Peter Davis visits the massive film studios in Chennai and gets more than he bargained for.

I don't usually allow a complete stranger to remove my trousers. But In India anything is possible. I was on an assignment to write about the colossal Indian film industry - an industry that far outranks Hollywood, not for budgets but for volume of product. Last year this juggernaut of an industry churned out no less than 459 features.

Armed with camera, tape recorder, notebook and water bottle I ambled through the manicured grounds of the massive MGR Film City in Chennai (formerly Madras). At any given moment a film crew will set up cumbersome lights and cameras. Important looking people will emerge from the shadows, cameras will roll, actors will act and then everyone will disappear. Like much of India itself, these studios exude a rhythm that defies order but is at once seductively entertaining and strangely soothing.

Along one of the many roadways, a group of about 30 people were earnestly engaged in that most serious of Indian activities – lunch. Seated at hastily erected trestle tables they passionately consumed tantalising south Indian thalis (meals) served on giant banana leaves.

The alluring aroma wafted all the way to another corner of the complex where a camera focused on a gangly man who seemed seriously troubled. He was prancing about in front of a large statue of Ganesh, the popular elephant headed god responsible for many things including the removal of obstacles. As the camera rolled the man thumped his heart, covered his eyes and pleaded with the icon for an answer to his problem. I couldn't quite work out what his problem was. Maybe the love of his life had walked out. Or perhaps he'd missed the lunch time thali.

I was enjoying the spectacle when a tall, slim urbane looking man with a neat grey beard stepped in front of me. "Excuse me" he said in soft, beautiful English. "My name is Arjun. I'm a film producer and I've been watching you. Actually I am wondering if you would like to be in my movie".

I know people who have spent their entire terrestrial existence waiting for just such a line. I also know that in India no request is what it seems. Mr Arjun may have been a con artist. Perhaps he was after my camera. Maybe he was seeking a donation to some obscure charity of which he was the self-appointed money collector. Worse still, he
may have wanted my kidneys for a transplant! Because I'm a cautious traveller I worked through all possible scenarios and waited a whole five seconds before saying 'Yes'.

With that simple word I was whisked off by car to a wonderful lunch before being transported to a cement cell where a man called Raja asked me to keep my arms up as he removed my trousers.

Raja is clearly an expert at removing other peoples' clothes. He carefully placed my trousers on a table. "Please, we'll take care of that" he said, pointing to my money pouch. And so I broke one of the cardinal rules of travel. Without question I handed my travellers cheques, credit cards, passport and even a computer disk to a complete stranger. 'Now we are removing your shirt' said Raja who always chose the collective form of address for this process of undress.

I stood in my underpants with no idea about my impending role. The producer, Mr Arjun, had left me alone with Raja. And Raja's English did not seem to extend beyond the process of dressing and undressing. "Now we are fitting" he announced as he produced an immaculate pair of white cotton trousers. The moment I stepped into them I knew what was going to happen. Raja's white trousers would not travel beyond my knees. I grinned somewhat sheepishly at Raja who looked as if his entire job was suddenly under threat. "What to do?" he announced as he shook his head and opened a nearby drawer. He took out a large sharp, shiny knife. Clutching it with purpose he walked behind me.

I've read about the eunuchs that exist on the periphery of the Indian film industry. It must have been over forty degrees in that cement cell but as I stood there with the white trousers around my ankles I suddenly felt very cold. Surely Raja wasn't going to. . .

Within seconds Raja put a neat slit in the back of the white trousers and hoisted them gently beyond my knees and into position. "Please, we must raise our arms" he said. He then slipped a long shirt over me which conveniently concealed the slit in the
trousers. Now I was sweating. Only when Raja gave me a set of rosary beads, a large wooden cross and a bible (in Tamil) did I begin to have an inkling of my role.
At that point Mr Arjun returned. "The car is waiting" he announced. My chauffeur drove me and Mr Arjun to the set. On the way I was briefed on my role. Like so many Indian movies, this one was about a family feud. A young boy had been caught in a shoot out between the goodies and the baddies. As a Catholic priest I was to preside over the burial of the boy. My role was to be solemn and silent. I was instructed to fondle my rosary beads, clutch my bible and move my lips, as if saying something.

Fifteen minutes later we arrived on location - a paddock in a far corner of the studio grounds. A grave had been dug, the coffin was waiting to be lowered and technicians were running cables. A large crowd of tourists from neighbouring Kerala state assembled. One of the tourists approached me very tentatively and requested my autograph. Another asked me to pose with his wife and son for his camera. Suddenly dozens more wanted autographs. I moved into 'obliging priest mode'. For the first time I saw Mr Arjun smile. "You make a good priest" he assured me.

Into this mayhem came a gleaming white Mercedes and out stepped the denim clad, mobile phone wielding hero of the film. The crowds deserted me and rushed for the autograph of this man who makes Arnold Shwartzeneger look like a prepubescent wimp. On this occasion, the hero had come not to act, but to direct. And it was my scene that he was directing (It is a custom to allow the hero to direct select scenes).

I looked appropriately forlorn as I gazed into the freshly dug grave. Four men used ropes to lower the coffin. As the hero looked through the lens I fondled my beads and moved my lips. I actually said to myself 'What the hell is a Jewish boy from Melbourne doing as a Catholic priest in a Tamil blockbuster?'.

Only when someone yelled action did I discover that this burial was to take place during a monsoonal downpour. Water from a fire hose gushed over me and my bible. The sheer force of it nearly pushed me into the grave. As I tried to regain my composure one of the lighting technicians jumped four feet into the air. The water
caused the cables of his light to become 'live'. The technician survived and filming continued.

Because it was a one-camera shoot we had to do three takes from as many angles. In between each take the make-up artist stood in front of me with a broken comb and a cracked mirror "We are adjusting you" she said.

Within two hours the shoot was over. The grave was full of water, my bible was drenched and my white trousers were seriously muddied. Mr Arjun accompanied me back to the cement cell. "Now we are property checking" said Raja as he returned all my valuables. As I said my farewells, Mr Arjun discretely pressed my two hundred rupee appearance fee into my hands. 'Call me when you're next in town' he said.
Ó Peter Davis

Peter Davis lives in the hills outside Melbourne. He’s a freelance writer/photographer and a senior lecturer in creative non fiction and travel writing at Deakin University.

This article was first published in the Melbourne Age and has since been anthologised in various collection of travel writing