I breezed through my Bachelor of Arts programme at McGill University begging the question what was next? In the midst of my political science studies, I noted hordes of political science students slavishly busting their butts day and night in search of high grades to enable entrance into the hugely competitive law school admissions stream. Marks determined the true mettle of a lawyer but the smart ones had mommy and daddy pay big bucks to some dubious charity that built homes for starving Central Americans as that selfless act of “gratuitous labour” was a stellar addition to the resume. Law was the Holy Grail to wealth and respect. Poor buggers I used to think. Academia came to me naturally but many of my fellow students struggled with their courses and even the inability to write a term paper.
As a rich bastard I could have lived a life of luxury anywhere in the world but I had visions of my father Paneer who pulled himself up from poverty to establish a huge commercial enterprise albeit it was founded on dealing hashish to Indian monks and tourists. Ambition can be your best friend or worst enemy.
I applied to McGill Law School and was accepted with my high marks and Indian ancestry that led to an advantage those law school administrators could exploit internationally. I rejected my acceptance to their dismay and delight of those ragged band of political science students who dreamt of what I rejected.
My choice was to work for a year in Montreal and write a novel. So I accepted a position as a casting assistant for the Melanie Blue Talent Agency in Montreal to place, as I was told, leading talent in the emerging Canadian movie industry.
Melanie was a throaty chain-smoking lesbian and a real dandy, Jimbo her “fronting husband” ran the agency which was a two-bit supplier of underwear models for discount chains Zellers and Woolworths. Their lead talent an anorexic Russian who had the talent and body but was “overburdened” by cocaine. It was a fruitless job for me. One day in my best Parisian French I dealt with a client and that French I used was mocked by Connie. I said, my piece and walked out the door.
I focused on writing my novel, “Pirates of the Aegean” around the clock for 6 months pounding on a 1935 typewriter. It was filched from me and picked up by Hollywood and manufactured into a series of billion-dollar films on a pirate. The criminal pirate was the thief who stole my novel. He never was seen after his vacation to Bombay. My friends saw to that.
What was next?
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