two and a half days aboard the Deradun express

The following paragraphs take place in no particular order of time

The Deradun express rattled into Sabzi Mandi station in New Delhi, announcing its arrival by emitting an ear drum piercing screech as it slammed on its rusty breaks and shuddered to a halt. The two and a half day journey aboard the dilapidated train had left me smelling like the inside of Gandhis dhoti after he completed the historic salt march.

Although Delhi was our departure point Rach and I decided to try to stay onboard for another six hours until the trains second from last stop in Haridwar (Rishikesh, down the road, is the starting point for the Valley of Flowers trek). We reckoned that if we got caught without a valid ticket we would be able to bribe the conductor to turn a blind eye. Well, if the first 55 hours hadn’t killed us I was quite optimistic We’d survive the last six….fuck me.

I glance over the side from aboard the top bunk, which is my bed. A baby is strung up in the corridor between my bunk and another in a small hammock, just beneath me. It smiles up at me as it swings happily from side to side. I smile back then roll over and try to go back to sleep.

The conductor pulls on my foot and asks for my ticket. Behind him people who have just boarded fight for a seat; Waking up sleeping families and demanding that they move. “It must be about 1.30 Am for fucks sake.”I have my berth number on my ticket so they leave me alone and I try to sleep again when someone throws my backpack onto me. I look pissed off and tell him to put it back under the seat from whence it came (where his family are furiously trying to squeeze in their possessions). The fans have stopped working I notice as I turn my back to the chaos and try to get some shuteye in the sweltering heat.

“How long had I been onboard? One day, a day and a half…have I lived on this train forever. It’s hard to tell.” I thought all this as I nervously edged my way towards the drop toilets. The fastidiously kept latrines I’d been savouring in my imagination bore little resemblance to the smelly hole I was to defecate into. It was hard to balance as the train wobbled and I crouched in the tiny cupboard shaped compartment. I was trying desperately not to slip and let my hands or trouser legs touch the warm puddle of fermented urine which swished up and down the floor. The railway tracks whizzing by underneath the toilet were an interesting distraction from the smell though, which was horrendous (I’ve actually grown quite accustomed to the grime but feel the need to depict the scene in all its gory detail just the same).

Afterwards I washed my hands in the blocked up sink full of red paan spit and returned to my carriage where, it appeared, Rachael was having her makeup done by three cute Indian girls. In their youthful ignorance they’d managed to make the normally beautiful Rachael look like a transvestite.

This would be an appropriate moment to digress a little. It was early the day before, I think (The days had just been one big blur….What day is it even??)

I’d just wolfed down my meagre breakfast of spicy chickpeas and puffed rice in a paper cone when I noticed, a little further up the carriage, some young men been accosted by, what appeared to be, two transvestites begging for money. I saw the two wenches lustfully sprawling over some younger fellows who were recoiling in horror. They couldn’t throw their rupees at them quick enough, poor chaps. One of them approached me, resplendently attired in a gold and red sari, his hairy paunch protruding out from under a drape of cloth.

“Give me twenty rupees,” He rudely demanded, sticking out an expectant hand and fluttering his eyelashes. Everyone was staring at me and I felt like giving him the money just for an easy life. It’s hard being a man of principle though and I cannot stomach rudeness.

“Naheen,” I told him bluntly. He reached forward and brushed my curly locks away from my eyes expecting me to flinch. I batted his hand away. “Give it a rest mate,” I told him. I then looked hard into his eyes, piecing his soul a little, showing him that his flamboyant display wasn’t unnerving me one little bit.

“Whats your name?” I asked him.

“I’m a gay, ” He said.

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of brother,” I told him.

“Give me 10 rupees,” He demanded in a put on girly voice.

“I know lots of gay people and I don’t have to give them money for being gay.”

I’d heard mentioned off my Indian housemates of homosexuals who ply their trade in this way, intimidating easily embarrassed young men into giving away their money. It’s sad that in such an accepting country homosexuality in between men is still illegal (‘carnal intercourse against the course of nature’ as it is legally termed). To be public about ones sexuality can leave a man disowned by his family and outcast by society, thus the alcohol abuse and need to beg for a living.

I smelt alcohol on his breath as soon as he’d stated to converse with me. ” You want me to give you money to drink?” I asked him. He glared back. “You want beer money? I don’t drink. Why should I give you money to?”

He touched my leg. I let him and smiled calmly back looking like I was maybe beginning to enjoy it. He was getting frustrated with his failing efforts to intimidate me so tried a different tack. “Dont make me fight!” He suddenly said in a more threatening manner (or at least as threatening as a podgy man in a sari can be). I blankly stared back.

“I wouldn’t do if I were you mate.”

The train hasn’t a catering carraige. Everytime we stop at a station Rach and I have to buy whatever is thrust through the windows by eager venders. The snacks are neither delicious or nutritious but go down all the same. I’m regretting leaving my bag of dates in the carriage next door, where Rach and I watched Bollywood film last night, on someones laptop, with a large gang of excitable youths.

So, four hours to go. I wiped the grime from my forehead upon the back of my hand and waited for the conductor to ask me for my non-existent ticket to the last stop. Just as I was about to pull out a hundred rupee note to attempt a bribe, a fellow train passenger showed the conductor the ticket he held for himself, his mother and brother. The conductor grunted and walked on up the carriage. “Thanks for that Naveen,” I told Him. He wobbled his head to say it was not a problem. We had got chatting to Naveen earlier on in the day. Him and his family were traveling on to Haridwar to sprinkle his recently deceased fathers ashes into the Ganges ( A holy river that can cleanse ones sins in life, even after death). As his father was a good, kind man Naveen had taken it upon himself to be a better person to honour him. He not only helped Rach and I out with the ticket but also bought us lots of snacks and chai, for which I am eternally grateful. The last leg of the long, tiring journey was by far the easiest thanks to him.

In Haridwar we said our goodbyes and finally got off the train, stepping into a station full of sleeping families and the occasional red faced monkey. Rach and I tiredly stumbled along to the bus station around the corner. Having both been here before we soon found ourselves aboard a bus which would, hopefully, arrive at Rishikesh within the hour.

I ditched my bag in the room (with a splendid balcony view of the surrounding hills) and headed down to the restaurant to wolf down a chow mein. I apologised to the waiter for my smell and dishevelled appearance. After a quick lunch I ordered a couple of cinnamon rolls and some cold fantas to take upstairs to enjoy in the bath.

The bath had seemed like a God send after such a long journey. It wasnt. I should have known better being in India and all. The hot water didn’t work. Rach laughed at me and told me I looked like a street urchin from a Dickens novel, I was so covered in grease and dirt. I peeled the grimy T-shirt off my back, grabbed a cinnamon roll and stepped into the icy cold shower to give myself a right good going over.

Adventures in Fort Kotchin

Chinese fishing nets at the harbour

“That was fucking lucky,” I told Rach after chasing a bus successfully for a half hour, in a rickshaw, to get a bag back that Rachael had accidentally left on it. It was fun jumping in the taxi and shouting, “Follow that bus!” But I hadn’t  been too confident in the outcome.

Bag tightly grasped in hand we boarded the nighttime ferry to fort Kotchin island. Upon arrival we were greeted by a strip of buzzing fish restaurants all blasting out Bob Marley, and like Kovallem before, surprisingly full of  ‘out of season’ touristy travellers.

We avoided the obvious ‘Lonely planet’ recommendations and booked ourselves into the nearest hovel.

The charms of the town at first weren’t so apparent. It was way too touristy for my taste, although I am myself a tourist, because I prefer to take ‘the road less travelled’.

Sunset at the bay

The next days cycling excursion around the expansive backwaters, via a gravelly road, lightened my mood somewhat. The scenery was stunning; Lots of lagoons containing traditional fishing boats with palm trees lining the winding shoreline. The following days rental and subsequent journey to Cherai beach (on the neighbouring island of Vypeen) was an excellent little adventure. We managed to pick a good day for it, inadvertently hiring mopeds on Independence Day. We stuck a couple of Indian flags in our wing-mirrors and

Kerelan backwaters

proceeded to weave in and out of the throng of holiday traffic (receiving more than a few beeps for our patriotism). All was going splendidly until, just before boarding the return ferry, I managed to snap the back axle of the bike in half as I revved the moped up onto the ramp. I had to drag the smoking wreck onboard the ferry with a thousand smiling eyes watching my every move.

I returned it to the owner, who’s mechanic tried to get him to exhort more than the rental price off me saying it was my fault and not the piece of shit bike. A bollocking off Rachael later, delivered in her own inimitable fashion, and the passport I had put down on the bikes was swiftly returned. We skipped off to book ourselves on a relaxing tour of the Kerlean backwaters for the following morning. This was

Wild pepper....Interesting!!!!

not so much fun. The disorganised host tried to squeeze every last penny out of the wanky experience, which included a backwater trip to a spice plantation (which as far as I could make out was a solitary pepper plant growing in somebody’s back garden), lunch in a shed (where they impressively crammed in 70 people) and to top it all off the tour guide tried to aggressively shove me back onto the bus because I wanted him to wait whilst I bought a packet of biscuits.

“Don’t fucking push me mate,” I shouted at the sour faced guide, elbowing him back a couple of steps (His gentle  facade had dropped the minute money had changed hands). Oh well, I suppose it served me right for not doing things off my own steam and going along with the crowd.

Anyway, my time down south ends here. I’ve traversed the mighty continent in exactly three months. Rach and I are heading up to Delhi tomorrow on an epic 50 hour train journey to conquer ‘The Valley of Flowers’ before she heads off to Nepal (and possibly out of my life forever). I’ll be heading to Leh in Kashmir, landslides permitting, to see my time out perched upon a mountaintop, hopefully experiencing that most sort after of mental states, enlightenment. Lets see how that one goes.

Namaste for the time being.X

Red Rach in Communist Kerela

chess and green tea in ‘gods own country’

picture perfect postcard happiness

The red and white lighthouse rose from the knuckled cliffs like a finger. If it’s telling the Pashmina Wallers, whom patrol the boulevard, to “Fuck off!” they pay little notice.  But I get little hassle, sitting on my wicker chair, on my balcony, casually observing the rough sea batter against the black sandy beach, casually thinking about my next move.

Did I really intend to stay here this long?

Day melts into day as Rachael and I lazily stroll from fish restaurant to cafe to beach; Eating, sunbathing and sipping tea like we haven’t any serious backpacking to do. I feel like I am cheating. India isn’t supposed to be luxurious. I came here to get tough, not to get fat eating rich chocolate cake whilst contemplating where best to position my rook (That’s nothing sexual by the way, I play a lot of chess).

The only hardship suffered here are the aforementioned pashmina salesmen…Oh, and the guy who sells opium; Both seem intent on selling me something, but I hardly need the feeling of comfort both will provide. I’m at the seaside goddamn it! I have everything I need on my doorstep.

If only I could figure out away to tan my white arse without getting arrested.

If only I could have a cold beer without the ensuing fall from grace and the dissipated road that would follow.

If only the podgy lifeguards would let me swim out to them big waves (although calling them lifeguards I seriously doubt their ability to rescue me should the strong under-current decide to drag me out to sea. They’d need to change out of their shirt and trousers for a start, and possibly even learn to swim).

Kovallam beach. A bubble of picture perfect happiness situated on the southern Kerelan coast. Where the sun shines in monsoon time whilst the rest of India floods. Don’t look too close though or you’ll perhaps see through the facade; The dilapidated villages just beyond the rice paddies; The Indian families who are shooed off lighthouse beach in their droves to paddle a little further up the coast, so as not to disturb the rich tourists; The poor whom by now I hardly even notice who sit and beg whilst westerners drink expensive cocktails and pour their cash into the Indian irrigation system via the medium of kingfisher consumption.

I’ll give them this though, it’s the most efficient tourist hotspot I’ve visited thus far; With all its European fakery, bars, sun lounges and sunsets (and shite western pop music….yes, that is ‘Blue’ they have on repeat).

Just don’t stay out after eleven or the police are liable to nab you as its curfew time. Rach and I barely escaped back to the hotel with our liberty intact (not the most pleasant way to end a romantic midnight walk along the beach).

Over a pot of green tea with delightful chocolate cookies we decided to flee this ‘Hellhole’. Mind you, the extra pounds I’ve put on make me look slightly less emaciated, and the crashing sea is kinda soothing. Maybe I’ll stay one more day. There’s an interesting variation on red snapper Masala I haven’t tried yet and the ‘king fish’ they trawled in earlier would be divine with a little garlic butter.

Sunset

all aboard the nigriti express

The train carriages rattled past. First the ones with seated compartments, then air-conditioned ones, then air-conditioned ones with 1 bed (1AC), 2 beds (2AC), 3 beds (3AC), then carriages called sleepers (3 births but no air con) of which I counted around 10. As the  lengthily beast rattled past I noticed it also housed a catering carriage and numerous others for use of transit of luggage and goods.

sleeper class

As it slowed people started fighting to get on for the unreserved seats as Rach and I grabbed our bags and ran for sleeper 3. People jumped on and off.

Towards the end of the train huge plinths containing foods stuffs and electrical goods were loaded and unloaded. We pushed our way onboard and dumped our stuff on the births we’d reserved (which are simple leather seats to be sat on in the day and slept on at night).

I’d counted around 13 cockroaches by the time the whistle blew, signaling our departure. The 30 hour journey to Kerela had begun.

The Nigriti Express

The verdant landscape quickly came into view and, taking a deep breath, I settled into the comfortable feeling I get at the start of such journeys.

‘Chai, chai, garam chai,” (“Tea, tea, hot tea”) shouted the Chai Waller as he made his way up and down the lengthy train, paper cups in one hand and a huge silver urn in the other.

"Chai Chai"

“Garam coffee,” shouted the coffee guy who was hot on his heels. Hardly had his wail finished echoing through the adjoining carriage when along came the samosa man.

“Masala samosa?” He asked thrusting a large tray full of samosas wrapped in greasy brown paper into my face.

“Go on then.” I said pushing a crumpled 10 Rupee note into his hand.

“Methi bhagi,” shouted the next man.

“Banana fry,” the next, as he precariously maneuvered through the slim corridor with a tray of banana fritters balanced on his head.

“Veg cutlet.”

“Vadas garam.”

“Pane, pane, bottled pane (water).”

After quite some time the bountiful procession of snacks and drinks came to an apparent end. Then the original Chai Waller appeared on his way back from the other end of the train and it began all over again.

train chai

The delicious smell of hot tea, spices and grease was never far from my nostrils. Just as my senses had taken it all in the train stopped at station. It was quickly boarded by unofficial venders offering chai, coffee, biryani, chocolate, water, key rings, magazines, newspapers…. Child beggars got onboard and held out a hand to each and every passenger. A man with nothing below the waist walked up to me on his hands and asked for some rupees. Five minutes later the whistle blew and they quickly jumped off (except for the guy walking on his hands, I imagine he lowered himself down somehow). The journey through the luscious Maharastrian countryside began again.

Rach and I enjoyed a game of chess, trying not to notice the cockroaches scurrying around us as I sated myself on a wide range of deep-fried goodies.

Around 5PM the catering man walked around taking lunch orders for chicken biryani. I thought I’d give it a go.

By the time it got dark I was feeling rather sleepy, and having become accustomed to hard surfaces, slept like a log. I woke up just in time to catch the catering guy and this time ordered a masala dosa for breakfast. This delicious snack has sustained me from my earliest days of travel (A rice flour crepe stuffed with spiced potatoes and served with a soupy veg curry and a thick coconut chutney). This one was nowt special but I scranned it down with relish as I imbibed the Kerelan backwaters from my window seat (It appeared we passed into the state as I’d slept).

nice view

The hustle and bustle of train life continued in much the same vein as the previous day, except I was a little less inclined to stuff my face with crap. I polished of the remainder of Rachaels cashews and dates though, and getting a much-needed nutrients kick, settled down for a day buried in my book.

The train arrived in Thivandrum later that scheduled at around 9PM. I felt satisfied I’d got my 600 rupees worth (8quid) when I tried to think how much a thirty hour train journey would have cost me in England, and if would it have been half as much fun.

Margoan to Pune

The Vaz household

After Mumbai Rachael and I spent a lovely weekend in Margoan with my friend Allan and his family. We ate some delicious home-cooked food and recharged our batteries in the small village before heading for Pune in Allan’s fathers car.

From Margoan the road to Pune led up. We rocked up twisting mountain paths, up and up, towards the Deccan plateau. Below the valley misted, obscuring the beautiful green vistas as the rain belted down. We shuddered over deep cracks in the road, stopping frequently to photograph the stunning waterfalls that decorated the cliffs and hills.

We drove over bridges spanning rivers and drank chai in truckers cafes. The scenery was beautiful; Tiny waterfalls, huge ones, thin ones falling from so high up that they evaporated into mist before the water could reach the ground below.

After a few hours the rains lessened. the road straightened out and we hit Pune ready to rock and roll.

In Pune we were again in for some typical Indian hospitality as Allans college buddy Addy thought nothing of us crashing in his one bedroom apartment for the week.

Like in Hyderabad Pune is an up and coming media hub and thus fast becoming quite cosmipolitan. This contrast with the old, relaxed infastructure is a refreshing change from the more intense cities I’ve visited so far.

As always Allan was an excellent host, whizzing us from place to place experiencing the nice snack stall, coffee shops and markets he frequented in his college days.

One of the highlights of the time in Pune was a trip to the cinema to watch ‘Singham’.

Before the film began the audience had to stand whilst the Indian national anthem was played. I watched the rather patriotic accompanying video then took my seat.

The film opens with our mustachioed hero rising out of a lake. What follow must be one of the greatest introductions to a film character of all time. He struts through the well choreographed a dance routine, pausing occasionally to look into camera whilst a lion roars and the accompanying sound track sings ‘Singham’.

Once it all kicks off he manages to slap the shit out of a hundred bad guys (to the over dubbed lion roar and ‘Singham’ chant), woos the love interest with ease, takes part in a rather sickly duet and ends police corruption in the state of Goa.

All to the catchy theme tune of rhythmic tablas, clapping and the ubiqitous Singham chant everytime slow-motion captures him posing.

Through out the audience cheered, whistled and applauded and I sat happily munching my cheese and toffee popcorn.

By the time Singham roared into the sunset astride his Royal Enfield I was left feeling quite satisfied.

Bollywood it seems has taken the big budget American blockbuster formula and injected it with a large dose  of warmth and fun which left me in no doubt as to whom I prefer.

DA DA DI DU DU……SINGHAM….ROOOAAAR!!!!!!

I slipped on the aviators and strutted out of the cinema with the catchy theme tune still playing in my head. I felt like I used to when I was a kid after watching something like Rocky, except this time I wanted to be Singham.

After a fun week in Pune Rach and I decided to head down to Kerela. Allen is a friend I will miss very much and it was sad saying “Aram say” (Take it easy). Allan drove away leaving me wonder if we’d ever meet again as Rach and I threw our rucksacks into the rickshaw taking us to Pune train station.

Scott-Dog hits the big time: Scene 2

My erroneous presumption that there would be at least some glamour attached to my new acting job didn’t quite scare me off. Two days after the first shot I again boarded the extras bus to be greeted by sea of white faces blankly staring back. This time Rachael accompanied me. The 1000 Rupees we’d jointly earn would easily pay for the hotel and food for the day.

Where I busted my moves for 12 hours

This time we were heading to ‘Mumbai Mediaworks Studio’, situated somewhere on the outskirts of the city. Upon arrival all fifty of us were marched into a holding pen where at least eighty other westerners were greedily munching the badly prepared, cold breakfast. We followed suit and, hurried along by the crew, wolfed down our meager fare. The men and the women were then separated and we were marched off under the watchful eye of a rather shouty girl with a walkie-talkie. She led us through a maze of corridors, passing the occasional empty film set. Eventually we were crammed into a tiny lobby where she barked at us, shouting: “Don’t speak, be quite,” and, “Don’t block the corridor.”

The eerie quite that ensued made me feel like we were about to be marched onto the gas chambers, under the watchful eye of the authoritarian backstage crew. The ‘lift’ security guard took full advantage of the small portion of power he was allotted to shout down anyone daring enough to sit on the arm of the only leather sofa. He eyed the rest of us with disgust intimating we’d be in for some of the same.

After an uncomfortable ten minutes a man with a clipboard and headset appeared. He pointed to four random males who were marched off in single file down one of the corridors, presumably to be gassed (or as it turned out dressed up like dicks). I held my breath and pensively waited for the hissing sound or the choking sobs and death wails but to no avail. At regular intervals the man with the clipboard would reappear to randomly choose and lead away another four chaps.

Just as I’d given up all hope of living through this, one by one, the men reappeared. Each one uncomfortably clad in sparkly T-shirts and various ‘fashionable’ male jewellery. They were quickly ushered off on route to the studio where they were to be shot (On film).

lighting rig

During the uneventful interim I’d managed to discover that today we were to be involved in a ‘Russian nightclub’ dance scene (where I would probably be required to dance all day long….wonderful). This explained why the reappearing extras were all dressed like German ravers in a low-budget ‘Technotronic’ video. Sweat bands, illuminous T-shirts with wanky logos, bangles, tacky necklaces, chain key rings…. and that was just the boys. The girls were equally as bad, just slightly more slutty.

In wardrobe I was told to wear a shark tooth necklace, a bangle made of shells and an offensively bright T-shirt. I complemented my costume by donning my own aviators, being quite aware that the wardrobe department didn’t really give a shit.  “Follow the others!” I was told. The security guy casually added, “Watch out. There will be gunshots on set.”

I followed the other extras as they silently filed behind the propped up plywood walls of the set. A repetitive dance beat was blasting out and I joined the queue of people waiting to walk into the club scene.

I was chatting to a fellow extra Ian, as we waited for our moment of fame. The director (who appeared to be a prepubescent female youth) shouted,”Action!”and the extras were slowly ushered into shot. As we loitered awaiting direction the main actors did their bit, there was a bit of shooting and then some laughter ( I couldn’t see much as I was stood on tiptoes at the back of a queue). Before getting a good look I was told to,”Go round, ” and was pushed into the background of the scene.

Me in character

Ian and I were clueless as to what ‘go round’ actually meant so we walked a bit to the left, got in behind the main actors, and pretended to chat.

“CUT!!!” The director screamed. Someone else, who felt he was quite important, stated to scream….at us?!? Greeted by two slightly perplexed, smirking faces, he turned his wrath onto the extra guy. It appeared we were supposed to walk straight on onto the dance floor. Ian and I, like two naughty school boys, were sent to the back of the queue. The crews presumption that we were psychic didn’t really bother us as we eventually blagged our way through the first couple of scenes.

The preceding shots involved everyone being shuffled from corner to corner (as the camera and director tried to find the right angle to shoot from). We were all told to face a stage full of scantily clad ‘Russian’ dancers, who were being filmed as part of a dance routine (we were the clubbers in the background).

We were told to ‘Enjoy’ by the extra guy and had to dance like we were at an underground rave every time the director shouted “Action!”

After the fourth hour of being told to “Enjoy” and dance like a drugged fueled maniac with little else but chai running through my veins I began to become a little disheartened. I looked at my watch and consoled myself with the thought that the next six hours would hopefully pass slightly quicker than the first six.

Just as I was beginning to flag during a pretend dance scene a pretend waitress managed to knock a tray of pretend cocktails (made up of coloured syrup) over my REAL face. I spent the remaining four hours sweaty, sticky and smelling a bit like candy floss.

The crisp 500 rupee note I got handed on the bus made me feel a little cheated and I resolved there and then to quit the movies once and for all.

Rach and I on set

‘Agent Vinod’ starring Saif Ali Khan and Scott Waterson is released on December 9Th 2011

Scott-Dog hits the big time: Scene 1

All thoughts of glamour quickly dissipated as I was herded through the rain with quite a large group of smelly white-faced backpackers. We arrived on set and were quickly ushered down to the underground car park to tuck into the dodgy looking breakfast buffet of Idli and boiled eggs. It had to be said that at this stage my aspirations to be the new Bollywood George Clooney were receding at a fair pace.

The camera

It was all done in such a hurry that I had hardly wiped the crumbs of egg from my beard before I found myself being marched in a military fashion through the set (which was slung together in a local cinema and appeared to be depicting an airport departure lounge).

Sound equipment

I observed quite a large camera, some big hot lights, a microphone or two and lots of people with walkie-talkies running around shouting; As they mostly appeared to be shouting at us it gave me quite a good idea of the pecking order; Director, actors, producers, editor, sound technician, camera man, wardrobe woman, man with head set,walkie-talkie guys, toilet usher, egg boiler and buffet technician, assistant to egg boiler, extra.

The excitable wardrobe lady

The forthcoming scene was to appear to be located in a Zurich airport, thus the need for white western faces. We were rushed into wardrobe and shouted at to sit down, whilst the wardrobe ladies picked people at random to dress up. The German guy got to dress up as a pilot, another two friends as air hostesses, a couple of men were dressing up as airport security, one fellow got to put on a suit and was given a briefcase to carry.

watch out kids!!

I was quite excited when I got called forward.

The wardrobe lady curtly looked me up and down and threw a dirty brown mac at me. “Wear this!” She exclaimed, looking right through me. “Next!”

After donning the costume I could only speculate that I was intended to portray some sort of sex offender. It didn’t help that the other extras thought it hilarious, and I’m sure I heard more than one person mutter ‘Flasher’ under their breath. Hardly had I time to get into character before we were thrown into positions, given minimal stage direction and left there under the baking lights feeling a little confused.

“Action!”.

I walked into the shot, pretended to ask the dutch guy (dressed up as a staff member) where the departure lounge was and headed down the stairs towards camera.

“Cut! Positions!”

Sweating profusely in the large uncomfortable overcoat I ran back up the stairs to my original position. Once all the other extras were in place (and after a hefty dose of fannying around on the directors part) we repeated the monotonous process over and over and over again. After a lot of practice they threw in the real filmstars, who walked down the elevators to be taken aside by ‘airport security’.

As the day progressed the other extras and I took advantage of the fact we were out of range of the microphones to ask the dutch guy increasingly sillier questions in a bid to make him laugh, and thus sate our boredom a little.

Airport scene; from camera

Just as I was warming to the role and employing a little of the method (pretending to chew gum as I swaggered down the stairs) the director shouted, “Cut! That’s a wrap!”

Ten minutes later I was speeding back to Colaba aboard the extras bus with a crisp 500 Rupee note in my hand.

I found out later that I was in the last-minute re-shoots just before the film was released. It’s apparently out towards the end of September. Check out the trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=xzPf7ghvc_U