The first time Bani stepped out onto the streets of Mumbai for her film, the city felt alive in a way she had never imagined. She had seen the skyline from television, crowded markets on daily serials, and filmed small sequences in studio setups before—but this was different. The streets weren't a backdrop; they were the stage. Every honking horn, every shouting vendor, every stray dog weaving between people, every child running barefoot carried a rhythm and chaos that made her heart race.
Bani clutched her small bag tightly, feeling the weight not of her books or makeup, but of what she had just achieved. She was Latika. The role she had dreamed of for weeks, months—perhaps even years—was finally hers. The call confirming her selection had come just days ago, and it still felt unreal.
Her agent's voice had been breathless over the phone: "Bani… congratulations. You've been cast as Latika. Start date is next Monday. Workshops begin tomorrow."
She had replayed the words in her head endlessly. Latika. The girl whose story was painful, beautiful, and unforgettable. Bani hadn't just auditioned for a character—she had auditioned for a life, and now she was expected to carry it.
Her studio apartment felt suddenly too small as she packed her bags. She made sure to bring the essentials—comfortable clothes for running through alleys, notebooks for her English studies, and a few personal items she couldn't live without. Her family had been supportive but anxious. "It's a big responsibility," her mother had said, eyes misting with worry. "Are you ready for all of this?"
Bani smiled, trying to mask the tremor in her hands. "I have to be," she whispered to herself. She wasn't just stepping into a role; she was stepping into a world that demanded everything from her—emotion, stamina, courage, and patience.
The first day of workshops was held in a small, crowded rehearsal space in Bandra. The room smelled of dust and worn mats, with a fan struggling against the Mumbai heat. Bani felt nervous as she glanced around the room. There were children she had met during auditions, some familiar, some new. And then there was the adult team—Danny Boyle himself, the Indian casting director, assistants, and coordinators—all watching, taking notes, quietly assessing.
Danny's presence was calm but piercing. When he finally spoke, Bani felt a chill. "We don't want acting," he said simply. "We want truth. Forget the cameras, forget the audience, forget everything you think you know about performance. Live the story. Become the character."
For Bani, the words were both terrifying and liberating. Forget acting? That meant no scripts, no rehearsed emotions, no pretending. Everything she had learned on television had to be unlearned. And yet, deep down, she knew he was right. Latika wasn't a role to be performed—it was a life to be inhabited.
The exercises began immediately. Improvisation first. She was paired with a young boy who would play Jamal's younger version. They ran through the room, pretending to escape danger, to steal food, to hide from an unseen threat. Bani stumbled at first, unsure how to express fear without exaggerating it. Danny observed silently, his eyes tracking every movement.
"More truth," he said finally, kneeling beside her. "What would you feel if you really had nowhere to go? If this boy were your only hope?"
Bani closed her eyes. She thought of the time she had been lost in the market as a child, the panic rising, the helplessness. When she opened her eyes, she didn't run. She froze, whispered her line, and let her fingers tremble naturally. The effect was immediate—the boy across from her froze too, eyes wide, and Danny's pen scratched furiously in the notebook.
The day stretched on like that, a rhythm of movement, pause, observation, and reflection. By the end of it, Bani was drenched in sweat, her muscles aching, her chest tight with adrenaline. Yet there was a spark inside her, a thrill she had never known before. This was not just acting. This was living.
Back in her small apartment that evening, Bani sat on the edge of her bed, notebook open, reviewing what she had learned. She jotted notes about gestures, expressions, reactions—not lines, but life. She realized that each moment on set, each glance, each step through the crowded streets of Mumbai would be a test of endurance, patience, and authenticity.
And then came the thought that made her heart pound even faster: after the workshops, after the first 30 days of filming, she would need to return to her 11th-grade English exams. It wasn't just a film she had to prepare for—it was her life outside the camera. How could she balance the demands of a mid-budget, tightly scheduled shoot with schoolwork that couldn't wait? She had no answers yet, only determination.
Bani closed her notebook and stretched, looking out at the city skyline through the dusty window. Mumbai's lights flickered against the evening sky, noisy, alive, chaotic. Somewhere in those streets were children living the very hardships Latika had faced. Somewhere, she would find the heart of her performance—and she would carry it into every scene.
Tomorrow, filming would begin. Her first sequences were at the crowded train station—a place she had imagined a thousand times during auditions. She was ready, in part because she had no choice. The camera, the city, the story—it waited for no one.
The first day on the adult set was unlike anything Bani had imagined. The taller actresses, carefully chosen to play Latika's adult self, moved with a grace and confidence that made the small rehearsal hall feel almost surreal. They were poised, elegant, and yet their eyes held traces of the same pain Bani had felt as she stepped into Latika's shoes.
Bani sat quietly in the corner, notebook clutched to her chest, observing every movement. She wasn't just watching lines being delivered—she was studying how Latika would become a woman. Each glance, each subtle expression of hesitation or defiance, each slight shift in posture told a story that she, as the child Latika, would one day lead into adulthood.