Bollywood Bombshells

I love this city. I just love it. I love the fact I don't wear a watch and I forget what day it is (at least here in Mumbai I'm allowed to - In Melbourne it's not really the done thing).

I love zigzagging the traffic - having finally mastered the art of crossing the India road amongst bikes, scooters, taxis, rickshaws, trucks and buses. I feel like I've conquered Southern Mumbai - having walked the back streets and main roads for hours, I am familiar with the markets, the fishing docks, and the endless crowded stalls lining the pavement.

But what I love most about Mumbai is the people. They seem happier and content, they make up the massive ocean that overlows this teeming city. This city has culture, a rich history, magnificent architecture, and incredible food - what more could a girl want?

Bollywood. I wanna be a superstar - so where else but Bollywood?

Last year Nechama and I missed the season for Bollywood extras - due to bad timing and pure exhaustion from all our travelling up north. Besides, Mumbai was too expensive to go out - it's noted as one of the most expensive (comparitively) city in all of India.

I lost all belief that I'd be picked up to act as an extra in a film - yet low and behold, on Saturday morning, Sunday morning and afternoon - I was approached by three Bollywood agents wanting me to work for them. How lucky is that.

I turned down the first one - I was to dress in a sari and just say Namaste for an entire evening at an Indian wedding (I already had plans to meet my friends that night, which I was looking forward to - and agreed to the second and third agent. I was to be an extra in an advertisement that, while it was produced in India, it was to be shown abroad. Nobody could tell us what the add was about - we were told at first it was a public service campaign, then part of a series of campaign ads, then we were told itwas an experimental film - we only discovered what it was at the very end of the night. Dodgy.

The ad was set in Paris, on a cold, misty winter's night. We were first hushed into a room and given tea. Then the stylist came in and barked orders at the hair and makeup artists. I was second in line. Apparently, French girls has straight hair, and after oohiing and ahhing at my billowing curly mop, they finally agreed to let me keep the curls. Thank god. To 'crunch' my hair and preserve the ringlets, the hair stlyist pulled back my hair fron my face, and ran a bursh more than a few times through my hair. I didn't mind, for as I said to them at the start - "It's up to you. i'm all yours" - so who was I to complain. Besides, I could always wash it. She spritzed some water/rpduct through it and kept it tied back while the 'makeup artist' - a small man qith a quivering hand and an apron full of paints - woked on my pink eyeshadow and bright red rouge. Apparently French fashion, so they said.

I was one of the first to play dress ups with the wadrobe - because that's exactly how it was, playing dressups and purim with a Salvation Army clothing bin. The stylist kept barking orders to her male minions to pull this sweater out, and these pair of slacks (because thats what the pants were - a loose ill-coloured pair of men's daggy trousers, yukko) and unzip that jacket, and put these multi-coloured socks on to go with high heels.

I was first given a tiny wollen ribbed turtle-neck jumper. I took one look at it and burst out laughing. Holding it against myself, I showed the others (a British couple, an American, two French students and another ditzy Australian lawyer) how it would fit my arm. But I tried it on anyway, and as I emerged form the bathroom with the jumper riding up my waist, pulling at every corners I possess, well, we packed it in with laughter. There was no going back now.

The seocnd outfit I was made to try on was a birght magenta tight short skirt. With ruffles. Truly French fashion. Uh huh. The stylist then handed me a tiny tiny pink camisole and a grey jacket - I was supposedly dressed for work.

Let me interrupt myself here and tell you what I wore (from my own clothes) to the shoot.My pair of jeans (for I knew no pants would fit me), my Converse (with socks) and a loose fitting teeshirt. Fair enough, given that I had no idea what they were going to dress me in.

After I told them my shoe size (and recieved a look of horror) I was told to quickly get out of my extra-tight skirt (to my relief) and keep my jeans and shoes on. Thank god. They tied a chequered scarf around ym neck and pointed my to the set, where men were waving shallow pans of incense around high-powered fans. It was the start of a smokey evening.

I was supposed to be browsing in a bookshop named 'Antique Printed Books' in English. Pity this ad was set in France. The Bakery was called just that (not Patisserie) and the car was on the left side of the road. Hrmm, not so good with consistency there.

The night was made up going back and forth sorting through books while the cmaera was trained on the main couple, who were speaking in French. The woman was a very thin and tall Indian model who had picked up Frnech living in Switzerland, and the man was a French journalist on his first Bollywood experience. It was a mess.

The Indian girl kept mucking up her lines, and couldn't act for her life. It was a very tedious five hours standing in winter clothing under a hot spotlight and thick incense-aze.

Nevertheless, it was a fun experience. The French students kept picking out strange lines - we finally knew what it was about.

Baby wipes.

Weird.