I must admit my last blog about India sounded as if I’d soured a wonderful chapter in my life, and I would like to take time to remember My Mumbai in detail. The whole of India, as I love her, and as she loved me.

Parked in the shade on our way around the south

Louda, my bike, rode me around the South and up to Mumbai. I came with Laura – who was the bike’s namesake, when mispronounced with an Indian percussive Laura’s ‘r’ that sounds like a ‘d’ turned it into the Hindi word for cock. Laura had asked me to name the bike after her – a fair trade because it was bought on money from her in exchange for a laptop which she did not yet posess. So Louda she was.

I bought her in Kodaikanal, way up in the gorgeous mountains on the Tamil side of Kerala. For those to whom that means nothing, the Southern are often darker, slower to anger, and have a far more percussive popping b’s or t’s to p’s. It’s a very amusing language to listen to. The Southerners are also often more casually academic, and quite agricultural. The Keralan backwaters are gorgeous.

My housemate Hari is a Malayalee (one of the Southern folk). He’s incredibly kind, one of the kindest and most peaceful people I’ve ever known. He has an engaging way of telling stories, and always has exciting tales about disciplining policemen and staring down stand-over men.

He’s also generous – before we lived together, he called to ask how I was going. I complained that I had no work (I was an actor, he is a cinematographer). Within ten minutes, a friend of his called to offer me a role dancing in a music video. I apologised and told him that I can’t dance. He hung up. Hari must have called him again, because a further ten minutes later the director called back and told me that I had the role anyway. It ended up being quite a funny video.

People worship Hari like a god – literally. Much like when politicians or religious figures greet and farewell folk, I have stood with him after a shoot, while a queue of people waited their turn to touch his feet.

Getting around Mumbai is always an experience – traveling any mode across the city will almost always include a ‘Oh my. Bloody… Shit! LOOK!’ moment. I will not dwell on the early morning train track-side pooing hour, though those are memorable, but also deluges of incredible kindness. How so many people with limited ability and maximum effort would try to ‘fix’ my bike – even without knowing what was actually wrong with it.

Louda – after pimping, on a ride around Mumbai.

Indian people, my Mumbaikars, are all about relationships.

Indian people will welcome you into their homes, many visitor to India has been treated to tea and dinner by an entire family of strangers. They are eager to welcome new family members, too. Simply because you’re visibly foreign, they will ask you increasingly personal questions while still shaking your hand, once I had a conversation that started with a request for directions and continued until the chap had learned my full name, place of birth, number of family members, marital status and enquired about my sexual habits, still holding my hand long after the shaking had finished, for a full ten minutes. It’s not nosy, it’s caring, curious and keen to build friendships. By the end – I was his ‘bhai’ – his brother. Younger kids call me ‘ankal’ – or uncle.

On Raksha Bandan day, one will find the pretty waterfronts of Mumbai spotted with groups of larrikin young men, they’re sneakily skipping their classes at university or aren’t turning up to work. They are, for today, uncharacteristically avoiding female contact, where the reclaimed land meets the sea, where large, purposefully placed jagged boulders hold back the muddy waves.

They hide because on Raksha Bandan, girls can claim boys as ‘brothers’ which is a more formal, or at least religiously meaningful way of becoming family. She claims him, to be protected and cared for by him, and to be protected from him, because once she’s tied that red thread around his wrist, she is out of bounds. She’s his sister.

Hari and my brother Thos, coloured on Holi festival - he's now a Bollywood star too!

The horny boys will stand and laugh, argue and chase one another around and slap each other on the back with cupped palm for maximum pop and minimum pain.

They will have tender moments, too – boys will walk hand in hand down the sunny Bandra boardwalk, or even rest their head on a mate’s shoulder when tired. It’s not all gay, but I’m sure that beneath the restrictive ridiculousness of the rules and religions, Indians are very sexually permissive.

Mumbaikars will welcome you to them, to become like them, because connection matters most. Yes, there is a downside – that strong familial preference means that those perceived as ‘other’ are easily cheated, targeted and vilified. The group conscience seems to dictate it.

I don’t complain, as a Caucasian, Australian male I was treated very well. But as you slide down, away from the wealthy families, down the caste ladder, religious divides, and the regionalist grudges, you will pass people who live unenviable lives.

Westerners talk about how ‘time is money’, ‘life is short’ and ‘it’s a dog eat dog world.’ They use these clichés to excuse themselves for being rude and self-absorbed. “I’m stressed” they cry, as they pride themselves on being independent, efficient and successful.

Not efficient, no. He'd rather smile and chat than deal with the 8ft high stacks of paper behind him.

Indians pride themselves on being caring, thoughtful and respected. They’d walk for hours out of their way to show you how to arrive somewhere you already knew how to get to, even if it meant turning up late to work. If mother is sick, they might not turn up at all.

Sure, there is a growing desire among the middle class to be more western, to consume more fancy phones and fast foods and speak English and strive harder; working longer hours, turning up on time and leaving late – meeting targets and achieving goals. But they must battle against a system full of people who’d prefer to have a chat or take a nap if it meant having a more relaxing day. Contentment is a reasonable goal for an Indian.

Sure, that is lazy, but it’s good. It’s important.

We are overpopulating the world, and India’s leading the way, but the Indian mentality of family supports a vast number of people on very little. It is efficient at using fewer resources to sustain an more people.

We must learn that.

And you cannot save time – time is not money. Whatever you’re doing right now is all that is happening, you couldn’t have spent this time differently. The frantic ferocity of that thinking causes unnecessary stress. Relax.

Instead we must learn to value our time.

Technorati Tags: Bollywood, India, People

My problem with life in India is that it’s simultaneously too hard and too easy. The easy bits are getting main roles in films, getting into A-list parties, and staying out of jail for drunken, unlicensed, uninsured, helmet-less motorbike riding only costs about 6 Aussie dollars. But the stress and frustration associated with something simple like buying coffee or getting dressed can cause me to vibrate and clench until I pop a valve.

I just went looking for Sony Pix to do an audition. I plugged “Sony Pix Mumbai” into Google maps and got a hit:

So I rode to the designated dot with the help of my occasionally awesome but frequently annoying GPS guided phone, to find the dot was on a big pile of crappy nothingness.

I checked the map again and again, and came to the reluctant conclusion that someone had actually bothered to go to Google Maps to place a marker, but had not bothered putting it in the right place.

I rack my brains every time this happens, trying to deduce the mentality that leads someone to make such an effort with a result that is worse than had they just done nothing (I fixed it).

On my way home, I stopped for coffee at Baristas. I pulled my bike up to the curb, kicked out the side-stand, switched it off, got off, pulled my helmet off and when I started walking away the security guard, who’d been sitting there watching me the whole time said: “You can’t park here”

Surely my intent to park the was apparent from the moment I pulled up, or perhaps more obvious when I kicked out the stand and leaned the bike over, but definitely when I turned off the engine, and I absolutely don’t plan on re-parking it anywhere after I’ve stood up and got off – but no. He waited until I’ve removed my helmet and started to walk off before he said something. Exactly the same thing happened only yesterday – it happens so often. I try to laugh it off but often fail and sound like a manic pirate: “Haha-har-harrr-arrgh!”

Pull this handle.

I think one explanation for the general theme of this directionless drive to do could be the notion of ‘dharma’ – which is your life’s purpose, doing what you’re meant to do. Dharma doesn’t care how efficiently you do something, it relates more to being in a continual state of doing whatever it is you were born to do, as well as you were destined to, until you die. Getting stuff done early doesn’t mean there’s any less stuff to do. If you did do it, then you’ll reincarnate into an even cooler caste with yet another dharma. There’s no escaping it, life after life, and aspiring to escape your destiny within this life is almost disrespectful.

Sure, people break free from the restraints of caste and rise to dizzying heights like the Ambanis, but it is much more common to go down the caste system than up. Climbing takes hard will, courage and lots of luck. Falling is as easy as having cow blood thrown on you, marrying wrong, getting raped or even divorced. In short, acting out of turn is more likely to send you down the ladder than up. In India, innovation is infrequently encouraged.

Pull the other one!

So I went in to buy my coffee and noticed that the glass door has a “Pull” sticker on the outside of the door, and another “Pull” sticker inside – but it’s a swinging door and can go either way, and anyway, neither side has a handle, so in effect neither can be pulled, nor need they be.

Maybe he could have put a push sticker on both sides, it’d easier to do with a coffee in your hand, but why did he bother at all?

Because that was his job. The fact that this swinging door doesn’t need stickers doesn’t change the fact that his purpose in life includes adding stickers to doors.

I was shooting a TV commercial recently, and the costume guys always love to help me get dressed. I assure them that putting on clothes is something I can and do do frequently without them,  but they are determined to help; even if that help consists of them holding my fingers and causing me to fumble as I thread my belt through the loops in my pants, all the while saying:

“It’s fine. No really, I’ve got this. Please, let go. You aren’t helping. You’re actually making it harder”.

But the costume wallah has a purpose. Part of what makes dharma a righteous path is the fact that sometimes it’s a challenge. Many obstacles will pop up to deter you from your purpose, but if you’re born into a job (as castes often are – and named so – Mr. Sodabottleopenerwalla) then you’d bloody well better do it, regardless of how pointlessly irritating it might be.

It must be noted that the excessive amounts of wasted effort do seem to keep everyone rather busy, doing and undone-ing things that took a lot of doing and didn’t need getting done in the first place. It’s a wonderful system that seems to support an unimaginable number of people.

Many Kakapo birds only gets laid once, AND THAT'S WHEN THEY'RE AN EGG! - Zing.

It’s ecological. If one billion people suddenly became efficient, if they only did things that needed doing, and did them right the first time, then I recon an overwhelming number of lovely Indian people would quickly find themselves unemployed and starving to death.

The Socialist Party of India recognized this, and rather brilliantly suggested that India ban English in schools, computers in offices and all farm machinery, which would send it back into the dark ages.

Inefficiency and absurdity might be an evolutionary result of overpopulation, much like how New Zealand’s Kakapo bird, which has evolved in an environment devoid of predators, has dealt with overpopulation by becoming fat, flightless, and amazingly inefficient at mating. Those factors are now sending it close to extinction, a fate unlikely to face Indians anytime soon.

*I must note that my observations are the subject of personal opinion, and in this are predominantly about traditional Indian culture – and are not at all about Indians in any kind of intrinsic, genetic sense. I am also not making a negative value judgment about it. Yes, it annoys me, but that doesn’t make it bad, it just means that I don’t get it. I hope you’re only mildly offended.

Technorati Tags: Bollywood, hinduism, India, People, politics, rationality, religion

"A burning bus? Perhaps over there."

There exists in Mumbai a nearsighted and rather unpleasant bunch of radicals who revile my very existence within their beautiful city. They want foreign actors out of Bollywood (that’s me).

They are the Shiv Sena – Lord Shiva’s Army  and the MNS – political groups by name, violently quarrelsome by nature.

It behooves a writer to remain apprised of the legal ramifications of writing anything at all in India, because sedition laws are arbitrarily enforced and rather ambiguously defined as anything that “excites or attempts to excite hatred contempt or dissaffection“( - Wikipedia)

If anyone reading this gets excited or feels a smidge of contempt, then I’m going to jail for life – so please don’t. Sedition, in my opinion, is the most dangerous law in India – for exposure of real wrongs often leads detention or expulsion, as was the case with my friend who wrote of the Dalit murders in Gujarat and was summarily deported.

Let’s be mindful of that and carry on…

Bal Thackeray started the Shiv Sena and ran for a while a respectable right-wing, religious political party concerned with supporting the local Marathi people in whose state Mumbai stands. He was about ensuring jobs, health systems, pensions and education exclusively to Marathis, his ‘Sons of the Soil’.

They have a hard-line Hindu and regional agenda, and dislike all things non-Marathi – including shop signs spelled in English.

The Shiv Sena love whacking day

Bal’s son Uddhav Thackeray took over the Shiv Sena which used to riot against migrant workers from other states, bash North Indian rickshaw drivers and the like, pelt stones at police headquarters, voice support for accused Hindu terrorists, they’ve smashed shops and torn down billboards and generally caused a ruckus in order to get in the media, at which point they invariably react against the channel for the negative coverage. It’s a wonderful self-perpetuating cycle.

The Shiv Sena started going mainstream to gain support from a larger nationwide Hindu party, the BJP – which meant they had to stop bashing migrants (but not necessarily Muslisms). As a result, Bal’s nephew Raj Thackeray started a splinter organisation seeking more radical reforms – they are called the ‘Marathi Manoos’ – the MNS.

So now there are two crews both seeking votes from the same people, they attract attention to themselves by engaging in more and more brazen public displays of brute power – often leading to in-fighting between the two groups.

The BJP: Perhaps education should be higher on their agenda

Then the BJP lost a national election, probably because they were corrupt and their policies were near-sighted and focused more on oppressing Muslims than running the country…

So the BJP and the Shiv Sena rioted against Australians for being such prejudiced and bigoted violent morons. They were helped along by the Indian media, which much prefers to be spoon-fed its sensationalist propaganda rather than doing real reporting (probably for fear of sedition laws).

Funny thing that only a few months before, the same group were beating North Indians for migrating to Mumbai, and now they’re upset because North Indians are being beaten in Australia. The group that revile outsiders and assault newcomers are also angry when degenerate, disorganised, drunk youths in Australia do exactly the same thing. Are they scared their jobs have been outsourced?

Now they’re back to being racist: The Manoos want all us foreign actors out of Bollywood – get this: Because we’re stealing Indian jobs. I have not yet met an Indian that can do my job, because my job is to be not Indian. I’m not a particularly exceptional actor, I’m not wildly attractive, I’m not even that skilled, I don’t dance or sing. I’m a single-threat: I’m just white. Who’s job do I steal?

Make up your minds, which do you despise: Racism or foreigners?

Their current claim is against Hazel Crowney because they claim she’s dancing in a provocative way that Indian girls wouldn’t, and tugging at the threads of Indian moral fibre. It’s clear that they know this already, but you might not: Indian movies don’t show sexy white girls flouncing about because Indian girls won’t do it, they show foreigners because that’s what Indians like to watch. The women watch it and think: “Ugh, sluts” and the men pitch pants tents – behaviour neither gender like to associate with good Indian girls.

Indian girls will do a multitude of things to get their beautiful, sensual bodies onto the big screen – and dancing provocatively definitely comes under that broad and intentionally ambiguous banner. Rakhi Sawant started the protest, but clearly her interests aren’t value-based:

Hazel Crowney: They're calling for her head

Rakhi Sawant: Principled instigator

Tell me again – which Indian values were they protecting?

The Shiv Sena recently charged onto the set of a shoot for the film ‘Crooked’, and demanded to see employment visas from the 136 foreigners on the shoot. I know every Bollywood Gora that has a visa – and there ain’t 136 of us. Bollywood runs on making its scenes exotic and foreign with cheap tourist labour extras. It can’t run without them.

These riots will serve to send more films overseas to shoot to avoid them, taking money right out of the pockets of all Mumbaikars who drive and light and serve chai and food to those who paint sets and clothe Bollywood. Their campaign would be short-sighted and flawed, if it were legitimately aimed at improving the lives of Marathis – but it isn’t, it’s aimed at getting publicity – and it’s working.

I love this country – but sometimes it gives me the shits (pun intended).

Perhaps it is me.

Perhaps my desire to become a part of the Indian fabric is mislaid. I had always seen India’s best values were the welcoming and inclusive nature of the people, how peaceful they are. I’d always felt that the laid-back, near-enough’s good enough, slow life seemed more ecological than ours – far more interested in things like a good laugh, an engaging (and intrusive) conversation or even silent company. They’ll stare, they’ll care, they’ll help even if they can’t.

This country holds the greatest potential of all on this earth. With some tweaks to turn the knowledge based education system to teach skills, a good corruption enema and a bit of cultural progression (in terms of womens rights and that stuff) – it will be the next superpower. Indians almost always speak more languages than you do, speak English better than you do, they wrap their agile brains around new languages, new concepts and new ideas with envy-inspiring speed, they have open hearts and kind minds, and there are a billion of them.

That was what I thought India was about, generosity, hospitality and intelligence – but apparently these guys are the last word on what’s Indian and according to them it’s all about the violence, stupidity and racism.

Perhaps it’s time for me to move on.

Technorati Tags: Bollywood, foreign, hindu, India, maharashtra navnirman sena, mns, politics, racism, religion, shiv sena, thackeray, white actors

I went and saw:

Ahh, Dharma productions – good on you! You made a film about a billion times better than ‘From Paris with Love’ – SHAME ON YOU TRAVOLTA! Naughty mega-star!

After Dostana (which I appeared in, briefly) I was wondering whether Karan Johar was ‘tackling the issue’ of homosexuality and its perception in India, or if he was just cashing in on it for cheap laughs. That fear subsided when I went to see My Name is Khan and was pleased to see a balanced and important representation of Islam and autism.

It’s pretty brave to tackle two issues at once, because it requires delicacy to describe which of the character’s behaviours belong to which issue. It is so easy to turn either into a caricature, as is often done with Tourette’s syndrome. Karan Johar and Shah Rukh Khan have done a masterful job into depicting an accurate and insightful representation of both, and I commend them for that.

SRK plays Rizwan Khan (Khan – ‘KH’ – from the epiglottis), who is the autistic son of a Muslim single mother. He grows up in India experiencing the difficulty of being an outcast, but eventually rises above the challenges of his condition and moves to America to become a traveling beauty product salesman. That’s where he meets Mandira (played by Kajol). Obviously, they fall in love but their love is torn asunder by radical American anti-Islamic sentiment (you’ll hear my voice saying ‘Get out of my country’ at one point – I did some background dubbing). Anyway, let’s get to my point.

Karan Johar, Shah Rukh, Kajol and Tarun Mansukhani (who directed Dostana and plays a store owner at the end of his tether) are all incredibly brave for even attempting to represent Islam. In India, radical power hungry clerics, politicians like Bal/Uddhav/Raj Thackery are almost always going to kick up a stink about any issue.

Be it the dangerous and divisive Shiv Sena getting angry that Islam is being shown as peace-loving; be it Islamic groups complaining about being depicted as warlike or disabled; or be it politicians using India’s terrible sedition laws to stifle freedom of expression claiming that the film shows India in a poor light; someone is sure to complain.

The Shiv Sena did threaten to riot and called for a boycott against the opening of the film, partly because they are Hindu extremists opposed to a film about Islam, and partly because the lead actor SRK said he though Pakistani players should be allowed to play cricket in India. If you ask me, they did it to stay in the headlines.

Shiv Sena Rioting against the release of MNiK

Religion in India is a serious issue, for many people it’s more important to them than family (we see hints of this in the film when Muslim Khan marries Hindu Mandira), for some it’s more important than their own life. It’s a scary thought – but it speaks to the emotional and dedicated nature of Indian people. I just hope for a day soon when Indian people will direct their love and dedication towards more positive means, because I see religion as a divisive force. It brings fear, feelings of powerlessness, hurt, pain and violence to everyone – theists and atheists alike.

Religions almost entirely full of wonderful, caring people who want to express their love through acts of kindness like Rizwan, who goes to the aid of poor black Christians stranded by a hurricane in Georgia. They are grateful and humble and want to dedicate their existence to something else – they are selfless.

But, there are always a few people who use the power of belief to support their own ends, and they always do it with violence and division. This character is played in MNiK by a extremist Muslim doctor who preaches violence, but they are ones in every religion. Religion offers power over the masses, and stunted by their inability to reason against doctrine, that control entices dangerous false prophets.

Atheists are almost impossible to herd in the same manner, because we are like cats: Fickle with our affection for authority, but (hopefully) tenacious in our hunger for truth and universal ethics. In Scandinavia, it’s easy to be Atheist, almost everyone else is. India is another matter.

I was massively impressed by Tarun Mansukhani when I recently saw him tweet: “I am an atheist. I don’t believe in god. I believe that I am answerable to my family and to my friends… Right here. Right now.” – because he is an Indian, living in India (the most religious country in the world) working in an industry that invites attention from all areas. He really is at the forefront of a change that will make India even greater, with acceptance of all, regardless of sexuality, devoid of division.

Dharma has released a tastefully made film that is worthy of International audiences. With the exception of its length (I still think Indian films are too long) and a tiny quirk of editing that occurs around a twist near the end of the film (no spoilers here), the whole film was a joy to watch. The computer effects were subtle, the performances memorable, and the point unmistakeable.

We are all people. Hum hai insaan. Bharat mahan hai.

India is great – Indian people are warm, generous and they are fantastic hosts. I wish my Australian countrymen would start to show them the same hospitality, perhaps we could learn to treat our guests like gods, as Mamooty said to me in Pazhassi Raja: “Atithi Devo Bhavah“

Technorati Tags: Bollywood, India

I wrote this many moons ago, and sent it as a group mailout to my friends and family. People seemed to like it, so I reproduce it here for you, personally, whoever you are. There aren’t many photos, unfortunately.

So after finally succumbing to exhaustion and losing my battle for wakefullness I drifted off at 11 PM dreaming about the bedbugs that were crawling over my bed in a variety of colours and sizes. Like clockwork they had emerged at 10:30, and crawled nonchalantly into sight. Bedbugs are parasites that grow the size and shape of ladybeetles, they feed on blood and lay eggs in luggage. I’m 6 foot 3 inches. The room end to end was 6 foot 3 inches, and narrower. I chopped my fingers on the low fan repeatedly. My bed sheets would tangle me, and bedbugs bite me, and cause me to stretch and roll in subconscious complaint, my feet would push off the wall at the foot of my bed and clunk my head into the opposite wall. They pop disturbingly easily, the bedbugs particularly if they move sluggishly after engorging themselves on my blood.

At 12:30 my agent, Nasir called. He was downstairs with my contract. I decided not to wake up but visit him anyway, and found he’d sneezed on a net-café keyboard, printed out the results of the short-circuit and called it a contract. I used my catatonic state to excuse myself for forgetting all Ray had taught me in contracts lectures (which turned out to be fortunate, later) I signed it and returned to bed and continued to sleep until my alarm went off at 4:30 and rudely advised I start my bike and head to Poona. I was not shat on by a bird that day.

Even in the light with a GPS and the ability to astral travel while at the controls of a 14 year-old Enfield, people find it dangerous and near-impossible to escape from Bombay. I was in the dark at 5 in the morning, with no map, no clue, and with a consiousness stuck in my head which was attached to my body, which was lost on a bike and stuck the annals of Bombay after 2 hours. Half-way out my bike cuts out, and I spend 15 minutes impressing onlooker taxi- wallahs with my ability to strip wires and link them like a bomb expert, minus the threat of being blown up (more on being blown up later).

I weaved through the early bird truckers, potholes and cattle to find the expressway that lead to Poona. I got on it and loosened the reins of my Lauda, and sent her cracking down the highway. I’d been on the expressway about 4 klicks when a man in a reflective vest and a uniform waved at me and blew his whistle. I’d dealt with cops before, I knew how they worked, I knew I could deal with this situation. I waved back and wiggled my head as I accelerated past him. 2 klicks later another friendly man decided to welcome me to the roadway, and presumably radioed ahead to invite his friends to express their hospitality. Four welcoming parties later I was overcome by curiosity and tired from continually accelerating away from such friendly folk I stopped to have a chat with one.

“Gari blargen fleegen blot”

he barbled convincingly.

“What?’

“Bike going nor allowed”

“I know, but I fixed it myself in Bombay, and she seems to be permitting it at the moment. By the way, I’m Australian.”

“Ricky Ponting?”

“That’s it.”

“Big fine bike going this way.”

“Yeah, real fine, I was doing 120 when I passed your last mate.”

“Eleven hundred rupees”

“Ricky Ponting?”

“Okay you go. Tollbooth, left. No pay anyone! Australia great team.”

“I’ll let them know, cheers mate”

The highway security let me go and get caught by the cops. They bust me and cost me ten Aussie dollars to leave, which turned out to be a bargain, because they suggested I buy some dodgy paperwork, fake licences and cheaper Enfields from cops in the future. After we’d all exchanged names and laughed about how much white folk get ripped off in India, I was allowed to leave. Wow, what a boring paragraph. Basically, the dramas started early and easy.

I arrived at the resort at 12:30. After leaving the expressway and rattling past the ‘highway’ traffic for 7 hours. It should have taken 4 hours. Shut up, stop whingeing, Harry. No, don’t: I arrived and asked the hotel staff to find out what room I had an get a ‘boy’ to help me exterminate the parasites hiding in all my luggage. The hotel staff didn’t want to let me into a room, and much less wanted to help me with my pest problem. I sat in the 40 degrees celcius heat for 6 hours hand-washing my clothes. Samira Reddy (the gorgeous female lead of the film) greeted my warmly and asked what I was up to. She was impressed that I could describe my problem in Hindi, but much less impressed that I was describing a pack full of bloodsuckers that were capable of crawling to her room and feasting on her fabulous flesh in the dark (I guess after spending so much time together the critters and I were beginning to share consciousness). After waiting for 6 hours I was welcomed into the empty room I’d been sitting outside for the past 6 hours. At 10 they knocked at my door and moved me into Richard’s room. Oh, that’s right, of the 18 goras present, I am the only one that has ridden a horse aside from at a fairground or merry-go-round.

Arch enemies sizing one another up - You may recognise my opponent as the gate-guard in Slumdog Millionaire

Seeing the set for the first time was an overwhelming, almost religious experience. We trundled up to a 200 year-old fort and walked inside. We passed through a massive wooden doorway into the outer area of the fort. The costume department had set up there, and the metal tour cases full of costumes were lined neatly in rows under everyone’s feet. People were everywhere, very very busy at doing very very little. I was lead through the menacing front doors, which had been adorned with enormous steel spikes, past lighting equipment, chai- wallahs, other actors, directors, electrical cables, general public and their chai-wallahs to another atrium where a mismatched hodge-podge of sepoy warriors stood.

I was led to my horse, which stamped uneasily in front of two wiggly columns of my native Sepoy troops. I checked the stirrup leathers and lengthened them, but because the speckled mare was so small my stirrups were barely off the ground when I mounted up, so I was instructed to shorten them again. When a Hindi voice called over the loudspeaker and presumably ordered my comically inept Sepoy troops to form up, they bounded up from their chai-drinking and collided with one another while trying to fall in.

Notice spiffy hat and real sword

I was instructed to set the horse off from one room, through an archway (which I had to duck to get through without taking off my head or spiffy hat) gallop into the next room and the action. There, men were sword fighting, pointing rifles at one another, falling over dead and generally having a ball of a time. The crew crouched in every nook and cranny, holding teetering set-lights, serving chai, looking for people, being looked for, being looked after and looking on.

I had a corridor of calm that was a metre and a half wide which led from one door to another, I had to gallop down this narrow corridor after the hero and heroine, and before my troops. The hero and heroine were to dash through the adjoining door into a small alcove, and climb immediately up on a ledge to avoid getting trampled by my horse or my litter of troops.

First practice resulted in my terrified mare backing away from the hubub in the next room and into my troops, sending them scattering for cover and more chai. Next went a little better, though the flint-lock replica pistol I carried was deemed too wimpy, so the action director suggested I use my sword. My sword was a full-on pukka replica of a cavalier’s sword. It weighed the earth, and though it wasn’t sharpened to a blade, the tip was sharp enough to prove a point. It was a metre and a half long, and incredibly difficult to draw or sheath while on horseback. As a result I kept it in my hand during the generation-long breaks and hold-ups, which struck me as dangerous, but as no-one else shared my opinion I could rest it at eye-height without any recrimination.

Finally we were ready for the first take. I raised my sword, tightened the reigns and lifted my toes to the shortened stirrups and waited for the call. “Keep this nice and clean, gents” I addressed my men. “And stay clear of me until I’m through” The action call came and everybody jumped up and re-enacted their well-practiced sequence of dramatic deaths and poor gun ettiquette until and my cue came.

I dug my heels into my steed and spanked her hard on the rump with my sword. She stood momentarily on her back feet then set off at a gallop through the archway. As I was ducking through the door into the other room, the gunfire started. The crack and echo of rifle fire shook the smoke in the air. An enormous explosion went off 3 metres to my left. The horse stayed on course to the next archway but I look down and Samira Reddy is nearly under my horse’s knees.

As soon as she disappeared into the archway I noticed a peculiar vine-like white growth on the fort’s wall, spiraling and separating up to the edge of the door I was approaching nanosecond by nanosecond. Suddenly the alien growths exploded at the tips and showered sparks into my horse’s face. The terrified mare stops on a dime, and I slide forward on the slick dressage saddle, fortunately saved from face-planting painfully into a wall by my testicles, which found significant purchase on the pummel of the saddle.

“Ino!” “Kitter eh Ino!?” I screamed.

“What is problem, Harry?” The stunt co-ordinator asked with irritation.

“Why the fuck didn’t anyone tell me there were going to be explosions!?” I calmly enquired

“Yes, explosions good” He offered hopefully.

“What is so hard about speaking English to me and telling me you’re going to try to blow me up!?” I queried.

“I already tell you” He tries, but the sword I had pointed at him calmly suggested that he was mistaken.

Concerned looks appeared on the faces of the lingusitic Indians around me.

“No one tells you?” One particularly on-the-ball chai-wallah guessed.

“No, not a fucking word!” I translate to him: “Kuch fucking bola nahin!”

I trot indignantly back to the safety of the chaotic chai room reiterating my point and pointing my sword in an irate manner. One of the army of directors walks in and instructs my troops to not point their guns at each other, at least not while running, and to avoid colliding with one-another as much as possible. The dying men had to leave enough room for me to gallop past, and could that one at the back with the enormous mustache give his gun to the gun- wallah to inspect rather than peering hopefully down the barrel. I wheeled around from on high and asked if he had any notes for me. “No, no, perfect, fine”

We continued doing takes of the scene from different angles late into the night, and every successive change put more people dramatically dying on my sacred corridor, explosions closer to me, and brought more white-hot set lights in for me to weave past. My starting position is moved from the safety of the chai-room to inside the enemy’s camp. We all stood around sweating in the steaming heat that rose from the two enormous cauldrons that spat and boiled over twin campfires. Oh yes, two real cauldrons, actually boiling, over two pukka campfires, one in front of my horse’s left shoulder, and the lightly warming the right side of her stomach. Everyone, including Samira’s gorgeous stunt-double, appeared to be on the verge of tears because the wood burning on the fires was still too green to burn cleanly.

I was starting to relax when a lighting techie started shooing my horse off his electrical cable so he can move it further from the fire which was threatening a massive electrical and longevity malfunction for many appliances, animals and people that stood teary-eyed around a cauldron brim-full of boiling conductive liquid. Another techie decided that my corridor-monopoly had been unchallenged for too long, and moved his light tree into my path. He obviously thought this wasn’t in violation of the corridor treaty because the foot of the tree was out of the corridor, even though the large tube-light panel was exactly where my torso should have been. I asked for it to be moved in Hindi, French and English, but people assured me that his right to the corridor is a fair and justified fight.

The lighting tree stayed, but that take was ruined because I missed it so narrowly that the draft caused by my path swung the light tree and upset the shot. “Harry, don’t go so close to light”. Don’t. Do not walk towards the light. And definitely don’t gallop at it with a heavy, metal, conductive sword. Even if by chance you do successfully skewer it one of the following four takes as a gallant, defiant, offensive in the War for the ‘Dor, you will probably find that the techies union has done something cunning like rigged the entire flimsy box with live electrical wires, photon gas and glass.

There are some less enjoyable moments on set though. They are usually calmer, kinder, and much less dangerous – like when Samira came and fed myself and my horse. She brought glucose biscuits for the horse, and a visual feast for me. She was stunning, made up as a warrior goddess, her shining black hair rippled and glimmered to her waist, her heart-stopping eyes shone with dark, determined make-up artistry.

“You aren’t trying to seduce my horse are you?” I blurt clumsily. Big mistake. Indians don’t get sarcasm, rhetorical questions or sexual innuendo. Her dark determined eyes morph into concerned-for-your-mental-state eyes, and search mine for the cause of such insanity that seemed to say: “Do you foreigners seduce horses?”

That night we met the man playing General Skinner. Jason was about 28, 5 foot 5 inches, hadn’t ridden a horse in his life and didn’t know a word of Hindi. They were looking for a tall, muscular man in his late thirties, an able horseman, and a fluent Hindi speaker. That’ll teach them for casting someone from England 3 days before the shoot! Maybe not, lessons seem to be learnt best in India if they are learnt repeatedly, which gives us Westerners the suspicion that they are never learnt at all. After a very enjoable, fully paid boozy night we were shipped off to the shoot the next afternoon.

Skinner’s first scene was to gallop a horse down an alley and fire a pistol. I am to ride next to him and point my sword commandingly (and dangerously). After everyone but Skinner got to practice the scene 40 times, we went for a take. The action call came and Irfan, the hero, galloped down the alley, shot Jon the gora, turned and galloped off through an archway, followed by Samira. His band of warriors moved an oxcart across the archway to block our path.

Skinner and I rode up to the oxcart, but again there was a din of gunfire and Skinner’s horse wasn’t keen on charging into it. He urged it closer and closer to the archway, as seconds of empty screen-time ticked by. A trained horseman and stunt-rider would know that one is meant to fire over one’s shoulder, perpendicular to the horse, while tugging its head in the opposite direction so as to distract it from the muzzle-flash. That trained stunt-rider would have gripped with his knees and practice repeatedly with a horse that was trained for the task and didn’t mind explosions.

Skinner became impatient with the horse and leant forward and fired the pistol directly over the horse’s head, between its ears. The crackle of the other warriors’ rifle fire was deafened by the loud report that emanated from the flintlock in Skinner’s hand. The cotton wadding in the horse’s ears didn’t do much to dull the impact even I could feel from 2 metres away, nor stop it from freaking out from the massive muzzle-flash directly into its eyes. Strangely enough, the horse turned on the spot and bolted, throwing Skinner painfully to the wall before galloping flat-chat towards the crowds of policemen, local public, union officials and chai- wallahs that were looking on.

Jason was understandably shaken and wanted nothing more to do with the work of trained stunt-riders. After a little hubub the director decided to use Jason’s stunt-double for the shot. I nearly fell of my horse laughing when I heard he’d had a stunt-double all along, and the stunt double had been doing nothing but drinking chai during the stunt scene.

How strange! No, it wasn’t really, because Jason’s stunt double was by far a worse horseman than Jason. Whenever his horse moved a step he would fearfully hunch forward over it’s neck and pull on its reins, instructing it to stop or back up, while simultaneously kicking it and telling it to go forward. Once it got going he would stick his legs out to the side and lift his arms high in the air and bounce uncomfortably in the saddle, still with the loaded flintlock pointing around dangerously as he slid in and out of control.

His poor handling of the horse meant that he had it continually stirred into a state of panic and confusion, so that it reacted by stamping in circles or rearing onto its hind legs. “You lucky, you get good horse” He commmented after one take (yes, he was Indian). No, mate, this horse is lucky to have me, because you’ve almost blown yours’ ear off three times.

After the day’s shooting we went back to the resort, where 5 professional actors are waiting. They were all upset about having to share rooms and not being pampered enough, and are quite mortified when they learn that they’ll have to ride horses after hearing Jason’s description of the shoot. They all decide to pack up and leave the next morning. I thought it was a bit weak, having come all the way from London to turn around and go home having not even seen the set or experiencing the adventure of being thrown from a horse or shot at.

The poms, as promised, left the next morning. Nothing can stop them. Nothing could take them, either, as a union of gari-wallahs were refusing to drive anywhere, and some security-wallahs were refusing to open the compound gates. They stamped about and gesticulated with varying vocabulary ability about conditions and contracts, horses and hotels; they whinged about the weather, postulated about the production and generally caused a ruckus of righteous rhyming ridicule that is enjoyable to write rightly and annoying to read wrongly.

Jason, understandably, is out of there. He’s been to war, and isn’t too keen on it. The others seem generally shocked by the entire country, and appear as if they have been checking all the exits since arriving in India. A hearsay story about a dead horse (which may or may not have been flogged, post-mortem), some animated retellings of the dramas of the previous day, and being forced to share a room is all it took to send five professional actors all the way back to England with no pay and no new experiences.

They left after waiting in the stinking, complaining, blisteringly ignorant heat for 4 hours, and then the shit hit the fan. Even if the shots scheduled for two days before get taken that day, the 750,000 rupee set for the next scene still wasn’t ready, and all their actors left. No-one had been paid in 2 days. The production team had already been replaced twice, and the catering team all went on strike and were replaced by three scared young local boys. Tensions rise and I went as an envoy to the production- wallahs to discuss our concerns (‘we’ are the India-based foreigners). A pudgy Indian man stands up to my navel and started shouting at me:

“You… we… bumgobby… wating… time…blargen… fucking guy …..money….” He said cryptically.

“Who are you? Sit down and don’t swear at people you’ve just met.”

“Blargen bumgobby didn’t mean upsetting”

“Will you sit down and shut up? I don’t have time to listen to your foul mouth”

“But I said sorry!”

“I don’t care, get out of my sight!” I boomed at him in my dad’s voice.

The poor man vibrated momentarily and then burst into tears. I felt horrible. Two men sprung from their chairs and supported his weakening frame and led him away, blubbing like a baby. It was fortunate though, for he learned his lesson. When Jose stepped up later to protest loudly at the door to the production room, the same fiery little pocket-rocket chose to swear in Hindi. All were happy, for the malignant mustached midget again had the chance to shoot his mouth off, and Jose could ignore implications that he fornicated with his own sister (bahinchud, for those who are curious). No shooting is done that day.

Next day, no shooting. No more shooting at all. No getting shat on by birds, either. My position as go-between for the goras and the production-wallahs backfired. The goras blamed me for not getting paid, and being held hostage by the security- wallahs; and the production-wallahs blamed me for not keeping the crazy white folk under control. I clamly pointed out to them that I lied at my audition, and I am not 30. I am 23, and that makes me the youngest person present by 13 years, and completely incapable of controlling my goras after someone told them they weren’t allowed to leave the compound, and probably never getting paid. Eventually they were given a lift to Poona and paid, all except me, who had paid off Jose 6000 rupees to come back to the set after he stormed off on day two. I was told to collect my money in Bombay. I never did.

We spend 4 days in Poona. I spent the part-payment on fixing my coughing bike, and was about to head to Bombay when I hear some unfortunate news. The producer was thrown (or jumped) from his office block yesterday.

Post script: The producer was harassed by the unions, who were all angry about not getting paid. Apparently while drunk he was visited at home by some more goondahs, and he threatened to throw himself from his balcony unless they left him alone. The goondahs didn’t, so he did. The fall broke his hip and his jaw and had him in traction for 11 months.

Hello returning readers, and welcome newcomers. I’m an Australian Bollywood actor, and I’ve been away from the blogging for a while now, but have come back into the fray with an epic one, a big blog. I am committed to writing now, and you are welcome to hold me to that. For all of the abovementioned purposes, to offer suggestions, feedback or complaints, e-mail me at: blogs@harrykey.com

Me posing on my bike in Nepal

“Are you sure I need the fake tan up that high?” I asked, “I thought I was going to be wearing board shorts.”
“You haven’t seen the costume?” the make-up artist asked innocently, “They are very short shorts.” He continued to graze my privates with his knuckles. I didn’t know he was lying until he’d finished smearing me with brown goo and sent me to put on my costume. The board shorts came to my knees.

He really shouldn’t do that, me and Lee agreed (the make-up artist had reached into Lee’s boxers and offered to kiss his thingy) – but we couldn’t decide what to do about it. We decided that the three valid options were to have punched him in the face immediately, but that opportunity had passed and we agreed punching him now would seem inappropriate; We could discuss it with the producers, have him publicly shamed, possibly fired; Or we could just pretend like nothing had happened. Brushing aside what we wanted to do, we agonized on what one should do, and it set me to thinking about this concept ‘should’.

Indians don’t behave as if there is a way the world ‘should’ be. In Hindi there isn’t even a specific word for it. The word for ‘should’ and ‘want’ is the same – ‘chaiye’ which makes no distinction between what you want to do about being molested and what you should do about being molested.

To westerners, ‘should’ is an almost theocratic term, implying there is one particular way the world ought be, the way a god made it. When there are as many Hindus as there are Hindu gods, ‘should’ becomes a democracy, a collection of desires that cooperate or compete for right of way. The way things should be done is the way you want to do them. If you want it badly enough, then make it happen!

I arrived in India almost four years ago, and after a rather inebriated stay in Goa, I escaped the easy beach life and annoying hippies, bought a bike and rode all over the country. The roads taught me a lot on how to survive India, and life in general. It took thousands of kilometres, countless breakdowns and two crashes to come up with unoriginal sentiments like: “Don’t focus on those things in life that you should not do.” The book The Secret sells that philosophy like it’s actually a secret – a wonderful scam I wish I’d thought of first.

To me, the revelation seemed inescapable: Only too often I’d be riding along, notice a cow dawdling near an ominous pothole – tell myself to hit neither, only to inexplicably hit both. Soon you two might wonder whether it’s your steering or your thinking that needs an adjustment.

A few cows, cliffs and potholes later, I realized that it’s more effective to focus my eyes, wheels, mind, and language on where I want to be going, rather than staring intently whatever I’m trying to avoid.

Louda bogged on the Manali-Leh highway

No segue. Enjoy my meta-writing.

My first proper film experience (after a long and demoralizing stint as an extra) was playing a British officer in a period film (this will become a recurring theme). On the first day of shooting they sat me atop an underfed mule, handed me a sword, and told me to lead the charge into a castle’s courtyard. They called action, and I kicked the horse and burst into the scene at a gallop. Suddenly, and much to my surprise, the room around me erupted in gunfire and explosions. The horse baulked, and I almost went over its head – but luckily was held in place painfully by my testicles. I was understandably upset I hadn’t been warned about the explosions, and insinuated that if anyone were to die, the blame would rest on the stunt director’s head, but no one seemed too concerned. ‘Ah, no harm no foul,’ people seemed to be saying, ‘All’s well that ends well’.

Well, it didn’t end well. The next day, a chap flown from the UK discharged his thrice-loaded pistol from right between his horse’s ears, the horse bolted, he was thrown to the ground and quit the film. The film went into meltdown, the producer skipped town, then threw himself off his own balcony to avoid paying anyone, was in traction for 9 months, and the film was canned. They really should have used stunt men.

India is an amazing cacophony of coincidence and contradiction, and its people are simultaneously the most endearing and befuddling folk one is likely to meet. The fact that I had told the stunt master to warn people about pyrotechnics, that he ignored my advice, that exactly the same thing happened again, causing a chain of events that shut the film down, to him, is immaterial. Theoretically I think I get it, but in reality, it befuddles the fud out of me.

Me just after an attempt on my life

From a functional standpoint I can say that it is clear the man is quite possibly mildly retarded or sociopathic in his disregard for human life – but all I’m doing is working myself into a fit, and ruining a professional friendship by publishing it. That’s just the way he is, and unless I can think of a way to persuade him to adjust his behaviour, there’s no point getting upset about how he isn’t the way I think he should be. I find it a lot easier, however, to accept that he isn’t the way I want him to be – because he doesn’t want to be good at his job. For a nation obsessed with relationships, love, happiness, music and emotions, practical considerations are often just afterthoughts, and causal relationships are often ignored.

Two years on, and I had a chance to work with the same stunt master that tried to blow me up. This time he used a hydraulic catapult to slam me into a train and bust my ankle – so I decided that I was going to look out for myself from then on.

They probably should look after my safety, but they don’t. If I want to live, I must take care myself. I tried to, at a shoot for Pazhassi Raja when a hundred villagers pointed their bows, drawn with steel-tipped arrows at me, I suggested: “Perhaps we should use fake arrows,” but the director liked the authenticity of my fear. Occasionally, when faced with a situation that is beyond my control, I see the allure of resorting to prayer.

I should have been paid for that

Every time I am frustrated by something here, I realize that I’m either frustrated at something I recognize in myself, or I’m frustrated by my own lack of understanding. Both can lead to epiphanies that the hippies on the beaches of Goa, or wierdos in the ashrams of Rishikesh will never reach.

They say they come to India to ‘find themselves’ like it’s meaningful – but it’s a lie, if they were truthful they would admit: They come here to lose themselves, to hide from their dead-end job; a failed marriage, an arrest warrant, or their own crippling ineptitude, and there are only a few exceptions. They go to a quiet place, smoke fistfulls of ganga, sit in the lotus position and talk to us mere mortals about enlightenment like it’s something they will ever experience. I’m sure you know the kind – they constantly describe their dreams, actually believe in horoscopes, and start way too many sentences with “I’m the kind of person that…”

These arrogant snobs fail to realize that anyone can be at peace with themselves and reality if they’re totally separated from both. The trick is accepting others, and yourself for all your annoying flaws and contradictions; living in the world with all its confusion and chaos and being at peace with that. The reason India is the birthplace of meditation is because it’s so chaotic. Finding inner peace is the only possibility when the outer place is pandemonium.

Soon after, you’ll see that same hippie in the visa office or some similar bureaucratic nightmare, forced from their smoky sanctuary of serenity to stand in line (in a caste oriented society where queues are treated as purely optional), they wait endlessly only to have the bureaucrats contradict and confuse them, as people push in front of them, and the feeble fans fail to cool them, watch their enlightenment melt and then boil. Watch as they spout racist tirades and fume about how the world should be, and you’ll realize they haven’t accepted it as it is.

The hippies desire to have things be different is just as egotistical as mine – but at least I don’t wear dreadlocks, a sweatshop-made ‘Om’ bag and a mass-produced Che Guevara T-shirt. Please, hippies: At least make an effort to learn the language and understand the culture, rather than lying in a hammock and thinking about yourself extensively. A thorough investigation of what India is about would have told you what’s wrong with your own mentality – and freed you from that crippling anger that comes from just not getting it. Don’t dress up your confusion as rage against corporate culture or corruption, you don’t need dreadlocks to hate that stuff.

If you want the world to be different, then set about changing it – and until then shut up and stop wasting my oxygen. To desire the world to be different right now is pointless. Right now, as you read this – you have no control over anything that exists or is happening, the chain of events that set things this way already happened. All you can control immediately is how you feel about it. Then, you can decide what you want to do about it, you can cast your pebble now and cause ripples to propagate into the future, into a different now.

Powerful Swing Massager – Gullibility is a huge target market segment.

I can control how I feel about getting molested, but not that I was. I can want to be warned that people will be detonating pyrotechnics while I’m on horseback – and accept that they won’t. I can structure my language – “I want your archers to use fake arrows.” I can want anything at all – because my desires aren’t restricted in the way ‘should’ is. That doesn’t mean I’ll get what I want – but at least I’ll understand why. Then I’ll be able to set about using my want to change things. That understanding makes me at least one step ahead of the hippie in the visa office who keeps shouting “Sab kuch milega!”.

Hippies believe ‘Sab kuch milega’ means ‘Everything is possible’ but milega is not ‘possible’ – it’s more like ‘inevitable.’ It is the future tense of ‘to join’. Every thing will come together; every event will come to pass. If you reincarnate for an eternity, then no doubt that will be the case – but it doesn’t mean the peon in the passport office is going to stamp your visa right now, so go back to your cave and leave reality to those who are willing to accept it.

Know your enemy.

Alternately, you could stop breathing my oxygen, and wait around in the afterlife for a more intelligent incarnation. Gosh how I miss the real hippies – those acid tripping, sex loving, peace defenders who actually stood for something and earned their place in history. They were real.

My life in Bollywood felt like a cycle, with excitement followed by boredom followed by despair, much like Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh (the Creator, the Preserver and the Destroyer) endlessly executing their cycle. After the first exploding castle debacle came The Flag. A racy sex scene, a month in the desert, a fall from a horse and malaria came along before that film went belly-up (the trailer is pretty cool though). It has since finished shooting, been edited and dubbed, but still has not secured a release, and that was years ago. Again and again I’d experience excitement, hope and chaos, followed by boredom, followed by disappointment. Then came Pazhassi Raja.

So I was cast in a film called Pazhassi Raja, named after a king who was basically South India’s William Wallace. I was most excited about being cast, because the two flopped historical epics that had preceded it had given me a tenacious hunger to play a British horse-riding villain on the big screen. A chubby confused little man sneaked me and a few other people out of a shoot for another film, introduced himself as the film’s director, and furtively shot an audition. A follow-up audition in Chennai had introduced us to the real director, Hariharan, and a further follow up meeting he’d told me that I was cast as T.H. Baber.

Beautiful, preened and deadly: T.H.Babe

I was understandably upset when I arrived at the magnificent St Angelo fort in Kerala on my first day for shooting, only to find that my role had been given to someone else. I went a few interesting shades of purple and asked through gritted teeth why I’d traveled 8 hours to be rejected. Hariharan’s son Anand told me that they weren’t really sure if they wanted to change their mind back to me again, so he’d called both of the actors down to re-audition us in costume. As my most empathetic reader might imagine, this somewhat enraged me. The cranky pants were on. Luckily the role required a cranky looking guy, so I re-got the part.

Hariharan has directed countless successful Malayalam films, but this had always been his white whale. He’d been planning on making it for 20 years, so it’s hardly surprising that the shoot, which was originally scheduled to take three months, ended up taking three years. It became the most expensive film in the history of Malayalam cinema, costing the producers Shri Gokulam Gopalan a whopping 250 million rupees.

As a result of some predictably sluggish bureaucracy, I spent the day of the premiere sitting in the Indian Embassy in Sydney begging for my visa. I was there for Melbourne cup day too. I kept going back again and again for 4 months until I showed them my showreel, and the consul general rented out Dostana, and only then was I given a visa. Almost every day after the release, I was googling reviews of Pazhassi Raja.

The unanimous verdict of reviewers was that the film is great. The cinematography, sound, score, and story are all awesome. The only downside seemed to be me – I was described as “woefully wanting” “incompetent” and once more generously as “just passable.” My brother Thomas went to see it, and I much preferred his review, which concentrated more on my hair than my acting skills.

I finally came back to India and down to Kerala, and finally I had a chance to see its 3 hours of glory. Upon arrival at the Cherai Beach Resort, the breakfast waiters asked me if I was the actor from Pazhassi Raja, and then became most excited and asked for autographs. I had come for an NLP course, and after the first day we all sat on the beach getting to know one another. A group of boys came along and asked for a photo – to which I most unabashedly obliged. Then it became clear that they didn’t know who I was, but were just angling for a photo of the blonde girl beside me. I think that fact was lost on the Brits doing the course, and I decided not to disabuse them of the fantasy. Almost everyone in Kerala has seen the film, but the majority don’t recognize me without my fright wig and porn mo.

I talked the others on the course into seeing the film, so one afternoon we went to town to watch it. I purposefully found my way to under a poster of me on horseback, and from there deigned to give out autographs and pose for photos – almost exclusively for the other course participants. We met Peter, who plays the other main British role in the film. He’d lost a lot of weight, and as much was unrecognizable to the throng.

We shuffled into the cinema 5 minutes into the film (which didn’t bother me because I don’t enter until about 30 minutes into it) and noisily got ourselves seated. It is awesome – a truly great film. The cinematography, the score, the sets and most of the costumes are exquisite. Gone are the gaudy colours and silly sound effects, gone were the nonsensical dance sequences and awful sound effects. It is technically classy and epic. The film wasn’t subtitled, so for the most part I had no idea what was being said, but I didn’t need to. Every frame is gorgeous. Sure, there are some slightly silly moments with the wire-fighting and it appears as if the laws of physics have been temporarily suspended for your viewing pleasure, and some of the main actors fail to display the agility that their characters demand, but those moments are short and easy to forget. Then I turn up. Wow. The critics weren’t wrong.

Though I wouldn’t want to describe myself as woeful, the adjective does seem fitting. I don’t really know what happened, because at the time I felt like I was doing a pretty good job, and Hariharan seemed to think so too. He said so! Between under-acting and over-acting, I seem to have created a curious niche where I’m doing both at the same time. Other scenes are less bad, and some aren’t bad at all – or wouldn’t be, if I wasn’t wearing such a crazy wig and weird frilly collars.

I spend a lot of the film just staring intently at things, as if expecting the emotion of the situation to be assumed by the audience rather than observed. I had been working on the idea of keeping my emotions in my head, rather than showing them on my face, as screen acting is often described. What I forgot was that I’m particularly adept at hiding anger, frustration, confusion and sadness when I want to, and being a bit more readable and a little less stiff would make for more interesting viewing. That is a great thing to learn, though there are less public ways to learn it.

Signing autographs for the NLP crew. Photo courtesy of Sue Knight, NLP Guru.

Peter did a great job, using his Royal Shakespeare Company training to its fullest, he plays a horrible murderous grump, and he should be happy that after losing weight he’s not recognizable as ‘That dude we oughta lynch’.

My reception upon exiting the cinema was totally different. Our relatively empty daytime screening came out to see a massive queue for the 9pm session. Many had clearly already seen the film because they recognised me at once. People flocked around me, took photos with me, shook my sweaty hands, told me their names and demanded autographs. Gaggles of giggling girls squealed in delight when I gave them a good eyebrowing, and there was general delight and merriment all around. It was a great experience, something I’d dreamed about for some time. Now I must find a way to use this for some good.

The film’s doing great, Moser Baer has bought the DVD rights, channels are snapping up the TV rights, and it gobbled up all the important awards at the recent International Film Festival of Kerala. I am super excited about that, because that means it’s a shoe in for all number of international festivals – but I also kind of wish it were theatre, that I could do it again, a little differently – or maybe a lot, or just do more with it. Oh hell, I gave it my best and came up short, so maybe I’ll give up acting. Perhaps I’ll become a film critic. Maybe I should really shoot for the stars and become a hippie. But not yet, there are other aspects of mediocrity that I want to explore before I really hit the big time.

Anyway, as a result of being a celebrity, the Swami that’s been teaching me yoga each morning sent out the word, and Kerala’s minister for tourism has asked me to be chief guest at a tourism festival inauguration. I’ll be riding an elephant into the ceremony and giving a speech and posing for the local media. Which reminds me, I really should be working on that speech now.

Oh yeah, and my beloved bike got stolen from Mumbai while I was down here in Kerala. My lovely Louda, who carried me for so far, my trustworthy, reliable, loveable Louda is gone. I have made a rather conscious decision to not obsess over it, even though I do feel like a bit of my heart has been carved out. Being cranky won’t bring it back, nor will it help me accept that she’s gone – so I’m happy. She’s gone, and now I’m hungry for work and eager to buy a bigger, better, faster and even sexier bike. Well, that, and rescue humanity, but first things first.

P.S: Though I wouldn’t be so stupid as to point you towards it, as I wouldn’t stomp on toes by condoning bootlegging and copyright infringement, it still must be mentioned that the full film has been uploded to youtube, and a clever prayer to google will help you watch Pazhassi Raja full online. So don’t do that, wait for the DVD.

Have you seen this bike?

Have you seen this bike?