Viva Versova

Versova also dazzles as stars shoot into their penthouses and sumptuous apartments, momentarily blinding other residents. Between the road and the sea, past powerhouse gyms, beauty parlours and roadside foodstalls, are rows and rows of flats. Sushmita Sen, Mahima Choudhary, Rahul Dev, Rani Mukherji, Sanjay Leela Bhansali, Gulshan Grover and Vikram Bhatt. There is a pattern directly proportional to their success. They rent a place, they buy the place and if their fame keeps rocketing, their neighbours could get nervous. For often, stars knock down walls, combine two flats and even take over an entire floor.

Sanjay Chauhan lives off Yari Road. Four flights of stairs and his one-bedroom flat is cool and dark. The television is on mute and flickering images illuminate the room. The computer (on the folding table) is ancient. Chauhan is a scriptwriter, his wife Sarita is a painter. They have a school-going daughter called Sara.

Chauhan moved here from Delhi a couple of years ago. You wonder what it takes to uproot a man from a stable job, his wife from a spacious studio, and his daughter from her supportive grandparents. He wanted to write scripts full time. In his worldview, Delhi stands for journalism — realism, in a sense — and Mumbai, for fiction. Sipping tea from a brand new Picasso mug, he is emphatic: ‘‘Film fascinates every Indian.’’

His routine sounds simple: Network and write. He explains the catch. Stars dictate changes if they do not like the script. Insecurity comes with the work and he says friends are a prerequisite for survival in this city. His are within shouting distance.

Most of Sahil Gill’s friends are from college. His one-year course gave him friends, a toehold in the city and ‘‘nothing more,’’ he says, dropping his deep voice for effect. He is a Delhi boy and made it big on stage there.

It is nearing midnight, he has had one hell of a day and he is slowly munching aloo parantha and curds. Ask him about the turning point in his life and the tiredness disappears from his face. It was a 7.5-minute monologue and he got a standing ovation. He says he had to be dragged off the stage after the act. ‘‘That was the biggest high in my life.’’

Naturally, he moved to Mumbai. To Yari Road. Why? ‘‘The studios, the dabbawallahs, it was cheap,’’ in that order. He got his portfolio shot, procured the list of production houses from a photo lab and persistently did the rounds of the studios — Famous, Tardeo, Worli, Balaji, Cinevista, Nimbus, Girish Malik, Shobhna Desai.

‘‘You call up the directors, producers. You are told ‘he is busy, not there’ or even a direct ‘he doesn’t want to meet you.’ Then you go over to their offices and drop off your portfolio and try and talk to them. I also know five-six coordinators. They get a fifth of your salary if you land a role they have tipped you off on.’’

His first break was a Lifebuoy ad. Then television serials happened. His computer, incidentally, is not on a folding table. The one-bedroom house is tastefully done for a bachelor and he says his mother is responsible.

He talks about the waiting game. He talks about how you must keep your mind occupied — reading, writing, photography — and how it is dangerous to think too much. ‘‘But things are looking up now.’’ He plans to hang in there. ‘‘Zidd hai.’’ He says he is made for acting. ‘‘But maybe my look isn’t right. I need to gain weight. I am 61 kg now, I need to be at least 68.’’

The looks department is located in a compound of dust. It is a state housing colony of cottages, a road away from the sea. Photo studios, acting schools, model coordinators, ad production units.

A familiar television face leans out of a bay window and points in the direction of Subi Samuel’s studio. He is a favourite for portfolios.

Says a confident Samuel, ‘‘The portfolio is like a passport to the industry. Pictures have to catch the eye of the maker. I work with newcomers and meet them at least two or three times before the shoot.’’

The hairstylist, make-up person, the stylist, the photographer — it is your basic photo-shoot team. The client gets advice on hairstyle, posture, teeth correction, shade of the lens. ‘‘No hair colour, no nose rings, no navel rings, no capris, no gowns, the length of the sleeve, guys can’t have thick bushy eyebrows, no light coloured trousers with black shoes,’’ warns Samuel. He is strict about his list of dos and don’ts. From 7.30 am to 3 pm. Seven different looks and a roll per picture.

Arvin Tucker, a coordinator, is based in the same colony. So is Ayesha Jhulka’s acting school. Her father, retired from the defence forces, holds forth. There is a Rs 10,000 fee for a three-month course.

A short ride away in another state housing cottage is the school everybody is talking about, Kishore Namit Kapoor Acting Lab. He charges Rs 39,000 for three months. Hrithik Roshan graduated from here. And there is many a mushy plaque saying ‘To Sir With Love.’ Most of the reigning stars are his students. An easily blushing boy stands to the side of the class of 19 practising an ‘imagination’ exercise: The classic scene where the performer is tied to the railway tracks and has to emote breaking free. Tabassum’s grand-daughter is part of the group. There is a guy from Kota, a girl from Kashmir.

Near Four Bungalows, a theatre activist is trying to turn around the system. He gives an appointment. No hour but ‘‘come over when the light dies,’’ shouts Alok Ulfat over the phone. He shoots portfolios for free. A former National School of Drama teacher, he runs free theatre workshops, calls his company Avikal, helps out the struggling and scoffs at the acting schools. His wife Shruti has made it in the television world. He rails at the Cosmopolitans, he fumes over Aishwarya clones, he promotes physical theatre among the city’s college kids. His computer sits on a folding table and he shows off his kids’ performances round the country. His television sits on a wooden crate.

It is difficult to follow Ulfat and distance oneself from this raw speculation for fame. Waiting for the light to turn green, cellphone screens light up faces concentrating on an SMS in autorickshaws. The lane ahead snakes out with diners: Pop Tate’s, Legacy of China, Pizzeria, Mostly Kebabs. The evening traffic howls past the badminton net being passed off as a fishing net in Pop Tate’s.

Deepika Gandhi, who is waiting to sign up to assist Tanuja Chandra in her latest production, tries to explain what has her hooked: ‘‘It simply eats us.’’ Success, no matter how small, is a resounding affirmation of the dreams. And Versova can make it happen.