I. returned to the Salvation Army that night. The clerk told me that there was a job the next day. "Eleven A.M. Fera Bollywood movie," he said. On the Causeway I bought a little statuette of Ganesh, the elephant-headed god known for removing obstacles and bestowing success on new endeavors. I set him on
. the table of my hotel room and placed a two-rupee coin at his feet.
But when I showed up at 10:15 the next morning, the Salvation Army clerk told me I was too late. Three extras had already been chosen. I offered him money-this was, after all, India, where bribery is so common that courts have debated whether to make the payments a tax-deductible business expense. He smiled sadly, shut his eyes in refusal. The agent showed up. He was a kid in his twenties called Vikaz. He needed only three people, he said. "For
Bollywood film," Vikaz added, as if the blaze and glory of this association might console me. He stared, astonished, as I pleaded with him: I'm sure they can use a fourth extra, I'll work for free, just let me tag along! Finally he made a call. I could come and watch, he said.
The three who had been selected by Vikaz were all about his age: an Italian couple, [oseph and Maria, and Simon, a teacher from London who was of Persian descent and looked it. We hopped the cattle car north, to Goregaon, and rickshawed the rest of the way, along a traffic-strangled road in the shadow of the hills. A loft on the third floor of a rot-block building contained three sets: a wedding banquet, a living room, a Western Union office. Thirty people tinkered, lounged, watched monitors'. A plump woman sized us up, talked fast Hindi to Vikaz, The woman pointed to Maria and [oseph. She pointed lit me.
My pulse quickened. Vikaz dropped a hand on Simon's shoulder. "She says you look Indian. I'm sorry." I offered Simon my condolences, but I was exultant. I was in.
We were led to the top floor. Corrugated tin shielded us from the sun. Wardrobe consisted of a set of trunks, on two of which men snoozed. A photo of a white-bandannaed saint named Sai Baba gazed down on a wardrobewallah ironing suits. Sai Baba was the most popular saint in Bombay, partly because he had lived in the surrounding province of Maharashtra, and partly because his rite combined Muslim and Hindu practices'. With elections only a few days away-with the local nationalist party, Shiv Sena, campaigning on what amounted to a "Hindustan for Hindustanis" platform=-Sai Baba's popularity seemed a good omen, a reminder of India's assimilative genius .
The wardrobe-wallah fit Maria, J oseph, and me into cheap Western office-wear. Spot boys served us big metal dishes of chickpeas and chicken in savory sauces. Then Vikaz led us downstairs to a dressing room with chipboard walls. Gary Richardson had told me, should I score a part, to be sure to get a script before going on-set. Directors worked from notes, he said; they made it up as they went along. "You'll be. pulled into a scene with five minutes' notice and told to speak lines
written on a napkin in Hindi, and it's very hard for an American to speak Hindi. And make sure you get a song." It was the songs, Gary assured me, that audiences remembered. But I was so excited to be chosen that I didn't ask about lines or musical numbers. I recalled Strasberg tip , I muttered monologues from Macbeth.
After an hour Vikaz returned us to the set. The plump woman explained our parts. Maria would play a Western Union cashier; [oseph would stroll behind her, busy with files; I would stand at the counter completing a transaction while the Indian star of this scene, a chubby, pleasant-faced actor named Dinesh T ohol, waited in the queue behind me. During run-throughs I thanked Maria, turned and strolled away; I added a line or two to amuse her, scrawled a note that read, "This is a hold-up." I decided to use the note as a prop. I would be a tourist in Bombay whose wallet had been stolen, picking up cash wired from home; I'd feel both residual anxiety and relief at having funds again. The set went quiet. "Camera," someone called. "One, two, three, and-action."
On the first take, I spoke my lines and turned away-to find my exit blocked by lighting equipment. I stood there, confused. "Do it again," the voice called from behind the lights. The second time I walked under a black scrim and the director yelled impatiently, "He is bending down, why is he bending down." They told me to brush aside the scrim with my head. I worked on relaxing, smiling at Maria, adding words before my "thank you." Two more takes. I projected from the diaphragm, stashed the note with relief, lost my smile turning. I felt better and better about all of this. Okay, it was a nothing part, but I was doing it fine; I felt natural, convincing .. I was acting, dammit, in a Bollywood movie.
Between takes I chatted with the star, pro to pro. As Tohol and I talked, he passed between his hands a stack of British fifty-pence pieces. Why not use pound notes for a Westem Union office? I asked. He hefted the stack in one palm. "This will become an animated character," he said. "It jumps on my shoulder and then flies away. It will show how quickly Western Union sends money." I nodded. My face went
numb. An ad, I thought. lt wasn't a movie; it was a fucking advertisement. And for an American firm. I might as well be doing this in Burbank. I tracked down Vikaz.
"lr's an ad, isn't it?"
"It's an advertisement," he agreed. "For television." "But you said it was a film!" I yelled. Continued >>> |
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