You Can’t Be Serious(30)

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The reality by August 2000—a few months after my festive college graduation, which Mom, Dad, and Pulin flew out from New Jersey for—was that I had gone out for almost no new auditions. Barbara was successful in setting up just one general meeting. When she pitched me for projects, she was often told, “He was very good in Brookfield but I mean, Kumar Zimmerman? Who else could have played that part?,” as if my talent was negated by the character’s ethnicity (and mine).

Any momentum I expected from Brookfield turned out not to exist. The single meeting Barbara was able to arrange was with a vice president of casting at NBC named Sonia Nikore, who not so incidentally was the only Indian American network executive I was aware of. Our meeting at NBC studios was cordial. Sonia asked about my background and training. She told me a bit about the network and how they discover new talent. “How have you found it so far,” she asked, “being Indian American in Hollywood?”

“I’ve definitely had my fair share of stereotypical auditions, but Brookfield got me excited about what might be possible.”

“Glad you have a positive outlook. That’s important.”

“I have to be positive,” I continued. “I know physicality is a factor. Actors lose out on jobs all the time because they’re too tall or too short, too fat or too thin, too attractive or not good-looking enough. But being brown, I know I don’t have the luxury of being too tall or short or fat or thin, too attractive or not good-looking enough. I’m just considered ‘too ethnic.’ I’ve got to stay positive to go up against that.”

I was worried that I may have overshared in a professional environment. But Sonia put me at ease by recounting similar stories other ethnic actors had shared with her. As I got up to leave, she handed me her business card and kindly offered, “Call me anytime you need anything.”



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Later that summer, finally, an audition! Sabrina the Teenage Witch was a sitcom about a suburban family of witches and their talking cat. I was up for a small role: just a few lines playing a college student named Prajeeb in Sabrina’s study group, but I was very excited. Though I had done Brookfield, it was almost impossible for an actor of color to get an audition for any of the big sitcoms, which were all purposely white: Will & Grace, Friends. Even Seinfeld.

Auditions can be a lot of fun to prepare for—I start by creating a backstory to the character, grounding who he is as specifically as possible, and developing his arc in the scene. I envisioned Prajeeb as a laid-back kid from Portland, Oregon, who was super into camping and small-batch organic coffee. I decided that he loves flannel button-downs like Eddie Vedder, so I wore one to the audition.

I did well in the first two rounds. As I walked to my car after the callback, the casting director came chasing after me. “Kal, the producers loved you and want you to read it one more time. Can you come back in with me?”

Hell yeah! It’s always a good sign if they want another reading. On the walk back to the casting office, I daydreamed for just a fleeting moment: thinking about my little cousins who probably watch Sabrina the Teenage Witch. What a fun surprise if they randomly turned it on and saw me in an episode. I smiled confidently as I walked through the door to read for the six well-manicured faces another time.

“Thanks for coming back, Kal. We’d like you to do it again,” the main producer said with a grin.

“I’d be happy to!” I said.

“This time with an accent.”

For fuck’s sake.

My game face was strong though my blood boiled. By then I’d experienced this bait and switch many times before—you don’t bring anything stereotypical into an audition, and the producers ask it of you. This request wasn’t quite as bad as some of the auditions for Indian food-delivery guys or store clerks that had been written in broken English. It wasn’t as nauseating as the woman who suggested I tie a bedsheet around my head if I didn’t have a turban to wear to an audition. Still, I decided to not give them the satisfaction of knowing the sudden rage inside me.

This rage was based on two things. The first was very clear flashbacks to David Cohen spitting on me on the middle school bus after quoting Apu from The Simpsons. The second was because I have a low tolerance for stupid and boring things. An Indian accent, really? That’s the most clever note a team of Hollywood producers could come up with?

I was proud of the two rounds of auditions I gave as Prajeeb from Portland, Oregon, who was super into camping and small-batch organic coffee! I wanted to play Hipster Prajeeb! So, if they wanted the kind of stereotypical Indian accent that wasn’t on my menu, I was going to make them feel uncomfortable. I was going to make them look me in the eye. I was going to dare them to say it right to my face, by pointing out my talents, so that they could feel guilty and realize how terribly they were behaving. Hopefully it would be enough to change their minds.

“What kind of accent do you want?” I said deftly. “I can do Scottish, Irish, southern, Italian, New York…”

“Why don’t we just stick to Indian?”

Yeeeeeesh.

I had less than five seconds to think through what I wanted to do. If I did the accent, I might get the role. It would look good to have a network sitcom job on my thin résumé. As I learned from Brookfield, I was going to have to work harder than white actors to build credits. The gig also paid about $700, more than a month’s rent. If I didn’t do the accent, I probably wouldn’t get this job. Some other kid would get the credit on his résumé and the cash in his pocket, and I’d have to continue working odd jobs until I booked something else that may or may not be better than this.