Yes, My Accent Is Real (20 page)

I was reminded of something important that my father had taught me all those years ago:
If it happens, good. If it doesn't happen, very good.

I
. Which was very brave of me, as I hate public bathrooms and only use them under extreme duress. I've just never understood the concept of people pooping next to each other.

WASHINGTON, D.C. A NEW CITY,
a new apartment, and a new
world. I was twenty-five and had just finished graduate school. I arrived in the capital with two suitcases stuffed with everything I owned.

I had just been cast in an Indian version of Shakespeare's
Love's Labour's Lost
, helmed by legendary director Michael Kahn. For the non-theater-folk out there, to paraphrase Ron Burgundy, Michael Kahn “is a pretty big deal.” Was I the lead role? Nope. Supporting? Nope. I didn't have any lines, I was an understudy, and my itty-bitty role as a “minion” just meant, basically, that my only job was to carry mango milk shakes across the stage without spilling them. The play was crap. (Sorry, Michael.) It was so bad, and I felt bad for the actors because everyone was trying so hard. My character only existed for “Indian authenticity.” It was borderline racist, even though I'm sure the intentions were pure enough. (It's the equivalent of eating fried chicken with a black person and telling them how much you admire their culture because of their ability to use a deep fryer.) That being said, it was my first professional gig and I was getting paid to be onstage.

The run of the show was mainly uneventful. Except for once
when I spilled my mango milk shake onstage in the middle of a scene, and after the performance got yelled at backstage by one of the veteran actors: “
Which one of you assholes spilled that milk shake?
”

“It was me,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

“You spilled a fucking milk shake in the middle of my scene!” he roared, and then just kept on yelling at me.

I apologized, but I didn't flinch, I didn't cower, and I immediately went into the assistant director's office and said, “If he talks to me that way again, ever, there will be a big problem.”

One night, fifteen minutes before curtain, the actor for whom I was understudying had not shown up.

“Kunal, start warming up, you're going to have to go on,” the assistant director said to me.

Woo-hoo!
My moment to shine! The rest of the cast cheered me on. This is one of the wonderful things about the theater: people support each other. Even though we build walls to steel ourselves against rejection, there's something that kicks in when an actor is about to do something big and needs support. The entire cast rallied around me.

“I'm so excited for you!”

“You'll do great, Kunal!”

They were all so wonderful. I got into my costume and I warmed up for my professional acting debut.

It's time.

It wasn't time.

Just before the curtain was about to rise, the actor phoned to say that he would be there in ten minutes. He had gotten stuck on an underground train. They actually
delayed the start of the play
to give him time to get to the theater and get into costume.
My
costume.
The one that I had just put on; the one that I had to take off and give back to him. My moment would have to wait.

This play did, however, have one amazing perk. It was selected to represent America at the World Shakespeare Festival in StratfordUpon-Avon, England, the birthplace of William Shakespeare. It felt so good to return to England.
^I
For the first time in years I went to a country where I actually had a valid passport. For once, I
breezed
through immigration. I saw all of my American castmates in line and gave them the finger.

Since I didn't have shit to do in the play (I'd long since mastered the fine art of carrying a mango milk shake without spilling it), I spent most of my time geeking out in the actual Royal Shakespeare Theatre, soaking in the historic sites, and mingling with the actors from other countries. Every night, after the shows were done, performers from all over the world gathered for pints at the local pub called the Black Swan. It was amazing meeting so many artists from various walks of life. I was particularly moved by a large group of street kids from Brazil who performed
The Two Gentlemen of Verona
in Portuguese, as a musical. They had no formal training, but when I watched them perform the play it was mesmerizing. There was no fear in their performance; it came straight from the heart. No amount of training can teach you how to be in touch with what's going on inside you. They were pure love when they performed. Every night they came to the pub with their bongos and drums and basically started one big dance party. I remember watching this one beautiful Brazilian woman with dark eyes, a
shy smile. She wore the same dress every night because it was probably the only dress she owned. And when she danced she could make the entire world stand still.

“Kiss her,” said one of the few Brazilian guys who spoke English.

“What?”

“Kiss her! In Brazilian culture, if you don't kiss the girl in the first ten minutes of meeting her, she'll think you're rude.” So I mustered up the courage to make the first move, only I guess I waited a little too long, because eleven minutes later, as I prepared to walk over, she was kissing someone else.

On one of our final days in England, during a lull between performances, I relaxed in a greenroom that adjoined both the Swan Theatre and the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. It was a common room designed for actors from both theaters to have a place to eat, drink, relax, and watch TV. I sipped on a cup of coffee and watched rugby, a sport I knew very little about.

“What's the score?” asked an actor next to me, a bald guy with a booming, magical voice.

I looked up at this bald man with the beautiful voice and I did a double take. It was Sir Patrick Stewart. Patrick. Fucking. Stewart. Professor Jean-Luc X Picard was sitting next to me in the greenroom, dressed as Prospero for
The Tempest
, and he wanted to know the score.

“Ah,” I said, “I'm not sure. I don't really know what's going on.”

“Want me to teach you?”

“Ya-hah, pleeze?” I babbled.

So Professor X kindly explained the rules of rugby to me as we watched the game together.

Sir Patrick, if you're reading this, please do allow me to return the favor anytime with badminton.

After returning from England I had to face a sober reality: my lack of any legal immigration status. If something didn't change—soon—I would be forced to head back to India. The government, as you can imagine, does not dick around when it comes to visas. The window was getting smaller every day. I had nine months left on my current student visa, and then that would be it. If I wanted to stay longer, and I did, I would need to apply for a special visa that's called the “O” visa. A visa that is described as being for “Aliens of Extraordinary Ability.” No shit, that's what it's called. It makes us immigrants sound like mutants. Ha, a mutant immigrant, that's a superhero I would cheer for. Imagine: immigrant by day, superhero by night, fighting to stay illegally in America since the first Bush administration. Basically if you want to be an Alien of Extraordinary Ability, you have to give proof that the work you are doing in your field is superior to what an American can provide in the same field. Translation: An off-Broadway play wasn't going to cut it. I needed something big. I needed to do something like land a blockbuster movie or a TV show.

At that precise moment, God wasn't dropping gigs like that from the sky. Life is different when you're not in college. Suddenly you don't have the easy-to-follow road map of class, lunch, class, dinner, internship, class, school play, nookie, midterms, school play, nookie, brunch, hooky, finals, repeat three times, pick up diploma at graduation. My only real employment prospect was a low-budget play premiering in Los Angeles called
Huck & Holden
, by Rajiv Joseph. It wasn't a sitcom. It wasn't a movie. And it probably wouldn't impress the Lords of Visas. But at least it was a start. Plus I read the play and found it brilliant—it's about an Indian guy
who falls in love with a black woman, and to woo this lady he has to channel Holden Caulfield from
The Catcher in the Rye
. An actor friend of mine was originally booked to star in the play, but when he had to drop out—scheduling conflicts—he suggested me for the part.

My friend talked me up to the play's director, a woman named Claudia Weill, and I decided to give her a call. I was in New York City at the time visiting cousins and figuring out my next big move. Was I going to try to stay in New York, move to Los Angeles, or go home to India? Given my visa status, these questions needed to be answered soon. I heard that Claudia was in the city, too, so I figured at least I could see her and audition. I made the call.

“I hear you're looking for an actor?”

“I'd love for you to audition.”

“Great. Where should I meet you?”

“Actually, I'm not in the city right now. I'm in the Hamptons for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh,” I said, not knowing what the Hamptons were.

“Do you have a computer?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you have access to a computer where we can do an iChat?”

Despite my years impersonating a computer lab manager, I still wasn't that savvy with things like iChat. (This was 2006, long before FaceTime was invented.)

“No one I know has a computer with iChat,” I told her honestly.

“Okay, here's an idea,” Claudia said. “Why don't you go over to the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue? The new one, it looks like a huge glass box. Go there and use one of their Macs to do a quick audition for me.”

What?

“Just to be clear,” I said, “you want me to walk into the biggest
and most crowded Apple Store in the world, stand in front of one of their computers, and use iChat to audition for your play?”

Pause.

“Sure. I think that's the best option.”

“Great idea. I'm on my way there now.”

I spent an hour prepping for the part, and then took the 6 train to Midtown, where, along with about two billion other people, I squeezed my way into the Apple Store.

The store was crowded as balls and I couldn't find any open Macs. It was as if all the tourists in New York had simultaneously descended upon the Apple Store to check their email. I pushed through the crowd and looked for an open spot. Nothing, nothing, nothing—
there!
I found a desktop in the corner.

I fired up iChat and called her number.

Some kid answered. It was her teenage son, who helped set up the computer.

“Hello, thanks for doing this.”

“Hello?”

“HELLO?”

“Can you speak up?”