En Route, on Film

Some weeks ago, as I sat in my apartment drinking tea with a friend, I told her “I’m always behind the camera, it’s time for me to be in front of it for once!”

Days passed, and I didn’t really do much about it. But maybe the universe was listening, because a month back, a casting agent reached out to me. “All the foreign actors have left India during the pandemic, and we need some Western faces.”

I sent some photos, a video introduction, and earlier this month I was selected to act in a training video. On Friday morning, I woke up with some apprehension, but something told me that this was a good sign. A slight uneasiness in the pit of my stomach usually means that I am trying something new; and after all, I had somehow asked for this to happen. A car came to collect me from my apartment, and I re-read the dry corporate lines on the way to the shoot, wondering if the other actors would be trained professionals. I hadn’t gotten the chance to really memorize my lines, and that tension in my belly tightened even as I tried to breathe into and loosen it.

The set turned out to be near my old apartment, and I took some comfort in the fact that I knew the surrounding neighborhood. Observing the reassurance this brought, I became more aware of a slight tension in my jaw, clenched as if bracing against the uncertainty in my mind. I loosened my jaw and stepped into the office building, putting down my bags, which contained the extra costumes I brought from my wardrobe. Beneath the glaring white lights, there was a woman in hijab and heavy makeup getting ready for her take, as another, shorter woman threaded a mic through the buttons of her beige top and clipped it to her belt. A man with a Nigerian accent introduced himself on his way to the room where they were shooting. I sat down to wait. And wait. One thing I remembered about shoots from my photography work was that there’s a lot of waiting around. But the stagnant time is always electrified with potential, because at any moment, anyone can be summoned to adjust a loose tie, change the lighting, bring a reflector, a new memory card, or a drink of water for the exhausted DOP. The unique focus of a shoot is such that everyone’s attention converges on a single moment, when the camera clicks or the director barks, “Action!”

My eyes blurred in the harsh white lights, and I saw the crew wipe sweat from their foreheads. Fifteen of them were all stuffed into a glass conference room meant for five people, and the concept of “social distance” was just that: a concept. Some wore masks that hung from their ears, or just below their chins, and others were contorted into odd angles, reaching out with styrofoam boards and reflectors, a tetris-like configuration of objects, people, and light.

“Siiiilence! Sound!”

“Rolling Sir.”

“Camera!”

“Rolling.”

“Aaaaction!”

Everyone in the vicinity held their breath as the take began. Over the course of several hours, these sounds became familiar background noise. The Nigerian actor approached me to talk, presumably to pass the time. He inquired where I was from, and what I was doing here in India. I was surprised that he had lived in Chennai for several years and could speak Tamil. I was even more taken aback when he began giving me advice, although our conversation had lasted for just a few minutes. “Alison, I can tell what you are. You are a warrior. You don’t meet many people who can follow you on that path. It’s a difficult path. I can see what you are — you know this country even better than the people who were born here. You can see things deeply and vividly. Don’t change, don’t settle for those who are any less than what you are. You need to find the people who can walk that path with you.” It felt like a message from elsewhere, spoken through the Nigerian in costume in front of me. As if he were also just a costume of something else; the universe in disguised form.

Someone handed me an ironed dress. “Quick, wear this and go for makeup!” a voice said, as a woman steered me towards a corner-office-turned-makeup-room. I had already had an interesting encounter with the makeup artist, a middle-aged Kannadiga with a mess of long, curly hair and a noticeably offbeat sense of humor, which was palpable despite the language barrier between us. With a word or two, he sent his fellow Kannada-speakers into fits of laughter, yet remained rather stoic as he watched them laugh. He beckoned, and I sat in the office chair in front of him. It was only once he started spreading makeup creams and powders onto my face with a brush that tickled my nose, that I realized nobody had ever done my makeup before.

I asked him in Kannada if he’d had breakfast. Pleasantly surprised, he smiled and replied in a long stream of Kannada words that my mind improbably pieced together, and to which I replied, “I am from the U.S. but have been living here for four years, I know some Kannada.” Our conversation took on a new depth, and he ventured further with his limited English, as I stretched my Kannada to its limits. Finally, he asked me, “Who will be President of the United States?”

“Hope it’s Biden and not Trump,” I replied.

“Yes…Waste fellow,” he answered, shaking his head in disapproval. This remains the most apt description of the forty-fifth president that I have ever heard.

By the time we left the makeup room, both of us were giggling like old friends, which came as a shock to the rest of the crew and foreign actors. We had very little in common, but our understanding of one another transcended language or background. “What did you guys talk about?” asked the costume designer, incredulously, before ushering me into the packed conference room which now smelled of perspiration and hair gel. Before I could reply, the director told me to sit down, and handed me the script.

My nervousness mounted, my throat tightened, and I bungled some of the lines. I tried to read from the teleprompter, then to memorize the lines, and then again read from the teleprompter, struggling to avoid moving my eyes back and forth across the screen, which would be caught on camera and betray our teleprompter jugaad. None of these strategies seemed to be working, and beads of sweat were forming on my brow, when all of a sudden it clicked. The camera was rolling, I said my lines, and the director shouted “Cut! Ohhhh Kay!” the telltale sign that the take was usable. I sighed, and we continued until the evening, when a cardboard box of samosas appeared and everyone dropped what they were doing to eat.

My part of the shoot was over, at least for the first day. Promising the director I’d look at the lines before the next day’s early morning call time, I waved goodbye to the team. “Mathe sigona!” Sinking back into the seat of the same cab I had taken in the morning, I basked in a mix of peace, exhaustion, and a distinct sense of accomplishment — something that felt unfamiliar just a few hours before already seemed like second nature, as I had imperceptibly adapted to the rhythm of the shoot over the course of the day. And I found myself no longer tense, but looking forward to the days to come with curiosity and excitement, eager to discover what would happen next.