At Jodhpur Airport, on a 4 day recce of Jodhpur and Jaisalmer, we are received by Alambhai. Alambhai is our local production co-ordinator; his job is to help us find people, locations, characters, stories, we can use for our film. Alambhai is big and broad with a shy smile and a soft voice. On our last night in Jodhpur, to make him feel comfortable, I ask him his story. How did he land up in this field? Alambhai smiles his shy smile. Bas, aa gayein, he says. I probe further: But, how? It was God’s wish, he says and tells us this wonderful story.
Alambhai never went to school, he never learned to read and write. He used to be a goatherd. One day, while wandering through the countryside with his flock of goats, he stumbled upon the shoot of Elaan-e-Jung going on near Jaisalmer. There was Anil Sharma, his father and Dharmendra. Anil Sharma’s father asked him what he was carrying in his bag. Alambhai removed the bajre-ki-roti that was his lunch. Anil Sharma’s father asked him if they could share in it. Of course, Alambhai replied, and milked a goat to wash down the meal. Dharmendra loved the simple food and asked him to be back the next day with a lot more rotis.
Alambhai landed up the next day, and Anil Sharma’s father asked him if he was interested in helping on the shoot. Alambhai became a part of the crew, and when the shoot was over, he was paid 5000 bucks. His family had never seen that much money in their lives, he remembers. They counted the money again and again.
Anil Sharma’s father spread the word around in Bombay that there was a hardworking lad in Rajasthan who could get things done there, and Alambhai was in demand. He has an extensive filmography comprising of Hindi films, regional films, foreign films and ads. He’s even there in a bit role in Mumbai Se Aaya Mera Dost, he says, but you won’t recognize him in the costume and get-up.
Today, Alambhai can just about sign his name. When he’s not coordinating yet another shoot in Rajasthan, he looks after a couple of businesses he’s started – a stone exporting firm, and a hotel in Jaisalmer.
Next time I watch a film set in Rajasthan, I’m going to keep an eye open for Alambhai’s name in the credits.
* * *
Babloo Chawaria is a poker-faced autorickshaw driver in Jodhpur. For two days, he bore us with patience, driving up and down the narrow streets of Jodhpur’s Blue City. From his stony expressions, I couldn’t tell whether he was excited at being shot for a film or horribly appalled at what we were doing to his beloved autorickshaw, rigging it up with plates and angles, nuts and bolts, belts and hooks, to place our camera. Finally, after the shoot, as he was taking us back to the hotel, he could not hold it back any more. He shouted out to a fellow autorickshaw driver, “Meri gaadi ke upar film bani hai…really.”
* * *
Armed with a camera, we travel down the coast from Cochin to take a look at fishing villages. Now and then, a villager asks what we are doing. We are making a documentary film, we reply. Ah, the villager nods knowingly, no further questions asked. I love Kerala.
Alambhai never went to school, he never learned to read and write. He used to be a goatherd. One day, while wandering through the countryside with his flock of goats, he stumbled upon the shoot of Elaan-e-Jung going on near Jaisalmer. There was Anil Sharma, his father and Dharmendra. Anil Sharma’s father asked him what he was carrying in his bag. Alambhai removed the bajre-ki-roti that was his lunch. Anil Sharma’s father asked him if they could share in it. Of course, Alambhai replied, and milked a goat to wash down the meal. Dharmendra loved the simple food and asked him to be back the next day with a lot more rotis.
Alambhai landed up the next day, and Anil Sharma’s father asked him if he was interested in helping on the shoot. Alambhai became a part of the crew, and when the shoot was over, he was paid 5000 bucks. His family had never seen that much money in their lives, he remembers. They counted the money again and again.
Anil Sharma’s father spread the word around in Bombay that there was a hardworking lad in Rajasthan who could get things done there, and Alambhai was in demand. He has an extensive filmography comprising of Hindi films, regional films, foreign films and ads. He’s even there in a bit role in Mumbai Se Aaya Mera Dost, he says, but you won’t recognize him in the costume and get-up.
Today, Alambhai can just about sign his name. When he’s not coordinating yet another shoot in Rajasthan, he looks after a couple of businesses he’s started – a stone exporting firm, and a hotel in Jaisalmer.
Next time I watch a film set in Rajasthan, I’m going to keep an eye open for Alambhai’s name in the credits.
* * *
Babloo Chawaria is a poker-faced autorickshaw driver in Jodhpur. For two days, he bore us with patience, driving up and down the narrow streets of Jodhpur’s Blue City. From his stony expressions, I couldn’t tell whether he was excited at being shot for a film or horribly appalled at what we were doing to his beloved autorickshaw, rigging it up with plates and angles, nuts and bolts, belts and hooks, to place our camera. Finally, after the shoot, as he was taking us back to the hotel, he could not hold it back any more. He shouted out to a fellow autorickshaw driver, “Meri gaadi ke upar film bani hai…really.”
* * *
Armed with a camera, we travel down the coast from Cochin to take a look at fishing villages. Now and then, a villager asks what we are doing. We are making a documentary film, we reply. Ah, the villager nods knowingly, no further questions asked. I love Kerala.
