“I am as old now as there are continents in the world!” my daughter declared gleefully. Earlier that day, Meghla had celebrated her birthday with her classmates, who were all seven or six years old. It was, of course, the perfect moment to start planning their careers. Especially if you lived in New York City.So, I was immensely flattered when my daughter’s principal invited me to speak to her class on Career Day. Could I talk to the Red Cluster about an actor’s life, he requested by email, using a Question-and-Answer format please? As there would be other parents presenting as well, perhaps I could wrap up my interaction in 7-10 minutes.“Of course!” I had beamed at my computer, flushed with pride.I slept fitfully the night before Career Day, suffering from a dual attack of hay fever and anxiety, mulling over all the questions the kids would surely ask about the process and business of acting. Did I believe in The Method, or Meisner? How did I ever find an agent? What was my biggest artistic challenge? Wearing a bright red suit, my messy curls (not quite) restrained by copious bobby pins, I ran into Assembly a few minutes late, sweaty and panting. The other parent presenters smiled at me welcomingly. They were all casual yet stylish, fragrant, and supremely relaxed. They radiated confidence and good health, like each of them had got at least ten hours of sleep.I was up first. “Good morning, children!” I started cheerily. I could feel my hay fever tickling my nose. “Go Re… Re… RED… Aaa… Atch… ATCHOOOO!” I embarked on a bout of serial sneezes that reverberated throughout the grand Assembly Hall. All hands, big and small, reached for their masks. Within seconds, I was facing a fully, elegantly, and colourfully masked audience.“I’m so sorry,” I spluttered, salvaging a crumpled blue mask from my coat pocket. “It’s not COVID, just allergies.”A boy with beautiful long hair raised his hand.“Yes?” I asked brightly.“How do you know it’s not COVID?” he inquired. “Did you test yourself this morning? The symptoms can be identical.”“True,” I mumbled. “But I often get hay fever in spring mornings. It will go away soon, I… I… Aa… ATCHOO!”“I have a question!” A girl in a blue faux-fur bolero piped up. “One of your socks has pink polka dots but the other has red hearts. Are they from the Mismatched Socks brand?”“Yes!” I lied with a giant smile.“Awesome!” She smiled back.Clearly, it was time to take charge. “Now I have a question for you all!” I projected loudly. “Can you tell me if this statement is true or false? ‘Acting is all about being honest’!”“False!” yelled Beautiful Hair. “Actors always pretend to be someone else and lie about their feelings!”“Well,” I muttered, “It’s more like they must become someone else, and truly feel everything the character feels. For example, a good actor would cry for real, she wouldn’t pretend to cry. That would never be convincing.”A freckled cutie with orange locks and a disarming smile raised her hand.“It works for me every time, especially with Daddy! I fake-cry whenever I don’t want to do something, and he always says — ‘It’s okay, Poppet!’ Don’t you think I’d be the best actor ever?”“Yes, I do,” I said, desperately looking through my notes.I was saved — or so I thought — by a tidy boy in glasses. “My name is Rajendra Kumar Mody, with a Y, and I was first runner-up in the Scripps National Spelling Bee.”“Wow,” I said. “That’s amazing!”“Ms. Miller said you were a famous actress,” said Rajendra. I smiled modestly. “When I looked you up, I found all these topless pictures of you. My parents took away my iPad.”“Wow,” I said. “That’s terrible.”“Why weren’t you wearing a top?”A screengrab from the film Rang Rasiya. Photo: By arrangement.“Well, the film was about freedom of expression. I mean, it was about art. And I was playing, you see, the painter’s muse. My character —”“What’s a muse?” Freckles interrupted, frowning.“It’s the painter’s girlfriend,” shrugged Blue Bolero.“It’s a naked model,” explained Beautiful Hair.“It’s an artiste’s ultimate inspiration,” declared Rajendra Kumar Mody. “All of the above!” I gushed nervously.“Mama won a big prize for that film,” Meghla intervened, protective as always.“For being naked?” Freckles was delighted. “I could win that prize! I’m great at running around naked!”“Actually, the film got many awards,” I tried to change the topic. “It was a very special film, based on history. About the first Indian court case on censorship.”“What is Sin-Sir-Ship?” asked Blue Bolero.“It’s when you cut out parts of a story, or ban certain kinds of information…” I was fumbling for words. “It’s a bad thing then?” Blue Bolero persisted.“Well, yes… It can be, if you’re not allowed to share or see the whole truth about something —”“Like when my parents confiscated my iPad,” Rajendra glowered. “Very bad.”I peeked sideways to find a neat row of parents waiting to discuss their luminous careers, staring at me unblinkingly, not looking quite so welcoming anymore. I gathered up my unused notes. “Guess what?” I said, seizing the perfect opportunity to enforce a little censorship, in living colour. “You don’t have to learn about all that yet, Red Cluster. Happy careers to all of you — this was such fun!” Nandana Sen is a writer, actor and child-rights activist. She is the author of six children’s books, translated into more than 15 languages globally.
