because I sent Ansh-bhaiya to train them last week."
As if on cue, three buses pulled up. Fifty eager, local Punjabi workers poured out, led by a veteran technician who had been sidelined by the Bombay unions for years. They moved with a hunger that Bakshi's men lacked.
"Now," Ashutosh said, turning back to his old crew. "Abhishek-bhaiya will hand you your final settlements. You are barred from this set. If you stay, it's trespassing. And Bakshi? Tell Girdharilal that he just saved me three lakhs in union fees. I'll send him a box of Pathak Masala as a thank you."
The old crew was escorted off the field, looking devastated as they realized their careers were effectively over. Bakshi tried to lunged forward, but Ashutosh's Stage 4 Physique reacted instantly. He caught Bakshi's wrist in a grip of iron, squeezing until the man dropped his lathi.
"Go," Ashutosh whispered, his voice vibrating with a terrifying intensity. "Before I decide to make this a 'legal' matter of assault."
The goons retreated, humiliated. Within thirty minutes, the new local crew was in place. They worked with a passion that was infectious. Savitri and Nani Gayatri emerged with huge pots of Sarson da Saag and Makki di Roti for the new workers.
"Welcome to the family!" Savitri shouted, handing a plate to the new lead gaffer. "Eat well! We have a long day of 'Romance' ahead!"
Shah Rukh walked over to Ashutosh, looking at the bustling field with awe. "You replaced an entire crew in the middle of a strike, Ashu. You didn't just save the shoot; you destroyed their leverage."
"The industry needs to learn, Shah Rukh-bhaiya," Ashutosh said, climbing back onto his crane. "Trinity doesn't negotiate with saboteurs. We replace them."
He looked through the lens. The mustard fields were perfectly lit. The local workers were cheering as Kajol took her position. The energy was electric.
"Music!" Ashutosh roared.
The 10-crore mandolin track filled the Punjab air. Shah Rukh ran through the yellow blossoms, and for the first time, everything felt right. The Diwali 1993 deadline was tight, but the Iron Will of the Pathaks was tighter.