Film City - a tale from India
I’d decided that Bombay was not my kind of town. For a start, there was that dreadful drive in from the airport. The stark, brutal comparisons between wealth and poverty are nowhere more clearly on display, than on that journey. Poverty, disease, and hunger are not limited to India, by any means, but the exaggerated difference between that kind of slap in the face desperation, and the horrible opulence that can be glimpsed, is truly terrible. The poorest nation always has its rich upper-class. To see them living side by side, barely seeming to acknowledge each other, is distressing.
In another town a moto-rickshaw driver had told
me not to give to the beggars on the route – “Beggars and Thieves” he
called them, denouncing them as lazy good-for-nothings who could use a
good day’s
work. I’d felt as if I was hearing something from the lips
of a character from a Dickens novel. Later, I’d felt a little
empathy for him, as I saw the side of the poor sod who drove a hired three-wheeled
death-trap for 14-hours a day, in order to keep his family in rice and
chapatti-flour, and viewed the beggar as a scoundrel who could live as
well as he if he only managed to score from one tourist a day, who had
no idea of the value of a Rupee. This driver seemed to have similar
sentiments, as he attempted to speed past the outstretched stumps of hands
proffered by the leprous bodies.
How do you hand a coin or a note to a stump? It gives rise to a very
grim kind of humour. Do you try to balance it carefully on the calloused
or weeping limb? Do you wedge it between a remaining finger or two? Do
you purposefully grasp whatever is there in some pathetic attempted show
of unanimity between you, ultimately appreciating what a fraud it is? Or
do you cast the money on the ground in a carefree manner, much as coins
would be tossed into a toll-booth basket? Something that has to be
done, a toll to be paid, but no more thought about than that. Or
should you follow the driver’s advice and ignore the beggars? Just
don’t look at them. It’ll all be over very soon – this
ghost-train ride - and you can forget it ever happened. Ignore them,
they don’t exist, they’ll go away. Or rather you will.
The price of accommodation surprised me in Bombay. I’ll keep calling it that, by the way, not out of outdated Imperialistic values or reasoning, - just because that was its name for most of my time spent in the city. The ‘new’ name of Mumbai will take a little getting used to. When you are brought up in one culture, it can be difficult to appreciate the distress and upset that can be caused by something as apparently innocuous as a name, but then, a viewpoint from a society which has a foreign name as an ongoing reminder of damage done, can be a festering wound which has to be cleansed. Problems can then perhaps be recognised and dealt with rather then blame apportioned to sour history alone.
The place to stay for many backpackers was the Salvation Army hostel. This has always struck me as laughingly ironic - rich (comparatively), Western youths (in the main), having to fall back on a charitable Christian organisation for a bed for the night in one of the poorest nations in the world. Nobody else seemed to find it ironic – it was readily accepted by both parties. It fell nicely into the Bombay cliché too – the building overlooked the opulent Taj Hotel, itself fronting onto the main tourist attraction of the town – the Gateway to India. A bizarre copy of London’s Marble Arch, built as a kind of grand entrance for the newly arrived British tourist in days long gone by.
The Salvation Army was always full. Every day at opening time there was a queue at the reservations office for the dorms or the few rooms available. I’d stayed here on my first trip to India. I hadn’t been overly fond then of the overcrowded, smelly dorms, and the worse showers and toilets. So I’d budgeted to splash out for my first night or two in the country. I stayed in a relatively swanky joint nearby. I did my best to dress well and give the impression that I commonly stayed in the better class of hotel, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. I didn’t feel comfortable, and I knew that I’d have to move back to more familiar stamping ground the next day, even if it meant the awful Sally Army.
That night, I went down to the *** Bar, where I got drunk in the company of an Aussie, with whom I downed two too many beers in the sultry heat of a Bombay night. Fresh, (not the right word), off the plane, tautly awake and at the same time extremely tired. Mildly constipated from hours of immobility and over-indulgence caused by boredom, I should have gone for a quiet walk before taking a shower and going to bed. I didn’t.
The *** bar was a popular place frequented by many locals – men and women. For India, in case you hadn’t guessed, this is a rarity indeed. Or at least among the lower or middle social classes – that is to say, poor. It had a distinctly male feel about the place though, and I wondered where the women had come from. The Aussie told me to try some food – very good and it would soak up the beer. We shared a few plates and a few glasses, and I staggered out enjoying the sense that at least I would get a good night’s sleep.
On the way back to my hotel, a fifteen-minute walk, I was approached twice by some very shady-sounding characters, and offered a prostitute, “Very cheap, very young. Beautiful girl – near, near”. I say shady-sounding because I don’t recall the sense of actually seeing them. It was almost as if they appeared from the shadows as shadows, tempting my rich, drunken male idiocy and gullible-ness with whispers that mimicked a soft, sultry female voice and pleasures yet to be, as best they were able. With a head full of hops, a pocket full of cash, and the mere fact of being a lonely male, it can be very easy to be led – as any man will readily deny. But with visions of ‘Salaam Bombay’ in my head, thoughts of beggars, AIDS, morality, and being clubbed to death for a few quid, I politely declined all offers of sex with what I’d quickly convinced myself was either a ten-year old Nepalese girl held forcibly captive, or a fifty-year-old male transvestite who would bugger me senseless.
Back at the hotel, I collapsed in a heap on the bed, and passed a listless night.
I woke in the morning with a God-awful hangover, owing to severe dehydration, and an urgent rush to get over to the Sally Army in order to get in line to book a room for that night. I didn’t check-out, just in case I wasn’t able to secure a room. On the entrance stairs inside the Salvation Army building, I was stopped by a young Indian in his twenties, who asked me if I wanted to in the movies.
I was more than a little taken aback, as being naturally sceptical, I felt like I was being invited to the casting couch. “Do you want to be in the movies?” - I mean, really. He said that if I did, then I’d have to get a move on as the train left in twenty minutes. I told him no thanks, and tried to get up the stairs.
Now if there’s one thing that need forges, it’s an unwillingness to let slip a chance, and in India, if you are perceived as being the slightest chance of being a willing punter, then you are not released willingly or easily. The man blocked my way and continued to try to sell me on the opportunity of appearing in a Bollywood feature. I was not in the best of condition, physically or otherwise, and my scepticism as to his true motives, did not inspire me to be patient. I told him that, no thanks, I did not want not be “in the Movies”, and pushed past him a little roughly on my way up the stairs. Changing his tack, he followed me and put on a whining tone and expression, and told me that he had all the other extras he needed, they were all waiting, and he only needed me to complete the quota. If I didn’t come, he would lose most of his days pay. It would really be in my interests in any case, as I’d be paid well, and be fed, and he’d pay all the transport costs. He made me feel like I was kicking the Andrex puppy.
By this time, we had reached the queue at the top of the stairs. There happened to be one of the other travellers whom he had convinced to go with him. At least that leant a little credibility to part of his tale. I decided to go along with it all. If it was a scam, at least I wouldn’t be stuck in a strange part of the city trying to figure my way back home alone.
Well, as it turned out, it was no scam. The production was taking place in Film City – one of the larger film units comprising Bollywood. About six or seven of us and our ‘agent’ had jumped into rickshaws to catch a suburban train from the Victoria terminus. About an hour later, we alighted in a non-descript suburb to board more rickshaws, their drivers instructed to put their collective feet down in order to get us on set in time. Once there, we were eyed up and down by what I presume was an assistant producer. She wasn’t overly impressed with what she saw, and let our agent know in no uncertain terms. He was already nervous about getting his commission - now even more so. Apparently we were not really old enough, well, apart from me that is. And our footwear was certainly not up to scratch. The sorry mix of jaded trainers and open-toed sandals did not gel with the requirements of the scene, which was apparently to be set in the final days of British rule in India, and we were supposed to be acting out the part of members of the Raj. Wardrobe did not stretch to providing extras with suitable attire, and our agent had been given the remit of supplying half a dozen likely candidates ready outfitted with footwear befitting the roles.
I had not had a chance to shave that morning, so I was presented with a tub of cold water, a piece of soap and an already-used razor to make myself look decent. Once spruced up and suitably attired with trousers and a collared shirt, we were led on set, and told what we were to do.
Tale last updated: Monday, April 5th, 2010