That's how I made it to the Movies

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.