Johnny Gaddaar – Song Sequence in B-Movie

I was thirsting for fame. On this two-day shoot of a catchy music clip for the movie Johnny Gaddaar, I was determined to muscle my way into every frame possible.

I started by chatting up the dancers. On the first day, most were pretty aloof, but that didn’t deter me.

It was in an air conditioned nightclub, but being on my feet for so many hours caused my lower back to belie my true age. Yet when required to dance, I put on my ear-to-ear smile and shook my ass like there was no tomorrow. They took notice. I was moved right to the stage. At the end of one particular take, one dancer shook my hand. Another asked me if I was a professional. I replied that I was as of now.

The following day, which also spanned some sixteen hours, I was right up front dancing away as the hero entered the nightclub. Full frontal. Finally my 15 minutes.

As the day wore on, once nice young dancer gave me the number of a dance instructor in Chennai, where he was from. I could only improve. At this point, I felt I had finally gained the respect of the permanent foreign actors as well. I have pretty good moves for a white Jew-boy, after all.

Most interestingly, I was able to exchange a few words with the script writer at the end of the second day, a lovely woman named Pooja. She thought it was at once cute and strangely intriguing that I had come all the way from Israel to be in Indian showbiz in order to translate the medium to Western audiences. “Most Bollywood movies today are trash,” she told me. I explained that in an industry of 900 plus movies a year, 250 of which are in Hindi, if 90% are garbage, that means 25 good movies annually, or at least two a month. Those were the ones I was interested in. She smiled and said that she had never thought of it that way. I guess that this kind of cultural exchange is indeed a two-way street.

Atria – The Millennium Mall – Commercial

Although I had come to be in movies with big stars, I let myself get roped into one more commercial. This was for the Atria Mall.

I had passed this striking edifice on my way to (losing my since-recovered passport in) Colaba from the airport, and had been suitably impressed. On my previous trip to India five years ago, I had searched in vain for a mall experience worthy of my basest JAP impulses. India had made the leap into the mall age, and I had to see it for myself.

Although by far the most notable mall, it was not the only one I managed to find in my non-sadhu moments. Of note are also the InOrbit mall in far-off Malad, and Infiniti mall in Anheri.

It was the same crew from the day before, which shot Chillz Ice Cream. The director, my namesake was also there. They remembered me as needing only to be instructed once, and asked if I could drive a car. Another moment of triumph put me behind the wheel of a two-seater red Honda sports car, beside a very sweet, blond Norwegian girl. Later, I found out that the car was made at a factory that also produced testosterone on an industrial scale: a V6 2.5 liter engine, and all I had to do for six hours was drive very slowly up and down in front of the entrance. I would rather have really driven that car, preferably on a traffic-free coastal highway, but at least I was sitting down for this portion of the shoot, even though it must have been 35 Celsius outside.

During one of the many waiting periods, I also had the good fortune to meet two exceedingly nice Iranian women. Only one, Azzade, spoke reasonable English, and of course I relished the chance to befriend people from so-called "enemy countries".

As it turns out, Azzade had left Iran some years before, and had taught art in Islamabad, Pakistan for some time. She had briefly returned to Iran , but was shocked at the direction our (true) enemy Mahmoud Ahmedinejad was taking the country. Here she finds herself in India, hoping for asylum. I gave her the Immigration website, and I'm still thinking good visa thoughts for her.

Also present were Paris from the previous day, Zoran the Bavarian from Jodhaa Akbar, and another guy originally from San Francisco. They are part of a group of professional actors that are living long-term in Bombay, making a decent living in this industry. However, my questions about contacts and figures has made them somewhat suspicious of my motives, and rightly so. I can act, dance, speak more Hindi than them, and must strike them as an over-achiever who could easily "threaten" their position if I put my mind to it (a stupid suspicion, if ever there was one). It doesn't help that they have no refuge in a foreign language in my presence. Their gaze reminded me of a feeling I remember from my translator days in Brazil.

All said, the day's shooting went quite well, and I ascertained, by methods just short of Chinese water torture, that with a combination of luck and chutzpah, one could easily earn between $1000 - $3000 a month from acting, not a bad sum for India. With more luck and perseverance, plenty more was possible. I took note.

Hum Tum

This was a favorite movie of mine from a few years back.

In many countries, modernization is often equated with Westernization. For this reason, in the West, such is often considered a good thing, while in the developing world, it is seen as a negative phenomenon to be vigorously combated. Indeed, there are overlapping aspects, however these two concepts are not one and the same.

Let us briefly examine, as an example, the issue of women’s chastity. Social conservatives insist that women be virgins to marry. They often maintain, though less consistently, that men also remain chaste until marriage. But the loss of a man’s virginity is seen as a feather in his cap, whereas a woman cannot be considered for marriage if it is known that she has “a reputation”. Furthermore, although it is not unheard of, extrapolating on the same principle, marriage by a man to a widow, or worse, a divorcee, is often frowned upon. Not just feminists, but social liberals of all stripes generally see this as preposterous, as it dictates a woman’s sexuality for her, applying a double standard, and denying her sovereignty over her own body. To reject this in a socially conservative culture is without a doubt a push towards modernity, although it remains true that this view is already more commonly held in Western countries.

Returning to the sphere of culture and cinema, American domination of entertainment media across the world is without a doubt cultural imperialism. There may be aspects of the same phenomenon when Bollywood cinema takes on overtly Western traits. However, in the case of Hum Tum, no entertainment value is lost, the result is memorably enjoyable, and the social message remains poignant. The problematic aspect of the film lies elsewhere, as we shall see ahead.

True to form, Yash Chopra knows how to spin a love story. Starring the infectiously likeable Saif Ali Khan (world’s most handsome nose) and the incomparable Rani Mukerji (my favorite female lead), this is basically a curry-and-chutney version of When Harry Met Sally. Another of this film’s distinguishing characteristics is terrific animated cartoon scenes, which is a first in Hindi cinema. The animated clips are something like a choir, explaining or interpreting events. One might have thought that content-wise it would be just another inane shtick, of which, I am the first to admit, there is plenty in this cinematic genre. Surprisingly, not just the animation, but indeed the whole movie has almost plausible dialogs that draw you in and really let you identify with each of the characters.

The movie opens with Karan and Rhea at Delhi airport about to catch a flight to New York. They sit together on the plane, and Karan chats Rhea up, in the Don Juan style that marks his character. Karan gets nowhere fast, but on the layover in Amsterdam, they decide to see the sights together. It’s not a date. They split all expenses 50-50. And the on-location footage could easily be endorsed by the Dutch Ministry of Tourism.

Several months elapse and Karan and Rhea meet up again in Central Park in New York, also shot on location. These two hip, modern and Westernized Indians have a very Indian scene where Karan flirts with Rhea’s friend, without realizing who she is, and ends up with egg on his face.

Events progress, and we find ourselves back in Delhi, some years later, with Rhea preparing for her wedding. As it turns out, Karan’s mother is the wedding director, a career that apparently must pay extremely well, based on the lifestyle shown. Indeed, Karan’s mother is an interesting woman insofar as she has been separated from Karan’s father for some seventeen years, and has nonetheless brought up her son and excelled in business. Is this kind of portrayal Western or modern? Here is where the lines blur. I propound that it is an expression of social progress. Not that she is happy with this separation, which, in true Bollywood fashion, is resolved by the film’s end.

But back to the Rhea’s wedding. As it would happen, there is a staff shortage on the day of Rhea’s henna ceremony, and Karan is asked to step in to lend a hand. Still ticked off from the scene in Central Park, Rhea comes around in friendship during an engagingly amusing scene where Karan crashes the all-girls portion of the party. Karan is lounging about with half of the girlfriends, citing great lovers in history that never married, in a rather tongue-in-cheek way. “Marriage is the end of love” he declares. Romeo and Juliet never married. Neither did Adam and Eve for that matter.

Nonplussed, Rhea, over with her half of the girlfriends reminds the group that the greatest monument to romantic love was built for the Empress Mumtaz, namely the Taj Mahal. And then she breaks into song, singing of “chocolate heros” that talk a lot about love, but abscond at the wedding.

The song Gori Gori is all in good fun, with Rhea at one point ripping off Karan’s shirt, and Karan falling down in the midst of a throng of maidens, only to get his butt pinched. Definitely not standard Bollywood fare, although certainly tame in comparison to some of the low-brow stuff that American popular cinema often churns out.

Rhea marries Samir, a Muslim, in a Hindu ceremony, which is significant in and of itself, as a sop to secularism. Samir is played by Abhishek Bachchan, son of Bollywood scion Amitabh. Indeed, while Abhishek certainly gets plenty of roles, his father casts a long shadow on his career and abilities. The newlyweds part, but not before each of them expresses some wisdom and friendship to Karan.

Fast forward to a few years later. Karan goes to visit his father in Paris. In the meantime, he now writes and illustrates a syndicated cartoon, Hum Tum (hence the clever animation and the movie’s title) about a boy and a girl, and the ostensibly irreconcilable differences (and truisms) between the sexes.

By chance, he meets Rhea in the train. Alas, Samir died in an accident about a year before, and Rhea chose to be alone, save for her mother, with her loss. Struck by empathy for his friend, Karan shows a mature and caring side, making a valiant effort to cheer Rhea up. When she refuses his breakfast, lunch and dinner invitations, he appears one day at the fashion boutique she owns (no kidding) with take-out Chinese. She gently scorns what she sees as pity, explaining that for this very reason, she chose not to return to India after Samir’s demise, as there would be an expectation that she remarry, and yet a perception that since once previously wedded, she was somehow damaged goods. To this, Karan presents the bill for lunch, insisting that they divide it 50-50.

Karan’s charm of course finds a chink in Rhea’s armor, and on a subsequent outing in a park near a school, continuing in his efforts to now get her to stop feeling so sorry for herself, he expresses admiration that Rhea is conversant in French. “It’s important to know the language of the country where you live,” she says. No tinge of irony in a movie where perhaps fifteen to twenty percent of the dialog is in polished English. “Really?” he asks, incredulously. “I’ve always managed with Hindi, everywhere I go. If people don’t know it, I teach them. If I can teach those French kids over there some Hindi, will you at least do as I say?”

And with that, he breaks into song, leading a group of French kids in happy Bollywood-synchronized choreography somewhere in Paris. It’s a hilarious contrast, but done really well, and the song, Chakde Chakde, while pure pop, is decidedly catchy. “Chuck your woes away and feel the waves of ecstasy wash over you,” etc. The cast, crew and extras must have had a ball shooting it.

Karan’s cartoon series Hum Tum is taken up by the Times of India, and he returns to Mumbai. Three months later, Rhea follows for a visit. But here he makes a fatal mistake, sending his best friend Mihir, played by a startlingly pumped-up Jimmy Shergill, to fetch her at the airport, in hopes she might take a romantic interest. One memorable line in the ride from the airport is Rhea’s mother commenting on how it’s good to be back in their homeland, thereupon noticing someone defecating on the sidewalk.

At 2:00 the next morning, Karan pops in on Rhea for a late-night snack, and a pep talk. Attempting to soften her up regarding Mihir, about which she still has not connected the dots, he talks about arranged marriages. “I’m a great fan of arranged marriages,” he claims, in English no less. He insists on a role-play game for a prospective match. She resists. He counters, “it’ll be funny, and fun – do you remember fun?” to which she relents.

The ensuing conversation, set against the backdrop of Mumbai’s city lights, is the most endearing of the entire film.

But the next night out, Karan’s plot is revealed, and the inevitable fight comes. After a heartfelt apology, they are reunited, and in a burst of passion, they end up spending the night together. While the initial kiss is only shown from a distance, the fact that the occurrence is explicitly understood by the audience is also something of a departure for the genre.

When they meet up for Mihir’s wedding to Diana, another friend (there have to be happy endings all around) Rhea’s thoughts focus on how right it felt, but Karan experiences all the dissonance, and of a rather negative macho nature. And so they part, and the sense of lost opportunity is palpable.

Another year passes. Karan publishes a book on Hum Tum, and at its launching, dedicates it to the one he loves, for it is clear that he realizes his mistakes. After he steps down from the dais, who should appear, but Rhea, and after a few words of charming reconciliation, they join hands and the movie concludes.

The push towards modernity in the progressive sense strikes me as worthy, as these are values which I espouse for their self-evident liberal and liberating merit. The overt Western tone however could be construed as a subtle form of cultural imperialism, though the cinematic goal seems to be that such values are not for “people like them”, i.e. foreigners, but rather “people like us” i.e. other Indians, Westernized as they may be. Moreover, ogling the opulence in which the characters lead their lives legitimizes, on a certain if only subliminal level, rather shocking income disparities. This is a paradox insofar as the film’s overall social mission is very progressive indeed. To be sure, this technique is also common in Brazilian (and copy-catted in less effectively in other Spanish-language) telenovelas as well. Social mission notwithstanding, I reckon it is a symptom of a rather middle-class and paternalistic form of liberalism that seems to have increasingly tightened its ideological grip on many leftist intellectuals since the fall of the Berlin wall. In other words, let’s all be liberal at heart, without questioning the economic domination of the ruling classes.

By showing a very inviting lifestyle that anyone would want to aspire to, and then associating certain values with it, directors have found an effective way to break down ideological resistance. It is a workable device on the one hand, but on the other, the charge of modernism equals decadent Westernization gains currency when the legitimized überaffluence is juxtaposed with the broadminded social mission. In this sense, not only this film, but the vehicle for this message is at once a success and failure, even though it is unrealistic to expect that an entertainment genre can address social and economic issues within the same format and on the same plane. Yash Chopra is neither Arthur Miller nor Bertolt Brecht.

True, the times, audiences and contexts are different, but I do believe there is common ground with regard to the medium and the message. Having said all that, Hum Tum is a lovely film that exudes fun, entertainment and progressive attitudes.

Elephanta Island

A week had passed since I had applied for a new passport, so I went to the US Consulate to pick it up. Unfortunately, it wasn’t ready. I had also been thinking about moving to a better hotel, but Bentley’s didn’t have any rooms available. Although I bumped into Gabriela on the street, which did cause me to smile, the heat and the crowded city streets, together with the aforementioned bureaucratic setbacks, had conspired to put me in a foul mood. So I went down to the Gateway of India and got on one of the ferry boats, thinking I would snap some pictures of the harbor.

There were mostly Indian tourists on the boat. One couple was obviously on their honeymoon. I asked them as much in Hindi. They were. This prompted a flurry of questions from other passengers, which I answered briefly, and resumed my MP3 listening, on general shuffle of the entire collection. Earphones are a great do-no-disturb sign.

The water, the motion and the cool breeze in due course improved my mood immeasurably. After about an hour, we arrived at Elephanta Island. I immediately bought a hat for to shade against the blazing sun on my bare head, and laughed at myself in this ridiculous tourist regalia.

After shaking off the usual tourist hustlers, I hit one of the first restaurants, where I proceeded to wolf down a thali, which for the most part was pretty standard (rice, two chapattis, a single papad, dal, chick peas) but also featured a delicious chutney and a fiery-hot potato curry. Sated, I walked up the stone stairs before me. The area was lined with relatively quiet hawkers, pushing the usual trinkets. In the heat, so far, I figured that Elephanta Island was just the stairs, which at this point seemed interminable. But when I got to the top, there were cute little monkeys, a few of which I took the time to photograph, and more interestingly, temples with Shiva-related deities hewn into caves. I immediately thought of Petra, in Jordan.

Wikipedia offers the following synopsis:

Elephanta Island (also called Gharapuri Island or place of caves) is one of a number of islands in Mumbai Harbour, east of Mumbai, India. This island is a popular tourist destination for a day trip because of the island's cave temples, the Elephanta Caves, that have been carved out of rock.

Known in ancient times as Gharapuri, the present name Elephanta, was given by 17th century Portuguese explorers, after seeing a monolithic sculpture of an elephant head found here near the entrance. This culpture has since been moved to the Victoria and Albert Museum
(aka Dr Bhau Daji lad Museum) in Mumbai.

The island has an area of 16 km² (6 sq miles). It is located at approximately 18.95° N 72.93° E. The area comes under the jurisdiction of the Raigad district in Maharashtra State.

The island is thickly wooded with palm, mango and tamarind trees. The island has a population of about 1,200 involved in growing rice, fishing, and repairing boats. It was once the capital of a powerful local kingdom.

On the boat ride over, I had wasted some of my thinking time pointlessly worrying about the future. How foolish of me. Life is today. When an answer isn’t apparent, the advice I always give to others, and would do well to heed myself, is to just be patient. The answer comes on its own at the right time.

On the way back down the stone stairs, I noticed a T shirt at one of the hawker stalls: There is Life Beyond the Dot Com. How eminently fitting.

Chillz Ice Cream – A Mother Dairy Product – Commercial Shoot

The next morning, I was to work in Colaba on a commercial. After the previous day’s travel nightmare, being able to walk to work was a most pleasant contrast. Altir took me to the shoot, which was housed in a bunch of clapped out old warehouses right by the port.

There I met Paris, a young French woman, who has been in India for 10 years, living as an actor no less. I found this most encouraging. Since they hadn’t even finished preparing the set, Paris, Peti, a young Hungarian guy and I went out to the waterfront and just lay and sunned ourselves. When they came to get us for costumes, I was able to wear the shorts I came in, and got an even looser fitting T shirt. What a contrast from the day before, in all senses. So while it was just as hot, at least we were in comfortable clothes and the atmosphere was a lot more relaxed.

The theme of the commercial was wheelchair basketball, which I thought was a bit retarded for pushing this ice cream. I was supposed to be in the crowd cheering on the game, which had been shot the day before. The directors loved me. I did everything I was told. I jumped up and down, cheered and gesticulated. One thing that surprised me is that they used the real ice cream product. You would think that they’d have a mock up of some sort, given the grueling heat, but no. At one point, when jumping, the chocolate soup in my cone splattered all over and I had to be cleaned up.

The jumping and cheering took up the better part of the morning. Over lunch I chatted with Gabriela, who was ostensibly from Sweden. Now here was an interesting figure: father from Chile, mother from Finland, first language Spanish, lived in Sweden, Chile and Spain, traveled in India, Africa and South America, and an archetypal example of what I would term Nationally Confused. We immediately hit it off and I promised to profile her for the series of the same name.

In the afternoon, Paris and I had to walk across the set smiling and chatting while the wheelchair-bound heroes were chomping on endless bars of ice cream. It was fun.

A final point of interest was that the director’s name was also Andre, and as a Goan, it too was of Portuguese inspiration. He also had a shaved head. But he was quite a bit darker than me.

In the end, I told Amjad that since I had come to write about movies, that I would do one more commercial since I had already promised, but afterwards, I only wanted to do films with big name stars, and preferably song sequences. He readily agreed. So sit back, because there’s more to come.

Jodhaa Akbar – The Shoot

True to form, I was ready and waiting at 6:30 PM. I was reminded of the scene from Bollywood Calling, where the American actor is told to appear at 9 AM on the set, which he dutifully does. Of course the lot is empty. The most junior of the crew begin arriving around 12:30.

In the event, after a few calls to my fixer, I was told to go home at 8:30 and to be ready at 6:30 the next morning.

On the morrow, after a quick cup of tea, I was handed over to Adil, the personal assistant of Amjad Khan, the boss-walla of this particular casting concern. We got into a taxi. I thought going out to Film City in Bandar, in Bombay’s north end, would be a bit much by cab, but in fact, we only went as far as Churchgate Station. My heart sank. We were taking the Suburban Lines train.

This commuter train must be punishment for past-life sins. It is a veritable inner circle of hell. Crowded doesn’t even begin to describe it. It passes through the most wretched of shanty towns, many of which are practically on the train tracks. That the train itself is old and decrepit does not present a problem in itself. Like so many other things in Bombay, such as elevators, bathrooms, and so on, I can fully understand that when money is tight, there may be higher priorities than having shiny new state-of-the-art equipment. But here’s a novel idea: how about cleaning the old stuff?! A good thorough scrubbing, with hot soapy water and a brillo pad!

Fortunately, I had my handy-dandy MP3 player, and I was able to amuse myself for what must have been an eternity. Eventually, we got off Lord knows where. From the station, we took an auto-rickshaw to a most dilapidated bus. No sign of big movie stars here. After another hour or so of sitting around, we started moving. We got on the highway. We crossed a bridge. At this point, it was clear to me that we were leaving the island of Bombay, going into uncharted territory. I’m such a trusting sort, I thought to myself. The trip was pleasant enough, and after about an hour, we pulled into a beautiful location, where a makeshift red palace had been built, against the backdrop of the lovely green hills of Maharashtra. This was to be an A-movie to be sure. In fact, the lead actors were none other than Hritik Roshan and Aishwarya Rai.

Interestingly, the only other movie I was in Mujse Dosti Karoge!, five years previously also starred Hritik. So in a sense, it was almost like coming full circle.

Everyone clamored to breakfast. Then I was herded to the costume tent. I was the last to be fitted. No one quite knew what to do with me. A youngster in an imperial sort of costume made eye contact and beckoned for me to come out back. He proceeded to load up a chillum with charas, the local variety of hashish. We smoked. And then the fun truly began.

The onset was quick and strong. I stumbled back to the costume tent. The temperature was rising; I estimate it must have been getting on for nearly 35 Celsius. I had to douse myself with some water, because I began to trip out. I was given the once over, and brought into a different costume tent, with more important looking actors. They looked friendly enough. I was starting to get excited. This was my big debut in the Dream Factory. Watching Bollywood movies on DVD in Tel Aviv, I had often dreamed of opening my eyes one day to find myself in one myself. Suddenly, to my own surprise and amazement, five years of passive movie Hindi coalesced in my brain, and with the synergistic effect of the charas, I opened my mouth, and out came Hindi! It was broken to be sure, but this was my first real conversation. I had crossed that first hurdle to acquiring a new language. I was speaking. The joy was immeasurable, and my intuition told me that it was about to get better.

I was fitted in a very grand costume, quite similar to the other actors in the tent. I was then sent into the makeup room, where they glued a very Islamic looking beard on me. I had come to Bollywood to play bit parts of Westerners. And here I was, playing an Indian, on the day I began to speak Hindi. Despite the fact that in the heat, the beard was itchy as all hell, I thought I would burst with elation. And I had just enough vocabulary to express it in the local idiom, to boot.

So I was to be a light-skinned Moghul courtier. Wikipedia summarizes the movie as follows:

Jodhaa Akbar is a twenthieth century love story about a marriage of alliance that gave birth to true love between a great Mughal emperor, Akbar, and a Rajput princess, Jodhaa.

Politically, success knew no bounds for Emperor Akbar (Hrithik Roshan). After having secured the Hindu Kush, he furthered his realm by conquest until his empire extended from Afghanistan to the Bay of Bengal, and from the Himalayas to the Godavari River. Through a shrewd blend of tolerance, generosity, and force, Akbar won the allegiance of the Rajputs, the most belligerent Hindus. But little did Akbar know that when he married Jodhaa (Aishwarya Rai), a fiery Rajput princess, in order to further strengthen his relations with the Rajputs, he would in turn be embarking upon a new journey – the journey of true love.

The daughter of King Bharmal of Amer, Jodhaa resented being reduced to a mere political pawn in this marriage of alliance, and Akbar’s biggest challenge now did not merely lie in winning battles, but in winning the love of Jodhaa – a love hidden deep below resentment and extreme prejudice. Jodhaa Akbar is their untold love story.

When not on the set, I tried to chat up as many people as I could. The young and groovy assistant directors were too busy for me. I was too shy to approach Hritik, although I retrospect I should have at least attempted to do so. I met Waheed, an Iranian student. And of course all the local actors, who were suitably impressed at my most basic command of their language. Josh-bhai had told me that when Indian men discover you speak Hindi, as a Westerner, they want to ask you about your sex life. Feigning mild offense at such personal questions seems to do the trick to deflect such advances.

We were made to line up so we could greet Emperor Akbar. My beard kept coming unglued, and I was made to stand in a rather uncomfortable position. I was sweating profusely. I got a string of pearls, and someone came and did up my sleeve buttons. Water was hard to come by, and I thought I might faint from heat exhaustion. But I was in the front row, and would greet the Emperor with a grandly gestured Salaam, bowing slightly, and touching my hand to my forehead three times, along with the other courtiers. Then the Emperor was to make a speech. We did four takes: two with eyes following him, and two with eyes looking down.

At one point, I closed my eyes in order to open them. When I did, instead of watching Hritik on a screen, I was really in the movie, with Hritik, Bollywood’s hands-down best dancer, two meters in front of me. My dream had veritably come true.

At the end of a very long day, I was abandoned on the bus, taken to that far off station, and had to fend for myself to get back to Churchgate. It was transport indignity at its worst, but it was well worth it. I would count that day as one of the happiest of my entire life.

The Bag of Culture

Somewhat settled, I could now turn my attention to more practical issues. For starters, I had almost nothing to wear. What’s more, I wanted to replace that gym bag with my Bag of Culture, carrying my books, music and scribbling pads.

I bought a gorgeous knee-length light cotton blue kurta with beige pants to go with. I also got baggy burgundy pants with a striped orange shirt. Certainly the piece de resistance was the burgundy, orange and green striped cloth bag with inside pockets to carry around all my stuff: the Bag of Culture. I was set to go with the Backpacker Uniform.

I had previously organized all my music files onto a new MP3 player purchased for the occasion of this trip. Traveling without music is awful. Does anyone remember lugging cassette tapes and walkmans? CDs were only slightly friendlier. Of course I always insisted on taking them in their original cases, which inevitably were crushed. Before packing all my things, I was faced with the better parts of my CD collection being housed in crushed cases, as well as a veritable thigh-high pile of empty CD cases, many in pristine condition, minus their media. They all ended up in the trash before I left.

I got some 500 or so songs on this tiny MP3 contraption. Ever the technical writer, I organized all the files into an intuitive folder structure, but as it turns out, the player ignored it and relied instead on file metadata to categorize the tracks. In plain language, that means that for all intents and purposes, it randomly shuffled all those songs into no meaningful order. At first, this was actually quite neat. It was like listening to the radio where every song was a favorite. But very soon I wanted to play full albums that I had previously enjoyed listening to in the car, the former abode of most of my musical over the last several years. Genres would also be nice, like Trance, Techno, Bollywood Soundtracks, Latin, Arabic pop, and my other pedestrian tastes.

Predictably, Josh-bhai had come to the rescue once again, teaching me how to add metadata to the files through Windows. The player didn’t always pick it up the first time for some reason, but eventually I got it down and even processed files in batches so that now, I can get to the genre, artist, album and even song that I desire within a few seconds. It’s a new paradigm for music enjoyment. And this is only with a tiny 4 GB player. Imagine an iPod where you can put 30,000 tracks. A whole new world! Isn’t technology wonderful?

******

I have also been to a number of art galleries: the National Gallery of Modern Art, Jehangir Art Gallery, and yesterday, near the Israeli consulate, a showing of note in the National Center for Performing Arts. The exhibit was called Mosaic is not Prosaic and I had the pleasure of meeting Deepti, the young woman showing it. Two artists caught my attention in particular.

The first was George.K, who had commissioned a series of fiberglass statues of Aravanis, or hijras (transgender males). They were realistic, striking, beautiful, and presented in a very human way. And I quote:

The Aravanis trace their lineage to the Mahabharata. According to the legend, Lord Krishna took a female form to marry Prince Aravan for a single night before Aravan was sacrificed. Every year this event is celebrated as the Koovagam festival, on a full moon night of the Chait month. Thousands of Aravanis dress as brides and marry the deity, Lord Aravan, and consummate the marriage through sex work. The next day they enact the process of widowhood, don white saris and return to their villages, only to shed wearing white after a month of
mourning.

The other was Avishek Sen, who had five markedly sexual nonfigurative paintings. I found them to be an abstract expression of objects of desire; fantasies given form. Many of the themes were drawn from Hindu tradition, such as Lord Krishna dancing on a phallus in the form of a snake, emanating from a male figure with a well developed physique. Krishna had killed a snake demon named Kalia, after which he danced on his head. Perhaps this was an attempt to devulgarize sexual themes. And these themes abounded: snapping vaginas, a multitude of direct phallic symbols and imagery, handsome young men appearing as the apple in languid eyes, partially open mouths. The conclusions were not difficult to draw.

A propos the Israeli consulate, I went there yesterday to cancel my lost passport, of blessed memory. While getting in was rather more vigorous than in the American counterpart, once inside, I was well received by Orna, who helped me fill out the forms to move things along.

Upon finishing, a very distressed youth came in. I recognized him from Colaba. Up until that moment, I hadn’t met any Israelis, and really wanted to speak Hebrew. His name was Itai, from Arad. He had also lost his passport and had gotten it into his head that he had to go home right away.

Instinctively, I went into parental mode and did my best to calm him down. While I had other commitments for the day (more galleries) I got the address of his guest house and made him promise to meet me at Leopold Café at 8PM.

I made it back to Colaba before then and went to look for him. He apparently had looked for me earlier as well. Orna had straightened everything out for him and he even had got permission from Immigration to depart the next day.

He was staying at the guest house where I had met Israelis from the previous movie shoot I had been on five years ago. Up until now, I hadn’t made any progress in finding film work, and not for lack of trying. I inquired with the receptionist for contacts. He produced three. Itai and I had a great conversation, telling each other the whys and wherefores of our trips to India. We went out for a walk and to eat something. And boom! Casting director in front of Leopold Café, finally! I stepped up to the plate. I used my entire Hindi vocabulary on him. I told him I could act and dance and spew back any Hindi lines given. I rattled off all the actors, songs and films I loved. He was suitably impressed. I am not going to be just another extra. I’m going to get speaking parts!

I thanked Itai profusely for the good luck he had brought. I wished him a safe trip home.

If I could characterize my life as a movie any more poignantly than this, I would have broken into song at this point. Tonight there is an all-night shoot. I think I’m going to be a soldier. The real journey begins now. Stay tuned.

God Bless America

After three Attunity farewell parties and a succession of constant and often painful goodbyes, including an all-night open house that rather negated the benefits of a morning flight, Josh-bhai my dearest took me to the airport and wished me good luck and Godspeed. I thought it was a particularly good omen that the exchange desk had rupees so I could avoid the line up in Bombay.

The plane was packed with smiling youngsters off on their gap year. Some were obviously India veterans and I spotted at least two that were bringing parents to share the experience. The El Al flight attendants were especially cheerful and all in all, it was a most pleasant event.

Arrival went smoothly as well, and in no time I was in a (natural gas-powered!) air conditioned taxi that, this being India, stopped for refueling and repairs along the way. I had worn a beige fabric jacket with nice inside pockets, where I had placed my US and Israeli passports. In any case, I had secured a most coveted one-year visa in the US passport. Of course there was my well-worn great big traveler’s backpack, with the shoulder straps conveniently enclosed behind canvas and zipper. Then there was my gym bag, which I took as my carry on luggage; my first mission would be to ditch it and replace it with my Bag of Culture.

We arrived in Colaba, in swanky, touristy south Bombay. I got out of the cab and slung the jacket over the gym bag. I walked about 20 meters and realized that I should release the shoulder straps from the backpack. I put everything down. By the time my backpack was actually on my back, the jacket, with both passports was gone. Without a trace. I walked in a few circles, like a poisoned rat.

I should have felt panic. The loss of the US passport would present administrative problems, since my visa was in it, and more ominously, I had not brought any documentation definitively proving my status as an American citizen. And silly me, rather uncharacteristically, I hadn’t photocopied it, or even written down the number.

The loss of the Israeli passport in fact was the more tragic occurrence. All my life I had dreamed of having a passport with stamps on almost every page as a miniature monument to my perambulations around the globe. In that little booklet were testaments to my voyages to India, Thailand, Mexico, France, Spain, the Netherlands, Italy, Jordan and something along the order of twelve trips to Sinai. I wanted it as a keepsake. And in a moment it was gone.

Yet, in a way, it was something of a liberating experience. A clean slate. A new beginning, rather fitting for my departure from Israel.

A police car pulled up. I explained to the constables what had just happened. They took me to the station. I was treated with utmost respect as they filed the complaint and issued me with a certificate to take to my consulates.

Exhausted after two consecutive sleepless nights and the foregoing ordeal, I just found any old guest house, where I continue to lodge. The room is tiny. The bathrooms are common. But it is clean, inexpensive, in an excellent location and the staff is most helpful. So I think I’ll hang around for a while longer.

The next morning, I had a mission: the US Consulate. I made it there around 10:30. The visa line up was daunting. But I knew there was a special door for me. I found it and made my way to the consular section. I was promptly attended to by Christy.

On the strength of my Israeli driver’s license, this heroic woman invalidated the old passport and accepted my application for a new one on the spot. She brought the photographer into the room to take the requisite pictures. She was understanding and cheerful. She also provided all the information I need to sort out my visa situation at Immigration.

I hereby announce that Christy is the 2007 recipient of Skye Frontier’s Excellence in Service Award. I would also like to recommend her for the best possible promotion I can imagine: current US policy notwithstanding, as soon as I assume my role as El Presidente, Christy should be appointed forthwith as Ambassador to Cuba.

God Bless America. Long Live the Empire.