Getting down in tinsel town

Mumbai, India

It happened at the Gateway of India.

A fitting monument from under which a monumental opportunity should arise.

We had travelled to Mumbai on the overnight sleeper from Delhi. Since watching Michael Palin grapple with the Indian railways over twenty years ago I had wanted to experience them for myself. The brilliant film The Darjeeling Limited only strengthened my desire. I'd already suspected that the wonderful 1940s wooden panelled four-bunk compartments on the picturesque Darjeeling line would have been superceded by more modern carriages on the Rajasthan Express, so wasn't too disappointed to find ourselves in a 'British Rail circa 1970s' plastic palace. The class system on Indian rail is complicated and offers almost a dozen different ways of getting from A to B, from 1AC at the top (air conditioned sleeper in a four bunk booth) down to unreserved sleeper class where, even after purchasing a ticket, you're not guaranteed a place on the train until boards are published on the platform bearing the names of the lucky few.

We'd chosen the third rung down, 3AC, which meant sharing in a booth of eight bunks. The most surprising thing about the journey apart from the price (about £21 each for a 1500 mile journey!) was the constant food we were brought. We only discovered after settling in and chatting to one of our Indian co-bunkees that the Rajasthan Express is the only train line in India which provides food included in the ticket price. It started just after departing at 4.30pm with afternoon tea - a sandwich, a samosa, a cake and tea or coffee. Unfortunately for us, we all thought this was our main meal, and as we hadn't eaten since 8am tucked in with such gusto that when our neighbours offered us their unwanted samosas and sandwiches we heartily unburdened them. It was with some surprise, therefore, that two hours later we were served cups of spicy tomato soup. Delicious, we thought. That'll be supper just before bed.

Then came another tray. Dal, paneer masala, rice, pickle, papads, nan. And still our travel companions were offering us more. 

"You want?" asked bunk six (Kohe, a Japanese student) offering me a nan.

Oh dear. I'm new to sleeper train etiquette, but I imagine vomiting is frowned upon.

We bravely battled on, doing our level best to clear our trays, before collapsing in a bloated sweat.

"Amazing," we panted.

"Brilliant," we gasped.

"Why don't Chiltern Railways do this?"

And just as Ella groaned "I couldn't eat another thing," the porter reappeared.

"Ice cream?"

"Ooh yes please!"

Mumbai is a sixteen hour train ride from Delhi, but is a world away. The narrow, chaotic, smoke-filled streets of the capital are replaced by wide boulevards with trees and daylight above. Traffic stops at traffic lights. There is barely a cow to be seen, and certainly no hogs, camels and piles of burning trash on every corner. The architecture is stunning, a glance to the left looks like Georgian London, while one to the right finds a gothic church sandwiched between tenements reminiscent of New York. The buttresses, domes and stained glass windows of the Victoria Terminus have seen it described as 'to the British Raj what the Taj Mahal is to the Mughal empire' - a stunning mixture of Victorian, Hindu and Islamic styles which is now a World Heritage Site. Our wide eyed first impression of the city as we drove from the station to Colaba was borne out by our experience on the streets. Yes, there were beggars and hawkers - as you'd expect in this touristy part of town - but after Delhi it felt as comfortable as strolling through Oxford. Its relatively obedient traffic, its occasional smart cafe or swish gallery made it feel cosmopolitan, the most western, and 'Western' city we'd seen in India. We've met a few travellers here from all over the world, and it gives us a quiet feeling of smugness to hear their alarm at the noise, pace and sensory overload of landing in Mumbai from Australia, Italy or London. A chap from England used a phrase Jill had herself coined in Delhi.

"It's just a complete lack of order!" he exclaimed.

"You wanna try Delhi," we would smile, grateful now for our toughening up in India's fire-pit. Only one foreigner we've met, a girl from Portugal, had been to Delhi and she described it as "my least favourite city in the world," which made me laugh. I thought that was a bit strong, but it was reassuring to know it wasn't just us who felt a wave of relaxing calm on arriving in Bombay.

And so, having installed ourselves in the YWCA, it was time to explore. The YWCA, by the way, is a fantastic place to stay; clean, cheap and breakfast and an evening meal are included. Best of all, it requires membership, so it is with much pride that I now carry my Young Women's Christian Association member's card. I'll keep it with my Brownie uniform.

*

It was a lazy Sunday morning. Mumbai's streets were surprisingly quiet and we planned to cross a tiny stretch of the Arabian Sea to visit Elephanta Island. (There are no elephants there. Please don't get distracted). I was buying the ferry tickets in the shadow of the Gateway of India when it happened.

"Hello, I'm from Bollywood," said the voice. "Would you like to be in a Bollywood film?"

I laughed out loud. Now I'd heard them all. Hawkers are constantly bombarding you with lines - "Excuse me sir", "Hello, how are you?", "You want taxi? Hop in!", "City tour?", "Sir! Wait!". Eventually you get immune. But this was a new one.

"Please, I'm serious," said the man, and he looked it. Everything about this should be a scam, I thought, but I recognised the look in his eyes. It was the look of a beleaguered production assistant who'd been tasked with the impossible.

"I need to find 20 people who look English for filming tomorrow," he explained.

"Where's your card?" asked Jill.

The man was taken aback. So was I.

"Er, it's in the car."

"Let's see it then."

As he scurried off to get his business card, Jill explained. She'd read about this happening, which is how she knew the drill - get their card, ask the terms, where the shoot is, all the details. It's not uncommon for Bollywood films to recruit Western tourists as 'background artists' ('extras' to you, me and Ricky Gervais) in the hope of adding some glamour to a movie on the cheap.

"Glamour? Clearly he's more desperate than we thought," I said.

And so it was, that at 8am the next day we were picked up on the Bollywood Bus - destination: Destiny.

At this stage I need to make a few things clear. The casting agent, Imran, who had found us at the ferry terminal (or 'the bottom of the barrel' as it's known in casting terms) had told us the film title, the star, that we could all be used (although Edie may be too young but he'd do his best) and that we'd get to meet the star, take lots of photos and be well looked after with lunch and drinks thrown in. Also, we'd be paid the handsome figure of 500 Rupees for our trouble.

"Seven pounds for a day's work!" I had remarked to Jill later. "It's a bit of a cheek, isn't it?"

"Hmmm. Like you wouldn't have paid them to do it," she pointed out, knowing me far too well.

"And what will we have to do?" I had asked Imran.

"Just dance," he smiled.

"Well, we're all brilliant dancers!" I lied. "Will we be shown what to do?"

"Just freestyle. It's a party scene."

"Freestyle. My favourite!" I beamed.

The rest of the day was filled with nervous chatter about movie stars, costumes, luxury trailer dressing rooms and how on earth we were going to avoid being the five people in the scene who looked awkwardly like they'd been dropped into the party straight off the ferry from the land of Twoleftfeet.

We had duly researched the movie that would herald our big screen debut, and if anything it upped the stakes. Ra.One is a sci-fi movie that holds the impressive accolade of being 'the most expensive Bollywood movie ever made'. It's pronounced 'Rah one' as opposed to 'Ar ray one', (which is a shame because 'Ar ray' is a scouse term of disagreement, as in "Ar ray dat's cheat'n!").

It stars Shahrukh Khan, known as King Khan 'round these parts, who is Bollywood's numero uno, bar none. As well as being the Brad Pitt/Johnny Depp of India, he's the founder of two production companies (one of which - Red Chillies - is making what from this point forward shall be called 'my film'), he's considered to be one of the world's most successful movie stars thanks to fans numbering billions and has a reported net worth of 540 million US dollars. He was also in Newsweek's Top 50 'Most powerful people in the world'. As if that's not enough, he's even been on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross! I was slightly sheepish I hadn't heard of him.

When we arrived at the 'lot' (that's what us movie stars call the studios, plural) we were escorted into an empty 'stage' (that's what us movie stars call the studio, singular) where brightly coloured fabric walls had been erected on bamboo frames, making separate areas for 'makeup and wardrobe' (that's what us movie stars call makeup and wardrobe).

While an eager gaggle of twenty or so tourists waited expectantly, a girl with a clip board, earpiece and wearing a Batman tee-shirt pointed at people, beckoning them inside. Oh no! A selection process! Before I had time to fully gather what was happening she pointed at me.

"You. Inside."

I stepped forward, but suddenly felt that awkward twist in my stomach, like the immigrant men who, trying to enter America, had been separated from their families at Ellis Island. I couldn't leave them, could I? I looked back at their faces. They looked just as uncertain as I did. But none of them reached out to stop me, so I ran towards the light.

Having been duly made up by Santosh - conversation limited:

"I've covered your spot."

"Santosh, you're a wonder."

"Next!"

I was bustled into wardrobe. Girls who just minutes earlier has been bleary eyed travellers in rag-tag clothing on our bus were now tottering about on precarious heels wearing little more than glittery string. Clearly by 'Western glamour' Bollywood meant 'Western flesh.' One girl asked if she could wear something that covered her up a little more and was told "Oh no! This is what London girls wear!" The 'Batman' girl re-appeared.

"What shall I wear?" I asked, secretly eying the heels.

She shouted to a man next to rail of shiny shirts, and shoved me towards him.

"You're behind the bar. Bar tender," she said.

"That's uncanny. You have a gift," I replied, and was squeezed into the campest bar tender's outfit possible without introducing feathers.

Reunited with my family in my shimmering satin shirt, crotch clenching pants, golden bhangra braces and a sequinned (yes, you heard me) tie, I judged by their laughter that they weren't too sore about not being in the film. Ella, Bethan and Jill were repeatedly offered the chance to dress up and go 'on set' (that's what us ... oh forget it) but the sight of what all the other girls were wearing (or not wearing) put them off. They installed themselves in the wings to read, play cards, watch TV and laugh at me.

Just to clarify, this man is straight

I've never been an extra before. It's a lot less fun than it looks in the Ricky Gervais series. Cameras and mobile phones were banned, but, undeterred by my lack of pockets, I snuck mine on-set in my shoe - sorry the shots aren't great. The scene was in a London nightclub and the set was impressive - a central illuminated dance walkway and circular stage, raised tables and seating around the sides, huge video walls leading to a wondrous bar at the back. Behind that bar is a less than wondrous barman. In fact there are two. A long haired guy from Norway and a bloke in unfeasibly tight trousers.

Because the scene was a music number, it was shot in tiny chunks. Rather than having a sequence of events, or dancing that you shoot a few times from different angles (which is what happens in TV) the entire jigsaw was precisely built, tiny piece by tiny piece. This means fifteen or twenty minutes of setting up a shot (the first four bars of the song, for example), and then about twenty takes of that same four bars. After each take, the music stops, everyone stops dancing, the director shouts "Re-set," and we all hang around for five minutes until, again, the cry goes out "AC off!" (air conditioning off - that's so they can use smoke) "Dry ice!", and then "Sau sau!" which was the director's way of asking for 'Sound'. Once again the first beats of a banging bhangra dance tune would start. "Let's go! shouts the director loudly. "Energy!" and the room would burst into life, I'd allow myself a small amount of grooving and do a fine impression of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, but without the bar skills and juggling talent.

A standard shooting day in Bollywood is twelve hours. I got to know pretty much every other extra there that day, including Indian models who do it for a living and even an English girl from Norwich who lives in Mumbai and does agency acting to make a bit of cash. There was some unrest a while ago when Indian actors threatened to strike because of studios using tourists as extras, a fact brought sharply into focus when I chatted with Gordum, an Indian model at my bar. He was pleasant enough and we talked for about half an hour about films and music and books, but only after he'd quizzed me on my visa status and what I was being paid. I think the locals still resent white skinned Westerners walking into a day's work. He was earning ten times what I was, so there were no hard feelings.

By 8pm we were all shattered. Jill and the girls were a lot less bored than I feared, and in fact grateful they had not been on the set, where hanging around doing nothing was driving me crazy. At least they had their laptop and books to read. Our scene had got about as far into the song as the first verse. Shahrukh Khan had made an appearance for about an hour to do one shot, where he beckoned the singer over from the edge of the dance platform (I believe it'll be R'n'B star Akon in the film - I can reveal it was a double for this shot) and pulls him off the stage. I never saw him after that, so sorry - no pic of me and one of top fifty most powerful people in the world. My bar tender buddy, though, shared the toilets with him.

"Shahrukh Khan, a man worth 540 million dollars, uses the same loos as us?" I asked, amazed.

"Apparently," shrugged my Norwegian friend. This was quite some revelation, given the typically Indian quality of the facilities. 

Shahrukh Kahn's toilet, yesterday

The floor manager was doing his best to motivate the party people. "Come on! Let's go! It's a party! Keep the energy up! And that includes the barmen!" I'd been noticed! Maybe not for the right reasons, but still ...

By 8.30 I was getting gung-ho with my moves. Years of working in TV weren't wasted as I spent every shot making sure I was within sight of the lens, and lacking the permission to use the bar props (the bottles were all fake - props guys made whisky by diluting cola) I was tossing a chrome cocktail shaker in the air with casual aplomb. I doubt for a moment it will distract the viewer from the eight scantily clad female dancers in the foreground who appeared to be tasked with an enormous amount of 'booty' to shake, but I was having fun.

Again ... and again ... and again we did this shot. When will it end? Let me go home!

Again the music started. Again Akon started singing about a girl who is apparently 'criminal'. Again I smiled jauntily as I spun the chrome beaker into the air. I winked at a girl, because I think detail matters and De Niro would have done it. I dropped the beaker.

CLANG!

Everyone near the bar turned round.

The director shouted "CUT!"

I held my breath.

"That's a take!"

Of course it was. Twelve hours of 'barman' solid gold and they take the one where I drop the cocktail shaker.

They asked me back the next day to continue shooting the scene but I declined. I don't want fame to change me. I learned from 'Norwich Girl' that they're taking five or six days to shoot that one scene, and as 'Norwegian Man' was also occupied the following day, it's safe to assume the bar staff may change five or six times during one song.

But when Ra.One is released next year, and you hear Akon's tune start in a busy nightclub, just keep an eye out for Barman 2. 

And if you don't see me, just listen for the clang.