Curtain calls

I had never performed on the stage while in school. However, in the first year of my engineering course I was persuaded to participate in a Tamil play as part of the college annual day. My prowess in that language was pretty limited but the enterprising scriptwriter made me a Non-Resident Indian so the problem was solved. I got rave reviews for my act.

This whetted my appetite for more time under the arc lights. But offers did not exactly pour in. I even joined a well known theatre group in Bangalore presuming I would get a chance to exhibit my talent. No such luck. The only role I was given was to stand behind the wings holding a tray with some of the props required by the main actors.

I was not the one to give up so easily. A few of my acquaintances had got into television. This time the poor quality of my Kannada was my undoing. Also there were enough actors available to speak with an American accent so even the role of a US returned Kannadiga was out of reach. Finally, I got my moment in the sun. It was a party scene and I was asked to come in a suit. I was finally going to become a star. Not exactly. When the episode was released, there I was on the periphery of the scene with a tumbler full of amber liquid in my hand watching with rapt attention the hero singing a song after being ditched by his girlfriend. It was quite painful trying to stand still holding a glass with a silly smile on my face, take after take. After this I got rather busy with my career and my acting career was put on the back burner.

 A few years back in Hyderabad my neighbour’s daughter qualified for KBC and was invited to Mumbai for the next round. She had a high opinion of my general knowledge level so she gave my telephone number for “Phone a Friend”. I felt as if my acting career was resurrected, though I was not really going to appear before the camera. My bathroom mirror became the Big B and I practiced how I was going to answer the phone when HE called. My tone varied from supreme indifference, to prove that this was an everyday occurrence for me; to one of ecstasy for being called by Mr.Bachchan himself. I also brought it to the notice of my neighbours that the megastar’s parental home was next door to ours in the tony Chanakyapuri area of New Delhi in our younger days. My dream was once again shattered when the girl did not get through the “Fastest Finger First” round.

But I am not ready to call it curtains as yet. My hope lies with a young cousin of mine who, though a Kannadiga, is a well respected star in Kerala. I am expectantly waiting for a call from her producer asking me to rush to Trivandrum for a shooting. Meanwhile I am taking lessons in Malayalam. One can never be too careful.