Whenever any of us struggling actors got a little money, we would splurge all of it on food and alcohol. The sweet embrace of alcohol lived up to its cliché and helped us forget all our troubles for a while. I would get mutton to cook and feel like a fucking king. Food and alcohol is the most ayashi (debauchery) I ever indulged in.
* * *
There was a casting director called Jogibhai. We used to call him all the time. During one of those especially desperate phases, I called him a dozen times.
‘Jogibhai, please give me some work. I am desperate. Any work will do. Small, big, anything at all. Please, Jogibhai!’ I pleaded. He relented on the final call and informed me of some arrangements he had made.
‘All right, Nawaz. Go to Film City. There is an ad shoot happening there. Go and meet the chief AD (assistant director). I have spoken to him about you.’
‘Thank you, Jogibhai! Thank you, Jogibhai!’ I exclaimed, more in relief than gratitude.
‘They need two guys. So get someone else too.’ He hung up.
There is no dearth of struggling actors. I got someone quickly. Both of us walked from Four Bungalows in Andheri to Film City in Goregaon on foot for the 7 a.m. shoot. The ad was for some brand of air-conditioned buses. So there were many people sitting inside a bus and a stewardess was coming towards them. That was the set, with the camera right behind the stewardess. The two of us were in the crowd, playing roles of junior artistes. All the actors looked engaged in activities, like passengers usually are. Some were playing cards. Somebody was reading a newspaper. Somebody was knitting a sweater. I had declared that I would sleep. It sounds simple, but it was actually a strategic move on my part. Kaam ka kaam and nobody would even notice that I was in this role since my face would be hidden. I was a bit ashamed to play this role since I was an actor and not a junior artiste or what they call an extra in the West.
At the end of the shoot, the chief AD gave us a total of Rs 4000, Rs 2000 to the actor who accompanied me and Rs 2000 to me. We could not believe it. We stared at the paper money and smiled. Before the creases of our smiles could broaden, a man interrupted us, asking all kinds of questions. He was the coordinator of junior artistes.
‘Who are you guys?’ he asked in a stern voice.
‘We are artistes,’ we replied cautiously.
‘What artistes?’ he demanded.
‘We are junior artistes,’ we replied sheepishly.
‘Okay. Show me your cards,’ he said, stretching out his hand to take and inspect the cards which we did not have.
‘We have no cards. We are actors.’
‘If you are actors, then why are you here doing the work of junior artistes?’ he demanded.
‘We had no work, sir. So we did this. Please understand, sir,’ we pleaded.
After a moment’s silence, he asked us, ‘Did you get paid?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘Two thousand per person.’
‘All right. So you have two choices,’ he explained. ‘Either you give me 1000 rupees each or I send both of you to jail.’
We reluctantly handed over half of our payment to him and walked out of Film City that evening in silence. Right outside was a bar. I believe it was called Sudarshan Bar, but I am not sure. We still had 1000 rupees each. So we drank rum, Old Monk. And we ate Chinese food. Actually, we ordered everything we could: chicken chilli, shahi paneer, rotis, fried rice . . . who knew when we could afford to eat again! So we feasted like kings while we could. The bill came to Rs 800 per head. Each of us had just Rs 200 remaining. But we felt as wealthy as emperors. Our bellies were bloated, our hearts were satiated. What more did we need then!
* * *
In spite of the dire circumstances, our bunch of struggling actors managed celebrations too; in fact, parties were an absolute must. They gave us a stage to vent and feel in a way that life just was not allowing us to. One of the wild ones was for Ghannu’s birthday, on 28 September, at his house in MHADA, Vanrai, near Goregaon’s Aarey Colony. To everyone’s added delight, Ghannu had just procured a television set. The highlights of the party included this TV itself and even more so, a steady stream of alcohol, not to speak of a famous fourteen-layered mutton dish. The place was quite a sight. It was a teeny apartment with one room and a kitchen, and already it was flooded with over twenty people who had promptly arrived by noon and downed several drinks. More continued to pour in as the afternoon progressed. Everybody was a guest and yet nobody was a guest, that is, nobody was being treated as one, nor was anybody behaving like one. All of them behaved as if it was their own house. It was steaming, as Mumbai usually is, so they entered the house and took off their shirts and in some cases, most of their clothing as boys often do in Indian summers once they enter their own homes. They had spent much of the afternoon purchasing the long list of ingredients for all of the fourteen layers of this rather hyped dish. And now that the shopping was done, several of them were drowned in diligent prep work for this legendary dish, preparing its fourteen layers. Somebody was chopping onions, somebody was crushing whole spices, somebody was chopping chillies, and so on. They were like a little army of tipsy soldiers in chaddis who had magically perfected the art of working, partying and getting drunk at alarming speeds, all at the same time!
As the alcohol started taking its effect, every single person began to talk more and more about themselves, their insecurities, their struggles, their depression
