Danny Boyle had insisted on pairing child and adult Latikas conceptually, even if they didn't share scenes directly. He wanted continuity of emotion: the essence of the character carried seamlessly from the small, barefoot girl running through Mumbai alleys to the composed, haunted young woman navigating high-rise apartments and television studios.
Bani's exercises began differently that day. Instead of running through alleys or improvising fear, she was asked to mirror the adult actresses' movements, silently echoing gestures, expressions, and pauses. When the adult Latika hesitated before speaking, Bani was to feel that hesitation in her chest, understand it, and let it inform her own moments.
It was harder than it seemed. At first, she tried to imitate literally—matching movements, tone, and timing. But Danny stopped her.
"Don't copy," he said, crouched near her, voice quiet but firm. "Feel it. Become it in your own way. If you're just mimicking, it's a costume. Latika isn't a costume. She's a life, a memory, a shadow she casts across time. Your Latika grows into hers naturally. Not because you copy her, but because you feel the same truths she feels."
The words resonated. Bani closed her eyes and imagined adult Latika waiting alone in Javed's mansion, the fear and quiet longing in her eyes. Then she thought of herself, small, barefoot, running through the same streets with Jamal. The bridge between them wasn't in gestures or lines—it was in truth and emotion.
Workshops became exercises in observation and empathy. Bani spent hours sitting silently as the adult actresses rehearsed, scribbling notes about their subtle nods, their pauses, how they carried grief in silence, how love could be expressed without words. She learned how to watch someone and understand what they carried inside them, a skill far beyond any script.
One day, during a break, Bani approached the lead actress, a poised young woman named Freida. Her movements were smooth, elegant, yet her eyes still flickered with traces of vulnerability.
"Hi… I'm Bani," she said quietly, bowing slightly.
Freida smiled, kneeling to meet her at eye level. "You're Latika," she said simply. "I've seen some of your workshop exercises. You carry her well. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Bani's heart raced. Compliments from the adult actress playing the same character she adored felt surreal. "Thank you… I… I'm trying. I want her to feel real."
Freida nodded. "She is real. Don't lose that. When you're on set, no one else matters. Not the camera, not the crew. Just her. Just Latika."
Those words became a mantra for Bani. Every time she felt nervous or unsure, she repeated them silently: Just her. Just Latika.
By the end of the week, she had begun internalizing the duality of Latika. She was the small girl fleeing danger, the child haunted by separation, the one holding onto hope for a better life. And she was, in parallel, the woman she would become—calculated, wary, but quietly strong. Watching the adult Latika act was like looking into the future of her own performance. Every tremor, every hesitation, every small defiance was a lesson.
The exercises grew more intense. Bani was asked to recreate adult Latika's silent gestures in real-time improvisations, acting opposite Dev Patel and other young cast members. For instance, when the adult Latika brushed past a servant or flinched at Javed's sudden approach, Bani had to feel the same fear and hesitation, even if her own scene differed. The exercises were exhausting, mentally and physically, but Bani began to notice subtle changes in herself.
Her posture straightened. Her gaze sharpened. She carried a quiet tension even off-set, as though a piece of Latika had seeped into her. But it wasn't just about acting; it was about living the life of a child whose shadow extended into adulthood, understanding continuity in emotions that spanned years, and grasping the patience and resilience needed to tell a story over decades.
Danny watched her closely, scribbling notes, occasionally giving one-word instructions: "Closer… softer… more still… feel the weight." He rarely explained; the exercises were meant to provoke self-discovery. And Bani discovered quickly that acting wasn't about memorizing lines—it was about learning to inhabit time and emotion simultaneously, to hold a child's terror and an adult's regret in the same heartbeat.
By the end of the week, Bani could sense a transformation. She was still herself, yes, but the small, barefoot girl had begun to carry Latika's essence in every movement, ready to translate it into the sequences that would soon hit the streets, the mansion, and the television studio sets.
When the adult actresses finished their workshop rehearsals and the team dispersed, Bani lingered for a moment, notebook open, scribbling one last line:
"Latika is not just a role. She is a life. I carry her today. I will carry her tomorrow. And one day, the camera will see what I see."
The city outside was bustling as usual. But for Bani, every honking horn, every shouting vendor, every stray dog weaving between people felt like a note in a symphony—a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the character she was learning to become.
The morning of her first shoot arrived with a nervous hum in the air. Bani woke before dawn, her alarm barely needed. She sat up in bed, her small studio flat cloaked in half-darkness, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Today, the reflection didn't just belong to Bani, uggling textbooks and dreams. Today, she had to carry Latika.
Her stomach fluttered as she pulled her dupatta tighter, packed her bag with a small notebook and water bottle, and stepped into the streets of Mumbai. The city was waking slowly—the smell of frying vadas in the distance, the rickshaw engines sputtering, hawkers already arranging their stalls. But she had no time to notice. A production van was waiting at the corner, its side painted with nothing glamorous, just an old number plate and a driver who barely glanced at her before asking, "Film unit?"
She nodded, climbed in, and found herself surrounded by other crew members. The van was crowded with sound equipment, makeup kits, and the low murmur of tired voices sipping chai from paper cups. Nobody looked at her twice. For a moment, she was relieved—no spotlight, no questions. Just another worker heading to a long day on set.
But that illusion didn't last.