I borrowed money to pay them. I could look into the eyes of every person I owe money.
In the aftermath of a costly and commercially disappointing film, producer Boney Kapoor chose to honor every financial obligation he had made — borrowing money if necessary to pay vendors who had waited years. The story of Maidaan, a sports drama undone by pandemic delays and ballooning costs, became less about box office failure and more about what a person does when the ledger turns against them. In an industry where trust is quietly traded alongside money, Kapoor's decision to never change his phone number — to always remain reachable — stands as a quiet philosophy about how reputation is built not in triumph, but in difficulty.
- A budget that began at Rs. 120 crore nearly doubled to Rs. 210 crore as Covid lockdowns, a cyclone, foreign actor logistics, and Bangkok location shoots compounded over four and a half years.
- When Maidaan finally released in 2024, critical appreciation could not translate into commercial returns, leaving Kapoor holding losses on one of Bollywood's most expensive productions.
- Rather than renegotiate or disappear, Kapoor borrowed money to pay every vendor in full — some of whom had been waiting four years for the remaining balance on their fees.
- Vendors, moved by his integrity, voluntarily reduced their claims by 10–15%, citing other producers whose hit films had still left them unpaid years later.
- The episode has reframed the conversation around Maidaan — not as a cautionary tale of box office failure, but as a case study in how long-term industry trust is earned and protected.
Boney Kapoor's Maidaan was supposed to be a straightforward sports drama. When production began in early 2020 with a Rs. 120 crore budget, seventy percent of the shoot was already complete. Then Covid arrived. Two hundred fifty foreign actors who had flown to Mumbai to play opposing teams went home. Sets were washed out by a cyclone. The delays stretched across four and a half years, and every month added new costs — individual meal packets from Taj Flight Kitchens, four on-standby ambulances, a contracted water brand to reassure foreign cast members, and eventually an entire unit flown to Bangkok to film stadium crowd sequences at university grounds when Mumbai couldn't supply enough junior artists.
By the time the film wrapped, the budget had nearly doubled to Rs. 210 crore. When Maidaan released in 2024 to critical warmth but commercial indifference, Kapoor faced a choice. Some vendors had been waiting four years for the remainder of their fees. He borrowed money and paid them — all of them — without asking for reductions or renegotiations.
The response from vendors was telling. Some voluntarily offered to reduce what they were owed by 10 to 15 percent, and they explained why: other producers whose films had been hits were still making them wait. A few brought their fathers — men who had worked with Kapoor a generation earlier — to witness the settlement and offer blessings.
Kapoor described none of this as generosity. It was, he said, simply how he had always operated: calling people before a deadline to warn them of a delay, never changing his phone number, always remaining reachable. In an industry where memory is long and trust is quietly traded, that consistency — maintained even in failure — had kept him relevant. 'I could look into the eyes of every person I owe money,' he said, 'because I know I'll pay him back.'
Boney Kapoor sat down to talk about Maidaan, the film that nearly broke him. The sports drama, starring Ajay Devgn, had been in production limbo for four and a half years. It finally released in 2024 to critical praise but commercial indifference. What Kapoor wanted people to understand, though, wasn't the box office failure. It was what happened after.
When production began in early 2020, the budget was set at 120 crores. Seventy percent of the shoot was complete by January. The remaining sequences—the match scenes that would anchor the film—were scheduled to start in March. Two hundred fifty foreign actors had already arrived in Mumbai to play the opposing teams. Then the world stopped. Covid locked everything down, and those actors went home. Kapoor kept the unit in place as long as he could, waiting for each country's final flights to depart before releasing his crew. It happened repeatedly. A cyclone washed out his set. The delays compounded. What should have been a straightforward production stretched into years.
The financial toll was staggering. By the time Maidaan wrapped, the budget had nearly doubled to 210 crores. The additional costs came from everywhere. During the match sequences, Kapoor employed a crew of 600 to 800 people. Covid protocols meant no communal meals—he ordered food from Taj Flight Kitchens and had it distributed in individual packets. Four ambulances stood by. He contracted with a specific water brand to supply drinking water to the foreign actors, assuring them it was safe. When he needed to film crowd scenes showing 40,000 spectators, he couldn't find enough junior artists in Mumbai, so he flew the entire unit to Bangkok for those sequences, shooting the stadium exteriors at various universities there. Each decision added zeros to the bill.
When the film underperformed at the box office, Kapoor faced a choice that many producers in his position would have made differently. He decided to pay every vendor in full. Some had been waiting four years for the remainder of their fees. One vendor, for instance, had charged 100 rupees for his services. Kapoor had paid him 60 during production. The remaining 40 sat unpaid for four years. When the film flopped, Kapoor borrowed money to settle the debt. He didn't negotiate. He didn't ask for haircuts. He paid.
Some vendors, moved by his commitment, voluntarily reduced what they were owed by 10 to 15 percent. They would tell him about other producers whose films had been hits but whose vendors were still waiting for payment years later. "Your film flopped," they said, "but you're still paying. That's enough for us." A few brought their fathers to meet him—men who had worked with Kapoor decades earlier and wanted to witness their sons' dealings with him. They brought sweets and blessings.
Kapoor framed this not as nobility but as pragmatism. He had built a career on a simple principle: if he promised to pay someone in a month, he would call them before the deadline to say it might be two weeks late. He never changed his phone number. People could always reach him. This, he believed, was why vendors still worked with him, why they trusted him even when circumstances turned against him. "I could look into the eyes of every person I owe money," he said, "because I know I'll pay him back." That reputation, he suggested, had kept him relevant in an industry where trust is currency and memory is long.
Citações Notáveis
If the film didn't work, how are the vendors to blame? They patiently waited. I borrowed money to pay them.— Boney Kapoor
I could look into the eyes of every person I owe money because I know I'll pay him back. I believe this goodwill has kept me relevant even today.— Boney Kapoor
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
When you borrowed money to pay vendors after the film failed, did you ever consider that you might not be able to pay back those loans?
I think the point is I had to. The vendors didn't make the film fail. They waited patiently. Some of them had been waiting four years for money I owed them. How could I tell them no?
But 210 crores is a massive loss. That's not just a business decision—that's a personal one.
It is personal. These are people I've worked with for years, sometimes decades. One vendor brought his father to meet me. His father had worked with me in the past. You don't forget that.
Some vendors voluntarily took cuts. Did that surprise you?
Yes. They would tell me about other producers whose films were hits but whose vendors were still waiting. They said, "Your film flopped, but you're paying. That's enough." That kind of solidarity—I didn't expect it, but I understood it.
You mentioned never changing your phone number. That seems deliberate.
It is. If someone needs to reach you, they should be able to. That's how you maintain trust. I could have disappeared into the system, changed numbers, made myself unreachable. But then what kind of person am I?
Do you think other producers would have made the same choice?
I don't know. But I know what I could live with. And I know that this goodwill—this reputation—it's kept me working when others might have been shut out.