3.
I HAD STOPPED BREATHING. Then I gasped. A choke—then a cough. Finally, I shouted out loud. All the colored immigrant faces on the 86A TTC bus, headed from the Toronto Zoo to the subway station, turned around to face me accusingly for disturbing their quiet morning commute. There, on the newspaper in my lap, was the cause of the harshest cry of amazement that had ever been uttered by my lips (an expletive assembled by a friend of a friend, Derek LaJeunesse): “Jesus, Mary-humping, mother fucking Christ!!!”
Life of Pi was to be made into a film that summer. And, of course, the only notable brown director in Hollywood was attached—M. Night Shyamalan, of The Sixth Sense fame. This was the part that I had longed for, the role that defied all of Hollywood’s conventional stereotypes—the title character actually being a skinny, little, brown kid, for fuck’s sake. “Tamil . . . five foot five, with a coffee-colored-complexion.” Ishan and Ali could have all the terrorist (and assistant terrorist) roles; I would gladly consent. Because finally, finally, this was the role of a lifetime—the stuff that legendary movies were made of—filming on location in India, but not modern India, vintage India. This was a world I had grown up hearing about; at family gatherings, where the house would be filled with my thirty cousins and dozens of aunts and uncles, I was usually at the dinner table with the adults, listening intently as they reminisced about life in Ceylon, where falling asleep to the smell of mangos ripening under the bed was one of life’s little pleasures.
And now, that world was going to be revived, reincarnated, and brought to the big screen with grandeur. There would be monkeys, tigers, and elephants on set—elephants; do you hear me?! Elephants!
I would be quietly ushered into the wardrobe office where the costume lady, a British seamstress by the name of Evelyn, would take my measurements for the one shirt that she’d be making for my entire life-raft voyage, the bulk of the film. “Linen, or cotton?” she would ask, as she circled the yellow tape measure around my waist. I would give her a long and detailed explanation about my own experiences painstakingly creating linen cloth by hand from the flax plant. Later, Evelyn would marvel at me noticing the French seams in the shirt she had so lovingly made—“French seam, how do you know what that is?” she’d ask softly, eyeing me over her tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles pushed down to the tip of her nose. “Oh, come now, Evelyn! My mom might have worked at a bank her whole life, but on weekends and evenings, she ran her own company making curtains since I was two years old. That three-piece suit I wore to the press conference last week? I made it, completely by hand. Mwaa-haa-haa,” I’d laugh. “Mwaa-ha-ha-ha,” she’d laugh.
A grand orchestral score would accompany the movie. I would be asked to participate in some way, as M. Night (or rather, Shyamalan-Anna, as I’d be calling him, Anna being the Tamil term of endearment for “older brother,” pronounced “Un-na”) would have found out by that point that I had a penchant for classical South Indian Carnatic singing. He’d come up with the brilliant idea of me warbling the improvisational scales of the Kalyani ragam for the opening sequences to the movie. “Thamby,” he’d say (Tamil for “little brother”), “that was great, but can you try it again? Just linger a little longer on that sad, melancholic note . . .”
Ma would probably want to wear a sari to the Oscars—typical. I would have to find some way to tell her politely that it was far too predictable that she’d wear Indian garb, so it would serve her well to pick something else, something that would complement her jet-black, shoulder-length, ringlet curls. Something nice. After all, Ma continued to struggle so much in her marriage to my dad—maybe this would be an occasion for her to feel like it was all worth it in the end. What the hell, let’s splurge! We would fly to Paris and make an appointment with one of the couture houses, Givenchy or Chanel, something classic. I would have to speak French, I guessed, and then translate to Ma in English. Since we’d already be in Paris, it’d probably be a good idea to take Ma’s traditional South Indian gold padakam necklace to Cartier (the one she’s had since she was eight). The clamshell-shaped pendant is fitted with artificial emeralds; this would be a suitable time to have all those removed and refitted with genuine gemstones—it could be the one nod to traditional attire—yeah, that’ll be okay, Ma wearing her padakam necklace, she’d like that. And it really would be in the best hands at Cartier; after all, they were the ones who made the turban ornament with that insanely huge emerald for the maharajah of Kapurthala, Jagajit Singh, in the 1920s.
“What’s your favorite sound?” I would be asked at the end of my interview for Inside the Actor’s Studio.
“The wind blowing through the trees, James,” I’d answer, and Mr. Lipton would nod knowingly, wisely, as he blinked slowly and then proceed to ask, “Your favorite curse word?”
Despite being exhausted and drained, I would have to find some way of squeezing in a quick dinner afterward with Jay Z (his request)—should I use the line, “Can I get a . . .” every time the waiter came by? Better not; that would be tacky. But should I use my normal way of speaking while conversing with him, or should I try to sound a little black? Do I say, “What do you think . . .” or “Whatchu think?” Do I call him, “Mr. Z,” “Jay,” or use the more endearing “Nigga”?
Excuse me! “Excuse me, can ya move, please? Ya block dee way,” said the Trinidadian lady sitting next to me on the bus, who was now standing up and leaning on the red-cushioned seats, her huge purse in hand as everyone else filed out and headed into the subway station to take the train downtown.
This was really happening. All daydreaming aside, this role was going to be up for grabs. My mind was in overdrive and I was twitching with excitement. The prospect of landing this part was almost too good to be true—who could possibly be more perfect for this role in every aspect, physically, mentally, and ethnically?
My classes on Thursday ended early, so I got home, took the dog out, and then hopped on my bike and pedaled to the zoo. I only had half an hour before they closed, but luckily the ride was mostly downhill, so it didn’t take me very long to make my way through the turnstiles. I wandered around for a bit, taking in the sights and sounds at the end of the day, reveling in the fact that just like Pi, I felt completely at home in this zoo; I had been coming here since I was three. A peacock crossed my path, his huge fan of plumage quivering in the breeze as he turned about, displaying his glory.
I headed back to the entrance. A girl in her late teens was working behind the front desk and I hesitatingly asked if I could speak to the person who was in charge of the tigers. She seemed slightly caught off guard and I could tell she was mulling through the potential downsides of helping me out. She sighed slightly, mumbled into her walkie-talkie, and told me to have a seat on a nearby bench.
Within a few minutes, a golf cart driven by a short, redheaded man in his fifties made its way over to me. The man introduced himself as Ollie, curator of mammals, and he spoke with just the slightest hint of an Irish lilt. I opened my mouth to reply and verbally vomited all over him, telling him about Mean Girls, Life of Pi, and my uncanny resemblance to the Indian boy who grew up in a zoo. He listened patiently, with one hand resting on the steering wheel of his golf cart. He was wearing khakis and a sage green parka embroidered with a small, white “Toronto Zoo” on the breast pocket. His blue eyes looked tired, framed with red eyelashes and eyebrows, but they seemed to be entertained as I listed Pi’s companions being an orangutan, a zebra, a hyena, and, for most of his journey, a Bengal tiger. I felt it was a long shot, but I asked him anyway if he could take me into the tiger enclosure.
“I think I could imagine the scenario in my head but . . . right now, it still seems fictional . . .” And then I realized why I was there: “I’d really like to make it real for myself; it would be amazing to know what it feels like to stand face to face with an actual tiger.” He didn’t hesitate at all, and gave me a wink as he told me to hop in beside him.
“Really?” I was shocked that it had actually worked.
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p; “Yeah, come along.” He motioned with his head for me to climb in. “Your timin’s perfect, actually. Not many visitors left, and it’s feeding time.”
I held on to the metal bar to steady myself as we drove along the main asphalt pathways and cried out to Ollie when I caught an unexpected glimpse of my house, far off in the distance, across the Rouge Valley.
“Let’s stop here first,” he said, turning the cart onto a dirt path that meandered through a heavily wooded area and ended at the back of a nondescript concrete building. I was full of excitement as we made our way over to a giant metal door, where he swiped a keycard into a slot and then pulled the door open.
My heart leapt. He had brought me to the holding area of the orangutan enclosure—the part of the building that the public never saw, the prep room of sorts, filled with transparent Rubbermaid containers that held blankets, towels, food, and various other supplies. It was warm and humid, and smelled earthy, like peat moss. A mother orangutan and her baby were sitting on a ledge eating raw spinach out of a plastic bag. A wall of iron bars was all that separated us from the animals, and Ollie walked me closer.
“The mum’s called Puppe, and her daughter’s named Sekali. Just don’t touch them. They’re highly susceptible to gettin’ sick.”
Silently, I stood just a few inches apart from these incredible animals. Puppe gingerly picked leaves of spinach out of the bag and put them into her mouth. She turned and slowly looked up at me from where she was seated. Her shiny, brown eyes were so humanlike I teared up and had to hold myself back from reaching out and touching a tuft of her long, bright, reddish-brown hair that was sticking out onto my side of the iron bars, just a short reach away from my hand. This orangutan seemed to exude the very essence of peace. I was overwhelmed with the wonder of what exactly made our two worlds so mind-bogglingly different. The baby sat cradled in Puppe’s left arm and helped itself to spinach—soon, the bag was empty. The keeper, a girl in her twenties with a long ponytail, stepped up beside me.
“Are you done, Puppe?” she asked casually, as if she was talking to an old friend. “Okay? Give me the bag.”
The mommy orangutan gently scrunched the empty bag into her palm and squeezed it through the space between two iron bars. Then, pursing her lips and sighing slightly, she gave it one slow and final poke with her index finger before it fell to our feet.
I waved goodbye to Puppe and her baby as we left the building. They didn’t wave back. Bitches. I thought we were friends.
The sun was setting as Ollie drove the cart over to the Siberian tiger enclosure. The zoo didn’t have Bengal tigers, he explained, but these Siberians were the closest thing—being only slightly bigger.
The tiger enclosure was a big concrete room, divided up into sections by walls of iron bars and, as we entered, the first thing that hit me was the sharp smell of cat piss—tiger pee, to be more precise—an intensely strong ammonialike smell that wasn’t offensive.
There was an intricate series of doors and gates, also made of iron bars, that we made our way through, closing one before opening another—safety precautions, Ollie mentioned in passing. Finally, I stood at the center of the room, standing with the empty tiger enclosure right in front of me. The giant cat was still outdoors, but I could see him pacing by the square-shaped entrance that was blocked with iron gates. The keeper in there, a middle-aged woman, greeted us with a brief smile as she cut open sealed bags that contained raw meat, putting them into a bowl that was then placed into the enclosure.
Ollie narrated what was happening. “She’s gotta double-check that the enclosures are locked securely after putting down the food, and then she’ll let Tongua in.”
A jittery nervousness came over me as the heavy clanking of metal on metal reverberated out into the space, the keeper’s gloved hands rapidly running through the course of pushing and pulling various bolts and levers.
“She’s ready for him now,” Ollie said quietly, standing behind me, leaning against the wall of iron bars with his arms crossed.
I tried to remain calm, but I could feel my legs shaking a little as the keeper pulled on a rope, lifting the outer iron gates and allowing the huge tiger to enter. He gracefully bounded in, heading straight for his bowl of food. My eyes were drawn to the tufts of fluffy white fur that stuck up from behind his ears as his head was in his food bowl. Everything in the room gravitated to the tiger, like we were all planets and he was the sun. He was so regal-looking, his jowls edged with more downy white fur that softly framed his head, like delicate lace, seemingly incongruous to his other imposing traits. His face was enormous; his meaty tongue was of massive proportions; even the thickness of his long, white, waxy whiskers announced the sheer size and power of this creature.
“If he turns around and raises his tail,” Ollie warned from the corner where he was standing, “step back—they spray occasionally, to mark their territory.”
Tongua remained crouched down low over his bowl in a stance that was threateningly tense—his shoulders raised and his thick tail, over a meter long, low to the ground—he looked as if he was ready to pounce at any moment. I cautiously crouched down, trying to get a closer look at his face. His ears were perked and he kept raising his head and looking up at me menacingly between mouthfuls of food with his huge, golden eyes, at the center of which were round, black pupils that would expand and contract quickly, noticeably. Every now and then, he’d lick his mouth and then spread his lips open, hissing at me and showing his huge teeth.
The keeper opened the lid of a trash can to throw away the empty bags that had held the raw meat, shuffling plastic, when—wham! Tongua jumped up and bammed his paw, the size of a dinner plate, onto the bars in front of me, letting out an insanely loud, guttural snarl.
“Aaaaahhh!” I shouted out, jumping up. The deep snarl had reverberated through my body. The sound was not quite a roar, as I might have expected, but a combination of both a groan and a woof that was sickeningly intimidating.
“Tongua’s a little protective of his food,” Ollie chuckled. “Don’t mind him.”
I was still trembling slightly as we headed out of the concrete building and back into the golf cart.
“Come back whenever you’d like,” Ollie offered with a smile, turning to face me as he started the motor. “And I do hope you get that part.”
He dropped me off at the front gate, which was now closed, and the security guard let me out. I rode my bike home in the dark, wrapping my scarf around my face as a defense against the cold wind.
Richard Parker, the tiger in Pi’s story, was now a solid, tangible character in my own world. What else can I do? I wondered, as I lifted my bum off the bicycle seat and put more leg power into pushing myself uphill. I really could get this part.
I didn’t quite know where to start looking for information about the movie being made, but I figured that going back to the book might be a good place to start. I typed “Yann Martel” into the search bar on Yahoo.com’s homepage. And then I started digging. “Stalker” is such a harsh term. How about we use “enthusiast” or “wooer”?
Yann Martel was surprisingly easy to locate (he just happened to be doing a writer’s residency at the Saskatoon Public Library), and before I knew it, we were deep in conversation on the phone, I gushing about my similarities with Pi, and he relaying that he had been corresponding with M. Night Shyamalan. I was elated when he spoke encouragingly of my prospects and very generously offered to send me the email he had sent to the director, which contained suggestions for how the book might be best adapted to the big screen.
The ten-page email to Shyamalan was a treasure trove of information, not so much related to the process of making a film, but more an inside look into the author’s view of his own work—identifying iconic symbols and key points of the book, and stating what was merely anecdotal. I felt like a detective with the most substantial piece of evidence in front of me, ready to get my hands dirty and crack some kind of code. Yann’s email detailed what parts of the n
ovel could potentially be cut out for the film and what he felt was essential. India and many things Indian were discussed at length. When it came to the role of Pi, he passionately described components of what made up the character and stated “ . . . we’ll of course have to find some brilliant young actor . . .”
I shared so many similarities with the character Yann had created, but I didn’t know how to swim. I didn’t even know how to float, and Pi is a great swimmer. And being cast adrift for 227 days was also something I couldn’t relate to, at all. And then I realized that the main thing I had assumed we did share, our Indianness, was in fact only a superficial similarity; sure, our skin was the same color and we ate the same ethnic foods (Ma makes the best Tamil food), but Yann’s notes to M. Night showed me that I could only imagine what Indian life was like—it still wasn’t real to me, as it was to my parents, aunts, and uncles. Yann referred to India repeatedly, having spent six months there doing research, and his description of the country’s culture, people, and psyche seemed so impressively accurate; there were many parts of the novel that reminded me of the scenes painted in my imagination by my parents, of their childhoods in Ceylon—a world where astrological charts determined the pairings of young brides and grooms in Hindu households, where fishermen, propped up on stilts at the seashore, caught fish by the moonlight, and where the heavy lifting on tea plantations was done by elephants . . . elephants, do you hear me?!
Back on the set of Mean Girls, I relayed my new Life of Pi discovery to Daniel Franzese and Lizzy Caplan (who were playing Damian and Janis). Lizzy took me by the arm, walked me to the executive producer, and then declared, “We need your help!” “We,” she said. Was I slowly acquiring an army of support behind me? The producer, who happened to know Shyamalan, happily agreed to send him a package of my material; my headshot, résumé.
The Elephants in My Backyard Page 3