Bollywood or Bust

Here's another short story I wrote out of our writers' group. The prompt was to write a short story under 2000 words with the following criteria...
The time 2:12PM must be referred to
There must be mention of word dog
The setting must be outside of North America
The phrase 'Not my cup of tea' must be included
The colour red must be mentioned somewhere
Here's my result...(and it's over 2000 words...I have too many words)

Bollywood or Bust

I'm as much an actress as Lindsay Lohan is a rocket scientist.

So, when a man approached my friends and me in Mumbai café and asked if I wanted to be an extra in a Bollywood film, my Darjeeling snorted out my nose. When he said the two friends I was with could also be extras, I told him acting was not my cup of tea.

I mean, the guy looked more like an Indian street dog than a talent agent. You know what I mean; scrawny, shifty eyes, skittish as a chipmunk with a whole lot less cheek.

But when he said it paid and included free food, I said, ‘Lights, camera, action!’ and ‘Bring on the na’an bread.’ I was all arrogance and pretention. 

Another couple sat in the middle, French, I thought, as they murmured sweet unintelligible nothings in each other’s ears in a lilting accent. But they were each more interested in the other than the rest of the passengers. I turned away in a blush after a few embarrassing seconds of trying to greet them.

Within fifteen minutes of him leaving, I regretted my bravado. My friends laughed and shook their heads my naiveté and timidity.

.

I was nineteen and on my first trip away from home unescorted. I’d been itching to get out from under my parents’ thumbs…not that they were terribly oppressive thumbs…but hey, I was seeing my last year of teenage-hood slipping away. After a year of university, I became aware that adulthood and freedom were not synonymous with each other. Freedom is a total misnomer. It comes with a boatload of obligation. So I took the summer after my freshman year of uni to go on a quest for true freedom.

My parents freaked out. I was shy. I was quiet. I didn’t have adventures. But I had an audacious heart no one could see. I was determined to make it visible. I figured a three month excursion across SE Asia should do the trick.

I’d backpacked through Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia during April and May and met up with Jim and Helen (seriously, those were their names and they were in their early twenties) in Bangkok. They were seasoned travelers from Manchester, England and convinced me that I couldn’t go home without first experiencing India.

They were right. I’d fallen in love with the country. The people were beautiful. Their plight in poverty induced pitiful sympathy but there was a simplicity to life in the sprawling cities.

We’d journeyed by train through most of the central interior from Chennai through Bangalore and Hyderabad and had spent the past week exploring Mumbai in all its colours and chaos.

“What if this guy is some kind of dealer in the sex trade,” I lamented. Adventurous me warred constantly with the me that had nineteen years of experience in caution.

“Oh come on, Kristen, it will be a jolly time,” Jim beguiled. “The bloke’s a bit of a plonker but I’m sure ‘e’s harmless.”

“I’m jazzed to get my Bollywood dance on,” added Helen and she gave us a demo that had me giggling and relaxed my inhibitions.

But the anxiety returned the next day as the three of us waited outside of our hostel for our limo to arrive. I chewed my nails, joked nervously with the couple and checked my watch a dozen times. 2:12PM. Our pick-up was twelve minutes late.

“Maybe they’re not coming,” I commented with a hopeful lift to my eyebrow.

“Indian time is a good bit behind the clock.” Jim grinned. “Don’t fret, love, they’ll be here shortly.”

And the ‘limo’ did arrive shortly…in the form of an ancient Matador van that may have once been green but was exhibiting more in the rusty hues at present. Our weasel-like agent also doubled as the chauffeur as he beckoned us aboard with a toothy grin matching the colour of his vehicle. 

We weren’t the only recruits. A trio of rowdy Spaniards were caroling a lovely Mediterranean tune in the rear seat. They hoisted their Kingfishers in salute as we entered, before downing the brew and grabbing another from the 12-pack under their seat. 

Jim sat up front by our driver and engaged him in conversation, and I slid over the ratty seat to the window with Helen beside me. I was still unsure of what to expect but I felt comforted that if I were incarcerated or abducted there would at least be witnesses. 

Between the raucous warbling, moist lip smacking and the ancient motor rattling and groaning, conversation seemed unlikely so I turned to the sights out the window.

Mumbai passed by in flickering vignettes. A city of islands, lakes, rivers and oceans, water could be seen from almost any point in the metropolis. One had to travel over a bridge to get anywhere…and never quickly. Most of the vehicles looked like the one we were in, but all their horns were in working order.

The city was a study of contrasts, from skyscrapers, billion dollar bridges and elaborate temples, to shanty slums and garbage infested streets. Eighteen million people, twenty thousand crushed into every square kilometer, in constant 30C heat made for an effluvium of human perfume. In our van alone it was crushing. On the streets, it overwhelmed to a point where it became inconsequential…especially when an undertone of refuse and human waste were added to the bouquet.

My uneasiness continued the longer we traveled. The perspiration that dripped from my brow, slickened between my breasts and made my cotton tank stick to my back was not only from the heat. The traffic was slow but when we pulled over in front of a spice market about forty-five minutes into our travels, I was beyond relieved.

It was crowded. I didn’t mind. Good, I thought, more witnesses to the calamities about to befall me.

We piled out of the van with the encouragement of Weasel-Face, (I wished he would stop smiling. It was so creepy and his breath was enough to bowl one over) and to the continued songs of the Madrid trio. But mushy face Couple Provencal finally made their introductions, Adeline and Georges, from Avignon. Honeymooners in India? Seriously, just go to Paris.

“Wonder if they’re filming a dance spot in the market?” Helen pondered with a smirk and gave her derriere a shake with her hands flung in the air. Jim giggled and wrapped an arm around her waist.

Any fears I had were forgotten momentarily in the sight and sound of the market as we trundled into a festival of spice. A rainbow of zesty aromas and tinctures greeted us...emerald green, scarlet red, golden yellow and burnished orange…arced in rows of huge baskets and burlap sacks, spilling out into the pathway. Saffron, turmeric, cardamom, cloves, licorice, mint and cinnamon tickled my olfactory senses as I closed my eyes and inhaled. And proceeded to sneeze a half dozen times.

Agent-man led us through a maze of aisles, I lost track of the turns, and headed us at last to a small café deep in the bowels of the market. He nodded and bowed a few times to the proprietor then shuttled us to a couple of rickety tables, squinting his eyes and panting.

‘We feed you now, most helpful clients. Then we make movies. Chai and gulab jamun fill you up, yes?” His cheeks rose so high in a grin that his eyes disappeared. It wasn’t attractive.

The café was dinky and dirty and I tried not to wonder what the origin might be of the water that made our chai, but it was fragrant and the sugar and milk seemed harmless enough. The little lava balls soaked in sweet rose water made my saliva glands ache and my teeth hurt.

The eight of us were crammed around two iron tables in a single market stall deep in the centre of the market. It was so humid and confined as to induce claustrophobia. Weasel-Agent was nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this would be my fate. A wayward traveler destined to forever drink chai and eat sweets in the Lalbaug Masala Gully, lost in the maze of spices because she couldn’t find her way out.

No one else seemed concerned. The Cantantes had whipped out the weed and were happily puffing over their tea in between verses. The Avignon couple were…well… making out in their national style, teacups still in hand. Jim and Helen were sipping and nibbling, excited for the adventure. And trying to encourage me. They were so brave.

“You’re safe as a bug, love.” Helen cajoled. “We’ll not let a thing happen to ya.”

Agent Chauffeur came back a short while later as I was licking my sticky fingers for the hundredth time, accompanied by a burly sourpuss who looked like he walked right out of the Mumbai Mafia. He was introduced as Wali. That sent the troubadours into giggle fits and they started calling him Wall-E with cartoon voices.

Wall-E said nothing, his face a mask of stoic resolution, but waved us all back into the market as Agentman trailed behind us.

More twists and turns through the market brought us to a covered alleyway, piled high on each side with rotting refuse, and my heart started to pound an erratic beat. We exited the alley onto a street lined with multi-storied buildings and filled with foot traffic…literally people on foot walking amid the vehicles in the centre of the street. And the walkers moved faster.

Our line thinned out and I wasn’t sure what I was more afraid of…that I’d lose sight of my group or that I wouldn’t. But Weasel-Face kept pushing from behind as Wall-E drove his convoy into a single story whitewash, windowless, that seemed fabricated with particle board.

“This doesn’t look like any studio, I’ve ever seen,” I murmured in Helen’s ear, as we backed up in a narrow hallway. She rolled her eyes.

“And how many studios have you seen in India, love?” She giggled and threw her arm around my shoulders. “I’m sure we’re heading into an opium den, right now.” I frowned sheepishly and sighed out my tension.

Wall-E opened a door to our right and we all tumbled into pitch blackness. We could see little with only the dim light of the bulb seeping in from the entrance and when the door slammed shut we were completely blind. My head went woozy as adrenaline shot through my blood.

‘Mon Dieu,” whispered Georges and even the Spanish trio burst out in expletives as they started stumbling around the space. Helen grabbed my hand and called out for Jim, who yelled into the darkness.

“Where’s the bloody movie set then ya grotty arseholes?” he bellowed. “Turn on the fricken lights or we’ll do ya up like the kippers, eh!”

“Bugger!” Helen mumbled under her breath. My blood was echoing so hard in my head, I was sure if I uttered a sound, I would faint.

“No, no, good clients. We make movie now.” Weasel-Ass’ disembodied voice floated down as from an angel on high. Before he’d finished his speech, lights flashed and a large screen was illuminated on the wall opposite the door.

Weasel-Agent was shadowed in relief against it and we could now see we were in a large empty warehouse. A pair of long tables were situated in the middle of the room with microphones on stands upon it and metal folding chairs behind them.  

“See, see? We make movie now, good clients.” That disgusting wide-mouth grin came out again as he hurried us into the chairs. Wall-E appeared out of the darkness with a stack of papers and he placed a bundle in front of each of us.

“Good clients, we make movie now…in English.” Weasel-Agent clapped his hands in glee and swooped a hand out to the screen as images flashed upon it.

A glance at the papers and a good deal of confusing conversation later, we determined we were to follow along on the script before us and dub this soon to be blockbuster action/adventure into North American ‘English’. Wall-E and Weasal-Face were gonna be millionaires.

We jumped in and read the scripts against what they showed us on the screen while Wall-E recorded what I am sure was the worst soundtrack ever. Add to the twisted grammar in the dialogue, Spanish and French speakers who sounded at times like English was their sixth language and you’ll have a good idea of the quality. But it was fun and terribly funny.

We spent the next two hours at the microphones howling our way through some of the most hilarious English translations of Hindi I have ever read.

 “When the girl on the ground gets angry ... then she will rip your pants off.”

“Before life eats you ... you should drink life.”

“In politics all work is done with love and peace.”

But Wall-E and Weasel-Face seemed pleased with the results.

And as the drums and horns and flutes and sitars began to blare in the final scene of the movie, Helen squealed in delight and the eight of us, kicked backed our chairs and shimmied and shook our booties to the requisite Bollywood dance finale.

The Spanish trio grew to a full-blown choir as we joined in their song on the van ride back to our commodes, three thousand rupees in each of our pockets.

We’d had a ‘gobsmacking’ good time. My body was sound and I was going home with a wildly crazy memory. I hadn’t been abducted or sold into slavery. I was not in jail or been forced into an opium addiction.

My voice, however, had been immortalized in Indian film, saying,

“I can give you beyond limits ... and I can hit you with my slippers too.”

Bollywood or Bust!