Mumbai
The movie is called Heera Ki Tamanna, which translates, roughly, as Wishing for a Diamond. It is a romance starring Billy Devali—big star—and Amisha Rai—big, big star—and is directed by Faruk Khan, who apparently is so big, he needs no further description. Prateek tells me all this in a breathless monologue; he has hardly stopped talking since he swooped me out of the arrivals hall and rushed me to the car, barely glancing at the various Rajasthani goods I painstakingly shopped and bargained for over the past three weeks.
“Oh, Willem, that was the last plan,” he says, shaking his head, dismayed that he must explain such things. “I am working in Bollywood now.” Then he tells me that yesterday, Amisha Rai swept by him so close that the edge of her sari brushed his arm. “Can I tell you what it felt like?” he asks, not waiting for me to answer. “It felt like a caress from the gods. Can I tell you what she smelled like?” He closes his eyes and inhales. Apparently, her odor defies words.
“What exactly do I do?”
“Do you remember in Dil Mera Golmaal, the scene after the shootout?”
I nod. It was like Reservoir Dogs, but on a ship. With dancing.
“Where do you think all those white people came from?”
“From the same magical place as the go-go dancers?”
“From casting directors like me.” He pounds his chest.
“Casting director? So it’s official. You’re up to ten?”
“You make eight. But I will get there. You are so tall and handsome and . . . white.”
“Maybe I can count for two?” I joke.
Prateek looks at me like I’m an idiot. “No, you count for one. You are only one man.”
We arrive in Film City, the suburb that houses many of the studios, and then we pull into the complex and then into what looks like a large airplane hangar.
“Oh, by the way, the payment,” Prateek says nonchalantly. “I must tell you, it’s ten dollars a day.”
I don’t answer. I hadn’t planned on being paid anything.
He mistakes my silence. “I know for Westerners it is not much,” he explains. “But you get meals, and also lodging so you do not need to commute back to Colaba each night. Please, please tell me you’ll agree to it.”
“Of course. I’m not in it for the money.” Which is exactly what Tor used to say about Guerrilla Will. We’re not in it for the money. But half the time she would say this as she was carefully counting the night’s take or checking weather reports in the International Herald Tribune to determine the sunniest—and most lucrative—places to hit next.
Back then, I was very much in it for the money. Even the little I earned from Guerrilla Will kept me from having to return to an unwelcoming home.
Funny that, how little things have changed.
On the set, Prateek introduces me to Arun, the assistant casting director, who takes a brief pause from his mobile phone conversation to appraise me. He says something to Prateek in Hindi and then nods at me and barks, “Costume.”
Prateek squeezes my arm, as he leads me to the costume room, which is a series of rolling racks full of suits and dresses, tended to by a harried woman with glasses. “Find something that fits,” she orders.
Everything is at least a head too short for me. Which is about the amount by which I tower over most Indians. Prateek looks worried. “Do you have a suit?” he asks.
The last time I wore a suit was to Bram’s funeral. No, I don’t have a suit.
“What seems to be the problem?” Neema, the wardrobe lady snaps.
Prateek grovels, apologizing for my height, as if it were a personality defect.
She sighs impatiently. “Wait here.”
Prateek looks at me in alarm. “I hope they do not send you back. Arun just told me that one of the ashram people left this morning and now I am back down to seven.”
I slouch, make myself shorter. “Does that help?”
“The suit still will not fit,” he says, shaking his head as if I’m an imbecile.