From Bollywood heights to hanging out in a slum
Print Edition
LIKE a caravan of camels, the motorcade of police cars and paddy wagons snakes slowly through the meandering alleys of Dharavi, the world’s largest slum. Tom and I are in the back of one of the wagons, staring forlornly out the barred window. Locals peer in at us to catch a glimpse of the captives — us! We are on our way to Indian jail.
Days earlier we arrive in Mumbai in good spirits. We come up by train from the white-hot beaches of neighboring Goa along the coast of West India. From the palace-like Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus we hop a bus to Colaba district.
We check in to the Salvation Army, the cheapest accommodations in Mumbai (US$9.70 per night). There are other guest houses, but they are terribly small and filthy. The only other option is unaffordable five-star hotels.
We spend our days wandering Mumbai, taking photos. At dusk we sit on the front steps of the Salvation Army, sipping ice cold Slice and reading White Tiger. Touts approach us.
“Hey man,” a cool Indian guy in reflective glasses says, “you want to be in a Bollywood movie?” He has our attention, but knowing touts we proceed cautiously.
The next morning at the meeting spot there are 50 other foreigners also waiting to be Bollywood stars. Turns out we are all just extras. They bus us out to DY Patil Stadium. We are expected to sing and dance and be glamourous, but it’s just a movie about cricket, India’s favorite sport.
Nine blonde backpackers from our hostel are chosen as the cricket players. Tom is disappointed; he’s not blonde and actually passes for Indian because of his Goa tan. But he is the tallest and, surprisingly, selected as the 10th player and given a cricket uniform. The other extra extras and I are sent high up into the empty stadium seats. In post-production they will digitally multiply us into 60,000 spectators.
Beneath the scalding sun we watch from the distance as the “team” films and re-films a single scene of the fake cricket game. The film’s star, Shahid Kapur, dives to catch a ball and wins the game. Tom and the other extras run to embrace their hero. The vainglorious Kapur stops the shooting to fix his hair. He does this every five minutes. This is not an exaggeration. Months later, in Delhi, we watch the resulting film, “Dil Bole Hadippa.” Tom’s appearance is mere fractions of a second. Kapur’s hair looks fabulous.
The next day the touts find us again. We fall for it and meet at the Gateway of India for our next Bollywood acting gig. It turns out to be for a Samsung cell phone commercial. No dancing. The star is Aamir Khan, we’ve seen him on posters all across India for “Ghajini” and, later, “3 Idiots.” Tom and I are relegated to playing tourists in the background. In the afternoon we are sent to a studio. The extras are directed to stand around Khan in a prop subway car. I’m right in front of him. My heart thumps. I steal a snapshot and the director yells at me. When we see the commercial online later, there’s Tom but only the top of my head. Curses, I’m too short.
With the 500 rupees (US$8.10) we earned from our Bollywood debut, we book a “reality” tour in Dharavi slum, where Oscar-winner “Slumdog Millionaire” was filmed. No photos are allowed. Tom isn’t happy. Now that we know how to get here by train we go back the next day on our own. Tom insists on photographing the patchwork of corrugated metal rooftops from a high vantage point. We walk into the grounds of the highest nearby apartment complex. I wait in the stairwell while Tom walks up to the top.
A man interrogates me. “What are you doing here?” he shouts. “Who are you with?” Tom finally comes back downstairs. Some mean men lock the gates of the front door and won’t let us leave the building. They accuse us of trespassing. They are all shouting at us. Pay us or we will call the police, they say. We won’t pay.
The police come. Not one, but an entire convoy of cars and paddy wagons. Sirens and lights fill the slums of Dharavi. Is this real? Are we in a Bollywood movie again? We don’t know if the police are arresting us or saving us. “I’m so sorry, baby,” Tom says. “This is my fault.” We don’t let go of each other’s hands. They bring us to the police station and request our passports, then start filling out paperwork. I’m Chinese. For the first time in India this concerns me. I could be deported. After an hour of nerve-wracking waiting in the detention room, a heavyset officer in a perfectly-pressed beige uniform takes us in for questioning. We sit at his cluttered wooden desk and wait as he sips chai. In spite of our initial fears, the officer is kind and lenient. He wobbles his head as we explain our story. He smiles at our naivety, and scolds us with the gentleness of a concerned uncle. Our passports are returned and he tells us we will be released. With a friendly arm on my shoulder, the officer escorts us out of the jailhouse and into the warmth of the Mumbai sun.
- About Us
- |
- Terms of Use
- |
-
RSS - |
- Privacy Policy
- |
- Contact Us
- |
- Shanghai Call Center: 962288
- |
- Tip-off hotline: 52920043
- 沪ICP证：沪ICP备05050403号-1
- |
- 互联网新闻信息服务许可证：31120180004
- |
- 网络视听许可证：0909346
- |
- 广播电视节目制作许可证：沪字第354号
- |
- 增值电信业务经营许可证：沪B2-20120012
Copyright © 1999- Shanghai Daily. All rights reserved.Preferably viewed with Internet Explorer 8 or newer browsers.
