Type Cast

Ringing the wrong doorbell takes Meenakshi away from an interview with a famous casting director to the humble abode of a struggling language coach. Will she be able to jump right in and play her part like a seasoned professional?

Meenakshi pushed the button to call the Gurukrupa building lift. “This is it,” she told herself, “this is the break you have been waiting for.”

Banerjee uncle had called her mobile at five in the morning.

“I want you to meet a boy at 1424 Gurukrupa above Heaven on Earth near Madhu park in Khar.” he had said, excitement bubbling in his voice.

“But I don’t want to meet a boy,” Meenakshi had protested, rolling her sleep-filled, doe-like eyes in exasperation, “I want a break. I want a role in a Hindi movie.”

“Yes, yes, that is why I want you to meet Abhoy Mukherjee. He is casting director and nephew of my good bandhu. Meet him today at 10 o’clock sharp.”

Meenakshi googled Abhoy Mukherjee. Facebook announced he was casting for his second film, ‘Phir Ek Bar.’ Instagram showed him riding a horse at Laboni Point beach and shopping in the Burmese market at Cox Bazar.

“The role is perfect,” Banerjee uncle had gushed, “very good acting part.”

Even though her Hindi was ‘too Madrasi,’ and her convent English ‘very English,’ her Kuchipudi guru had high hopes Meenakshi would become a Bollywood star. Just like Hema Malini.

“Break a leg,” Meenakshi whispered to herself as she put on her best demurely coy look and rang the bell at 1442 Gurukrupa.

Omar Hanif was startled out of his reverie by the doorbell. His beautiful daydream of a packed audience of eager, adoring students hanging on to his every word faded to make way for his laptop vainly looping through his ‘Learn Hindi’ lecture on YouTube, its hits counter stuck at four, one for each time he had logged in. His eyes swept across the dirty takeout boxes littering his small dining table and its two chairs, jostling for space with the piles of unpaid bills and due letters.

When the doorbell rang again, insisting on a response, Hanif got up, steeled himself for the wrath of yet another creditor, and opened the door.

“Yes?” He asked tentatively.

Meenakshi’s knees turned into jelly. Instead of a pudgy casting director, a Krishna avatar stood before her with sunlight twinkling around his disheveled curls, his luminous eyes melting her composure, his slightly parted luscious lips setting her heart all a flutter, the contours of his chiseled torso outlined under his thin kurta sending waves of fire surging through her veins. She dug deep into the reservoir of her resolve and tapped into all her years of nritya and natayam training to steady herself, to stay in character. Then she looked up from downcast eyes with her best demurely coy look to play her part perfectly, ready to go wherever the role led.