Senthil JagannathanI still had two months’ rent left to pay; I told my roommate he could take it out of the advance I’d given.
I packed up my books and clothes in two cardboard boxes. All the CDs, DVDs, and video cassettes of foreign films I had accumulated over the years—I stuffed these in a bag and left them in my room. They might be of some use, to someone else. My plan was simple: I would return to my room at night, say goodbye to my roommate, collect my boxes, and leave.
After cleaning the room of my possessions, the shelf I was using in the wardrobe looked desolate. The racks on the wall, where I hung my shirts, seemed to tell me they were orphaned. The wiped out empty room served as a reminder that the things I owned took up most of the space.
There wasn’t much left to take with me, not even good memories. Marlon Brando and Charlie Chaplin seemed to smile at me with derision, from their photographs on the wall. I tore those pictures immediately.
The phone rang as I was drying my hair with a towel. I picked it up; it was Agent Yuvaraj.
“Shanmugam… I have a tahsildar character for you… the budget is quite small, so there is no company costume. Come with a couple of formal shirts and pants.” His words tumbled over the phone
After he hung up, I ironed two sets of formal clothes and folded them neatly, making sure they fit into the bag I always carry with me.
I left for Vadapalani bus depot. It was almost midday when I reached; the sky a sweltering blue that hadn’t yet started leaking black. The buses appeared to be falling asleep as they stood, recuperating after the night’s travels.
I was hungry and idly considered having tea. But the agent would be here any minute, and if I remain a bit longer, he might buy me a tea. I decided to wait.
The occasional car sped by. Buses roared drowsily, in anticipation of the night’s journey.
I looked to my left, towards Vasantha Bhavan. Men and women of all ages poured out of a building nearby. They were the supporting actors in a host of movies, TV serials, reality shows.
“Yes… No… Oh…” The crowd heaved as one, in monosyllables. These were the people who stood behind the protagonists, whose aspirations made them shake their hands in anxiety, or clap in exultation, or cover their mouth in surprise.
In every nook and corners of Chennai, they lived in tiny rooms in the hope of becoming the unforgettable stars of Tamil film industry.and waiting for their moment to shine. They never missed their early morning rounds, assembling near the Vadapalani bus depot and opposite the AVM film studio. Agents tasked with finding supporting actors for the day’s shoot would pick faces from among this crowd. This was an everyday occurrence. Agents would pay them a paltry amount, after pocketing a commission. They were the daily wage earners, and in cinema parlance, they were Junior Artistes.
“Hello brother!” A voice fell on my back, and I turned.
I saw someone waving at me with a cloth bag that advertised one of the many textile showrooms in the city. It was Krishnan, known to me as BeardKrishnan, on account of the facial hair covering every part of his face, except the eyes and nose. He had been a supporting actor for about 30 years now, since the 1990s.
“Hello.”
“Where is your shoot? Serial or film?” He held my right hand and questioned me, smiling only with his eyes.
“Film only, in Thiruvanmiyur… What about you?” I tried my best to return his smile, at least an artificial arrangement of my lips if not a real greeting.
“I have a character role in the serial Thevathaiyin Kanavan [Angel’s Husband]… I’ve known the director for 8-9 years now. My role is that of the heroine’s original father, so I show up in the flashback portions… A splendid character, really.” He answered me with great enthusiasm. I wanted to get out of there by all means. I pretended to pay attention to him and looked everywhere else, craning my neck.
Ganesan walked towards the group huddled under the tree. With a balding head, multicoloured stripes of holiness on his forehead, dark skin, rimless glasses, and a glorious moustache groomed to look like a tiger’s tooth, Ganesan cut a fine figure. Wealthy and famous, he was once a supporting actor himself, now an agent for over a thousand supporting actors. He stood in the middle of the crowd and started calling out, “Two grandmothers… three policemen with a paunch… Five ladies…” Ten people who resembled his descriptions stepped out of the crowd. “The van will be here shortly. Come to Deepa Shooting House in Valasaravakkam.” As he readied himself to move on to the next group, Ganesan spotted me.
“Shanmugam, I have meant to call you.” He called out to me and made his way to where I was. He ignored BeardKrishnan’s Hello. “There’s a small role in Anand Sir’s film… I sent him your picture… I’ll give you his office address, go see him.”
“Anna… Um… No… I’m going back to my hometown tonight.”
“Oh! It’s a good chance. Go and see him.”
“No… I have decided to go back…” I turned my face away as I said that.
My expression might have annoyed Ganesan. “Okay Shanmugan, it’s your wish,” he said to me before he left.
His walk was a bit strange.
As Ganesan receded from our vision, Krishnan asked me in a subdued voice, “Why do you let go of a chance that comes in search of you?”
“Oh just leave it! Chance, opportunity, I have lost years of my life in this pursuit, I have nothing to show for it.” My voice broke.
“You really shouldn’t speak in this hopeless way Shanmugam. What are we without hope? It’s what keeps us going, don’t let go of it.”
“Hope, faith, trust kept me going all these years… I ran away from home at twenty because all I wanted was to act. I haven’t done anything for my family, my home. My younger brother shouldered every responsibility. When my mother passed away, I didn’t have money to spare for her burial. During my sister’s wedding, I stood by myself, ashamed of my inability to do anything for her. I got married at 37 and told my wife I’d bring her to Chennai in a month. Now I have a five-year-old daughter, and I can’t even afford to buy her a small piece of gold jewellery. Do I really need to continue living such a life? I am unable to participate freely in people’s lives back home, the good and the bad that happens to them feel removed from me. I can’t seem to look them in the face when I speak to them. Here I am, an orphan by choice almost, living in a tiny room without my family, waiting for a chance that doesn’t arrive. That’s why I’ve decided to go back to my hometown. The agent called me after I made my decision. I will get 1000 rupees if I do this, I thought it might come in handy for my ticket and other expenses. I said okay. It will be my last, though!” As I spoke, I could feel the tremors in my voice. My hands shook; I hid them behind my back.
Krishnan listened to me quietly. But he was beginning to say something; he wanted to console me. “Shanmugam, you know this happens to everyone in the cinema, every artiste. Every person who is successful today has a story like this in their past. This shame of failure alone gives one the drive to emerge victoriously, Shanmugam. The world looks on with awe at such a person.”
“I don’t know… I feel like I wasted my life just talking. I have done my best to motivate others, giving them talks that were more rousing than yours just now. There was a time when I didn’t have 200 rupees to take my newborn to the hospital. I was at my wits’ end. I couldn’t succeed in the cinema as I wished. I couldn’t lead a peaceful life with my family. I’ve lost both my shots. I would rather go back to my family, find a job, some way to survive. I’ve packed up my life in Chennai.” I replied with force; this was going to be the final word. Krishnan didn’t say anything; he stood there, stroking his beard. Then his van came, he nodded at me and left. I felt a small smile coming. I had bested him in an argument.
BeardKrishnan had no one. He lived by himself. He had no pressure from his family and no disappointment over his long career as merely a supporting actor.
Someone honked in my direction. Yuvaraj had arrived. We had tea at a stall nearby. I climbed onto his motorcycle.
After the agents had their pick of supporting actors from the crowd, about 50 people remained standing under the tree. They weren’t required today, and a day without work meant a day without wages.
My location for the day was a densely overgrown area off East Coast Road, past Thiruvanmiyur.
Lightmen walked around, carrying massive lights, chattering excitedly. Three crew members came carrying a 20-foot crane. A young boy who looked like the production assistant went around with flasks hanging from his neck; he took requests for tea or coffee from everyone on set and poured out their beverage of choice from his flasks.
I spotted a man wearing a hat and sunglasses, gesturing something to the cinematographer; he had to be the director.
A little farther away, the Master operated his dosa stall, sprinkling water on the hot, seasoned, iron surface, readying it for its encounter with the batter. In front of him was a small, impatient crowd, their soiled plated revealing the remains of the Pongal and idli they had eaten just minutes ago.
Four lightmen hurriedly put together a railway track with the parts. A Bedford van was parked nearby, for all of the cast’s clothing needs. The supporting actors who were dressed as police officers needed belts and shoes to complete their uniform. Costumer Selvan handed them what they needed. I knew him well.
He called out to me, “Shanmugam, how are you?”
“I am well… This is my own costume. I have a tahsildar role.”
“Yes, yes… Here, put on these shoes as well. Number 10 I presume?” Selvan enquired so casually that his assistant glanced at him in surprise.
“Oh we’ve known each other for years!” he said, laughing. He handed over the shoes and socks to me. I took them from him and left.
Then there were the people running around trying to get things done, with unkempt hair, shirts drenched in sweat, caps sitting askance on heads. Assistant directors, I surmised. Having eaten, the supporting actors all came to the back door of the building. Like a marriage hall or a village fair, a shooting location is always a place of pomp and ceremony. I suddenly thought back to the temple festival that happened in the Tamil month of Aippasi every year. I recalled the hundreds of people pulling the deity Mayuranathar’s chariot, their hands straining around the ropes.
One of the assistant directors sent a few actors to the make-up artist. He explained something to them, and the make-up artist started his work. I put on the clothes I’d brought with me and went up to the assistant director. “What is my make-up going to be?”
“You’re the tahsildar, aren’t you? Please wait a bit; you are going to have some special make-up done… Why don’t you go eat? I’ll call you when it’s time.” I wanted to ask him what my dialogue was going to be, but his attention was already elsewhere. He ran, clutching his notebook.
I looked around for the cashier and saw him sitting under the shade of a small mango tree, along with the manager. If the shooting of my portion ended by 5 PM, I could collect what was owed to me and leave. I suppose I’d had one too many bitter experiences, of not being paid on time. These days, I looked for the cashier as soon as I arrived on set; it had become second nature.
I ate and took a seat. Now the wait began. Actors such as myself with small guest appearances were used to this wait. I would go to five or, at times, ten film offices every day, with my portfolio. I would then wait for a call from these offices; maybe a measly ten per cent would call back. Opportunities have always been rare. There was a time I waited five months so that I could get half a second of screen time. My dialogue? “Okay sir.”
My phone rang. It was my wife.
“I called to wish you for your birthday.”
Time and age weren’t really on my side. I grunted in response.
“When are you coming to the village? You were supposed to have left the day before yesterday.”
“I had some work. I am leaving tonight.”
“As soon as you said you were returning for good, your father went and found out that a shop had opened up in Kannara Street.”
“Okay… Okay… I’ll talk later.” I hung up.
Occasionally, an office that had my photographs would call me for an audition. I would be prepared to pour everything I had into these auditions, every expression, every movement, every concept of dramaturgy I had grasped. But the assistant directors present would give me thirty seconds, to act and convince them. They would appreciate my performance and let me know that they’d send for me once they knew the dates for filming.
Then they’d promptly forget to call. I would call them asking for the dates. “Tomorrow…” “The day after tomorrow…” Like every woman towards the end of her third trimester, I would continue to rearrange my life and dreams around this mythical date. When I would call them on the date they’d mentioned earlier, they would coolly inform me that the shoot had already begun. The pain was always the same as a bomb had exploded, leaving behind the rubble of my desires.
One of the assistant directors called me over for make-up. The make-up artist was an older man, with several years of experience. He’d won many awards for his work, including two National Awards. He looked at me; it was a look of indifference. He pulled me closer and took a good look at my jawline, from left to right. He ruffled my hair. He then started to apply to blacken my face. He painted my teeth the colour of dried blood. With a picture of a dead man as a reference, he started to create a congealed wound on my face. After submitting myself to his skills for half an hour, I could not recognise myself in the mirror.
Soon, the costumer’s assistant showed up. He wanted my shirt to look like it had been caught up in thorny bushes. Accordingly, my shirt was cut up. He proceeded to dirty it with muddy water.
I asked the assistant director, “Sir, please tell me what my dialogue is, at least now… I can prepare…”
He turned to look at me. “Oh, I’m sorry… You don’t really have a dialogue. The villain beats you up and kills you in order to scare the hero. He then disposes of you in the forest. The hero’s friend finds you like that and phones the hero. That’s the scene we’re going to shoot today.”
“I have to act as a dead body?” My unexpectedly loud voice betrayed my uneasiness.
“No, no. In the previous scene, the hero would have mentioned that he was going to file a complaint with the tahsildar. That is why the villain hurriedly kills you, that is, kills the tahsildar. We plan to show you dying little by little…”
I felt like someone had aimed a spring at my forehead, leaving behind a throbbing pain.
It doesn’t make a difference though, I reasoned. When my dream was no longer alive, did it really matter that I had to play a dead person?
The assistant director came back. “I’m sorry… I know you’ve been waiting for long. I think it’s your scene after lunch.”
In the film industry, every word has two meanings. We’ll see later means We will not see you again. Just two minutes almost definitely means You will be waiting for a couple of hours. Landing a role, doing my job, surviving the editing—none of this can guarantee that I will show up on the screen. Like skyscrapers reflected in tiny water bubbles, cinema dreams float untethered. They are built on rejections and choices that haunt. The hope that gave us life comes back to suffocate us. What’s one more betrayal, really? I resolved to not think about this anymore. Why spiral this way? What was left to think about? I would be going very soon. I had to stay clear of these laments.
“Shot ready!” The assistant director beckoned me over.
A fair-skinned, young man wearing an inspector’s uniform stood there; probably the man who would find me on the floor of the forest. The uniform didn’t suit him one bit. I looked around for someone to share this with, but the nagging thought that I was merely a junior artiste followed right behind.
“Hey! Where are the constables who are supposed to be standing behind the inspector?” The director yelled at no one in particular. Each of the assistant directors ran in different directions. One of them brought back a motley crew—the constables who were in various stages of a post-lunch nap under the shade of a tree, and a few supporting actors who would be the onlookers in the scene.
This happened often enough. Supporting actors would go off to take a smoke break, or to try and relax in between shots. Meanwhile, assistant directors tried to tolerate the impatient and irritable outbursts of directors.
One of the supporting actors mimed to a constable that his fly was open. He quickly zipped up his pants.
I went and laid down amidst the bushes, as instructed by the director. I had already been told that the policemen would walk into the scene from behind the camera. There was a nylon rope a few feet away from me. The camera would start moving from there, and by way of my feet, arrive at my face, just as my breath was expected to leave me.
“Camera roll!” came the director’s command.
“Rolling!” the cinematographer chimed in.
As soon as the director said “Action!” the camera started making its way slowly. The sound of boots marching could be heard.
“Cut!” The director seemed displeased. “Why are you juniors in front of the inspector?! Inspector sir, you should walk ahead, the rest must follow you.”
The young inspector rapidly nodded his head in agreement.
“One more!” came the director’s command.
The camera moved once again. And this time too, the young man did not walk in front of the constables.
“Cutttt!” The director wanted a retake.
This happened about four more times.
The film industry is full of people who stick around because they have the money or the recommendations. A take that needn’t last more than a few seconds was being dragged on now. An actor who deserves to play a police officer is relegated to being a corpse on set, and a man who was probably only capable of playing dead got to enact a police inspector. Did I have to carry in this misery?
The director took the inspector and constables aside and gave them some pointers. Their walk had somehow improved; I thought they might even perform adequately this time.
“Sir, the light has gone off, two minutes…” The cinematographer’s assistant held up the light meter to the sky. Faces fell all around.
Since I was lying on the ground, the dust collected on the wounds plastered across my face, and my skin started pulling. I could feel a tightness around my eyes. I pursed my lips and blew some air upwards, the warm breath on my skin was helpful, albeit marginally.
I thought back to all the scenes I’d watched, in which actors had to pretend they were dead. I recalled that Nagesh was a corpse throughout Magalir Mattum. An actor, even when acting as a dead body, lived forever on screen. He can be conjured anytime we wish to see him. If an actor lives on in at least one person’s mind in some corner of the world, can he really be dead? Death only comes to the living… I was a doctor in my previous film; now I am tahsildar. A person may have many different lives as long as he lives, some of these may be exceptional too. But only an actor can try his hand at dying. When a man’s life is tied to the body, there isn’t anything left when that body gives up. Does death really come to a man whose life is tied to his craft? I would think not.
“Silence!”
The director’s command shut everyone up.
“All okay, Sir! Light is back; we can go ahead with the shot,” the cinematographer’s assistant confirmed.
The director said “Action!” and the camera snaked along.
I remained on the floor, facing the camera. I imagined a noose being tightened around my neck. I timed my breath and the rise and fall of my neck to the steady beat of the approaching boots. We would all have held our breaths underwater as children, hoping to count to a higher number each time. I did the same now. I could be a leaf, floating weightlessly on the surface, bobbing with the gentle waves. I caught my breath in my throat and tightened my food pipe. I brought my eyeballs all the way up, lodging them in my upper eyelids. This way, I stared unflinchingly at the sky until the sky turned black. I told myself I was locked in a room without windows, where not even a speck of light could reach me. I had learnt yoga, and so I could control my breath for a while. All the noises around me receded; I heard them as if they emanated from within a cave. Soon these sounds faded too away completely. Silence reigned.
DUM!
I heard a sound, and with it, the director said, “Cut! Take okay.”
My body moved, but I registered it as something happening outside of me. Someone held me and shook me vigorously. I gasped and took a few hurried breaths. The air went to my head, and I started coughing. My vision was still blurred. I couldn’t see what was in front of me. I continued to cough. People gathered around me; they were faint outlines, and I couldn’t make out what they were saying. They called out for water, and very soon, water droplets hit my face with urgency. My vision returned, and I began to see the people around me.
“You had to act like a corpse, yes… But was this really necessary? You scared us for a minute there!” The associate director was speaking to me, his face still ashen.
“No… I hadn’t really planned it. It only came to me as I laid down. I had to show I was dead, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you stayed that way for half an hour…” he said in my ears. I saw him walk away, visibly shaken by what he had witnessed.
I finally opened my eyes wide and took a good look at the sky. Its vast expanse stirred something within me. Like fluffs of cotton, serene clouds flew across a bright blue cloth. My eyes smarted from the light.
The cinematographer’s assistant said to me, “Sir, please look into the camera and smile thrice for me.” Every time someone acted dead, this was a superstition they had to give in to.
I stood up and realised I didn’t feel myself entirely just yet. It was as though I could watch myself standing up, removed from who I was.
I laughed into the camera thrice, like I was asked. My entire body became a mouth; the sound of my laughter rang out loud and clear. I felt like a machine that had been dusted and repaired and put to work again. I spluttered to life similarly. Hunger, shame, repentance, desolation—I pictured all of these falling out of me as I laughed. Something I had held in my heart burst free. I couldn’t put the finger on it, but it made me cry.
The art director’s assistant showed up with a coconut shell. A small piece of camphor burned on the shell; it would take away any negativity I might have accumulated, it would perhaps protect me from the less-than-honourable intentions of everyone around me. My skin erupted with goosebumps. My head and heart were pounding. If I wasn’t careful, the ground might slip away from beneath my feet. I had an urge to smile at everyone who was on location. I smiled so wide, my cheeks were stretched to their limits, and it was as though ice cubes were being dragged across my back.
A light turned on in my head, and I phoned Agent Ganesan. He answered on the third ring.
“You mentioned there was a role for me in a film… I’ll go see that director in his office…”
…………………………..
This story is originally written in Tamil and is translated to English by Anusha Srinivasan.
Anusha is a Contributing Editor at The World of Apu, an online film magazine.
This Translation is an outcome of a joint project by Kanali கனலி- கலை இலக்கிய இணையதளம் and FemAsia Magazine
