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.
Brilliant…. love it mate
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