In the millennium year of 2000 I went on a trip to India on my own. That was still before I made real friends in India and decided to settle in Bangalore for a significant time of my life. Travelling on my own was a proof to myself rather than real joy as I like to be with friends. It rather was that “how experienced a new age traveller am I” kind of situation. Well, I was 12 years younger than now.
I was on a train from Delhi to Mumbai, reportedly the most notorious train in India, frequently used by gundas, muggers, petty criminals and Uttar Pradesh mafia on their way to Mumbai. I have to say that I still saw life in all the beautiful colours of the rainbow, unreasonably ignorant about warnings, and this time I paid the price, well… fortunately, given the priceless experience that followed.
What happened was that during my 26 hour train journey across the subcontinent, I was joined by all those nice, friendly, curious businessmen. I answered all their curious questions, which always seemed to boil down to the same ones. “Which country?”, “What is your good-name?”, “Are you married?”, in hindsight some of the most boring conversations one can have. However, all that is part of the traveller’s experience. I accepted their kind food offerings, ate the oranges of the orange farmer, while he was trying to make me believe his daughter was a suitable match for me. No danger, no, they are all random strangers but very nice people, of course! The last leg of the journey was overnight to Mumbai. So, after my bed-time sweet, a “Britannia Elaichi Biscuit” (a double biscuit with a cardamom cream filling) which was generously offered by a very nice man in a filthy checkered shirt, a fierce moustache and otherwise of unshaven appearance, I went into a deep, deep sleep…
I was woken up by the conductor and Mumbai Police, as I was the last passenger left on the train that was peacefully resting in VT station.
“Sir, we think you have been mugged.”
“What?”
“Check your wallet!”
All I was left with were my plane tickets and my passport, fair gangsters as they gave me a chance to leave the country hassle-free. However, all my traveller cheques (back in the day the ultimate solution for cash free travel) - gone! My discman (a vintage Sony device to play CDs on) - gone! My 100 rupee counterfeit Canon camera - gone! All my books - gone! And myself - well, completely messed up trying to figure out the world around me while I was coming off an overdose of valium.
The police were friendly enough. They arranged me a taxi to the Salvation Army’s dormitory in Colaba. When I arrived I sold my shoes to a street boy to pay my taxi fare, and went to reception. After cancelling my travellers cheques I went to the dorm to sleep for another few hours.
I was the only one in the room, as the security guard woke me up.
“Saar! Good morning saar! Are you Mr Martin?”
“Right? What’s up?”
“Do you want to be part of a Bollywood fillim production?”
“Well, if you pay me, I do anything you ask me to.”
“Yes, full payment, free food and drinks. Thank you saar, tomorrow morning 9 sharp the car is coming to pick you up, shooting will start at 10 sharp on Marine Drive.”
Next morning we were picked up, there was another German and a Swedish guy who was an actor at Stockholm City Theatre but wanted to keep quiet about that. We arrived on the set in the Copa Cabana Bar. After a brief introduction to the director I was criticised regarding my footwear, as all I had left were my rubber chapals.
“You can’t work in these chapals, yaar! Go upstairs, there’s a shoe rack, and get yourself some decent shoes, man!”
I walked up to the mezzanine which was crowded with a good dozen of extras, beautiful dancers, sexed up to the max. Those production guys were well prepared for a scruffy gora like me, even having shoes on the set. Only thing, all those shoes were by far too large! My feet are size 10 and in India I am used to struggling finding shoes any larger than size 9. Surprisingly, all of these were 12!
I felt a bit comical in my massive clown shoes between all those well dressed professionals. However, the shooting commenced.
The first scene was chatting up an Italian girl in a bar scene. There was a Mexican theme to it, so I was made to wear a ridiculous sombrero. That was easy, chatting up a little then starting to dance raising our hands when we had to. It was fun.
The next one was a bar scene again. Me and the other two white guys had to sit on the bar and drink. Right, there is no alcohol free lager on Bollywood film sets. This was the real deal.
“Raj, give three draft beers, yaar! And you guys are drinking bottoms up to the beat of the music! Accha? Action!!!”
Well, action…
“Cut!!! This was shit guys! You must focus on the fucking music and take three large sips to bottoms up, and all that to the beat of the music, easy enough, hai naa? What kind of Germans are you? Do I have to tell you how to drink beer? Action!!!”
Take 2...
“Cut!!! I’m sure you can do better than that! Focus guys. Chalo! Action!!!
Take 3, 4...
“Cut!!! Very good, fellows! Can we do this again, and after bottoms up you slam your glass on the bar and raise your hands and shout, ‘Yeah!’ OK? Cheers guys! Action!!!”
Take 5… I was close to falling off my stool.
After getting forcibly hammered in the morning we were treated to a well deserved lunch of chapati, rice, dhal, sambhar, and vegetables. The director had a chat with us regarding the rest of the shoot.
“You two guys can go, the production manager will pay you but Martin, I need you for the rest of the day!”
Did I hear right? I had just proven the better actor than a Swedish professional? I was drunken and there was another scene to be shot with a skimpily dressed Polish girl which apart from holding a beer (luckily, this time I didn’t have to gulp it down) involved fiddling around with a remote control and jumping up and down as the dancers joined. It was bizarre!
I could have done the whole day for a 1000 rupees but I was completely smashed, and I had a flight to catch in the evening. However, I had earned 500, enough to afford a cab to the airport and pay the salvation army’s hostel.
It was a shame that was my last day in India, I couldn’t find out about the actual title of the production I worked for, as this was before my time as a long term resident when things were much easier to understand. I don’t think it was a great success either, as none of my Indian friends have seen me in that clip. That time India was still a complete mystery but I went home with such a vivid and outstanding experience.
If anyone of you will ever see me on youtube performing drunkenly in a Bollywood clip wearing enormous shoes, let me know.
Monday 30 April 2012
Saturday 21 April 2012
Death of Capitalism
They come in the night to scrape off old posters and make room for new ones. For a few hours advertising is dead, a brief moment of peace in the tube station.
This post will be expanded.
This post will be expanded.
Tuesday 17 April 2012
Accidental Art
This is a series of blurred images taken over the last 6 years. Most of them happened by pure accident, others were done on purpose. In all cases, the movement adds an interesting texture.
The Sky
Whatever happens down
here is absolutely meaningless out there.
Once I walked along the main road near my house, being alone with my thoughts of all those little things in life, issues to sort out, agendas, memories.
I saw cars, houses, the corner shop, the school, basically the same I would see everyday. I saw people of various origin and creed, mothers with children, labourers, and the noisy adolescent brats going home from school. I heard different languages, some polite, some foul, some angry. It was nothing great, nothing special, but still an all different setting than the one it would be if I was in Kabul, for example. Additionally, the mindset and thoughts of people here, in this street, would be another one thousand miles away.
It honestly upset me to see all those members of society who can not live together. They rather exist next to, or even against each other.
I had to look away not to be disturbed and the most comfortable choice was looking up, rather than looking down which only makes sense if it rains, which it didn’t, or if being afraid to stumble, which I wasn’t. Again, I would definitely have done this before, looking up, countless times.
Now I consciously saw the silhouette of trees, roofs, light masts, and most remarkably the blue sky amid the cumulous clouds. That sky I saw here in London was the same that someone else could see in the Sahara, in Sao Paulo or Bombay. At once I was obsessed with such a beautiful thought:
This sky is the ultimate perfection, the only vision that we all see with the same mind-set, be it the child, the mother, the artist, the politician, the racist, the dog.
Probably obscured by different formations of clouds, maybe crossed by one or two aircrafts, the actual sky in its blue or black appearance, is the only constant in our ever altering vision of change. We all can see it, feel it, and breathe it. It is the only eternal.
For a long time I have been fascinated by the idea that watching the sky at night is like travelling through time. We can see a supernova that occurred ages ago, and we can see it happening now, live on air!
The deeper we get into the depths of the sky, the closer we get to the origin of all, the birth of the universe. We get in touch with the cause of every faith that has ever been but all we find is such clear emptiness, without a name, without judgment. There is no right or wrong, no sin, no religion, just the plain pure essence of the sky. There is nothing to defend, there is nothing to live or die for. There are no such events like life or death for that matter, only one eternal source of all being.
Thus all that moves is just an illusive and continuously changing play that we can rate, criticise, desire or avoid. It is a play telling one story in so many variations that there is not just one truth but many.
… whilst undisturbed, though all else moves in its wild increase of speed, the sky is calm, forever still.
Once I walked along the main road near my house, being alone with my thoughts of all those little things in life, issues to sort out, agendas, memories.
I saw cars, houses, the corner shop, the school, basically the same I would see everyday. I saw people of various origin and creed, mothers with children, labourers, and the noisy adolescent brats going home from school. I heard different languages, some polite, some foul, some angry. It was nothing great, nothing special, but still an all different setting than the one it would be if I was in Kabul, for example. Additionally, the mindset and thoughts of people here, in this street, would be another one thousand miles away.
It honestly upset me to see all those members of society who can not live together. They rather exist next to, or even against each other.
I had to look away not to be disturbed and the most comfortable choice was looking up, rather than looking down which only makes sense if it rains, which it didn’t, or if being afraid to stumble, which I wasn’t. Again, I would definitely have done this before, looking up, countless times.
Now I consciously saw the silhouette of trees, roofs, light masts, and most remarkably the blue sky amid the cumulous clouds. That sky I saw here in London was the same that someone else could see in the Sahara, in Sao Paulo or Bombay. At once I was obsessed with such a beautiful thought:
This sky is the ultimate perfection, the only vision that we all see with the same mind-set, be it the child, the mother, the artist, the politician, the racist, the dog.
Probably obscured by different formations of clouds, maybe crossed by one or two aircrafts, the actual sky in its blue or black appearance, is the only constant in our ever altering vision of change. We all can see it, feel it, and breathe it. It is the only eternal.
For a long time I have been fascinated by the idea that watching the sky at night is like travelling through time. We can see a supernova that occurred ages ago, and we can see it happening now, live on air!
The deeper we get into the depths of the sky, the closer we get to the origin of all, the birth of the universe. We get in touch with the cause of every faith that has ever been but all we find is such clear emptiness, without a name, without judgment. There is no right or wrong, no sin, no religion, just the plain pure essence of the sky. There is nothing to defend, there is nothing to live or die for. There are no such events like life or death for that matter, only one eternal source of all being.
Thus all that moves is just an illusive and continuously changing play that we can rate, criticise, desire or avoid. It is a play telling one story in so many variations that there is not just one truth but many.
… whilst undisturbed, though all else moves in its wild increase of speed, the sky is calm, forever still.
Ghost In The Machine
This is the cover art for my most recent EP "Ghost in the Machine", you can listen to or download the MP3 files on www.soundcloud.com/zinghao
Koramangala 4th Block
Some years ago I lived in that run-down bungalow in Koramangala, Bangalore. My friend Koshy had bought the property and let us use the house. I recorded Dominant Season's "Growth Of Animation" there, with Samira Mohamed.
These pictures are impressions from around the house.
These pictures are impressions from around the house.
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