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.