Just as the laughers of India baffled and intrigued me, so did I seem to baffle and in-trigue them. Presumably because I was head and shoulders taller than any local, they dubbed me “Titanic” (a nickname my friends in America find hilarious, given that even playing Wiffle ball leaves my arms sore for days). As Titanic, I seemed to garner an odd, wholly unearned celebrity around town. Titanic’s movements and background were fodder for local newspaper and TV. When Titanic came to parties, guests asked for his autograph. When Titanic walked down the sidewalk, parents made him pose for photographs with their children. After it became known that Titanic lived in New York, men everywhere would put their hands on his shoulders as they sadly, knowingly said, “Twin Towers.” When Titanic spoke of the price of curry in America, boys invited friends over to hear, afraid their reports of the conversation wouldn’t be believed. But what most perplexed, even vexed the laughers of India was Titanic’s unwillingness ever to stop filming, his constant darting around, with the director, in search of a better shot, as their subjects laughed and pranced about them.

“Do they ever stop with the cameras?” one of Kataria’s disciples once asked his guru. “They’re American,” Kataria shrugged. “It’s a work culture.”

“Why don’t you relax?” the man asked, approaching. With both of my hands supporting my camera, I couldn’t deflect his fingers as he forced some globular confection into my mouth. “Enjoy snack. Laugh a little.” The truest cultural barrier between us had become obvious: not one of taste or language or experience, but a deep belief in one another’s absurdity.

One evening, after many weeks of filming, Arvind Shah, the Laughter Club czar, took us up into the cool, grassy hills above Kolhapur. He and some members of his club had bought land there years before, with plans to fulfill a now moribund vision of Kataria’s: the creation of a compound called Laughter City, a kind of ashram for the silly, far from the clutch-es of the curmudgeons of the world below. But due to drainage issues, inaccessibility, and financial limitations, the land proved nearly impossible to develop. That didn’t stop Shah from taking us to the summit, where, even in his mid-70s, he remained certain he would live to see his utopia rise. Along with several of the prominent citizens of Kolhapur whom he’d brought with him, Shah then treated us to a demonstration of daily life in his imagined city.

“Bird laughter!” Shah called to his companions. “Start!”

The men flapped their arms like bird wings, laughed like dodos, leaped on the hilltops as if the lightness of their vision might make them suddenly go airborne. Scrambling behind with my camera and gear, I stumbled and swore. Thankfully, Shah paused to allow me  to catch up. Once I reached him, I lowered the camera to wipe my sweat. Shah, a serious, irritable, and hardworking lawyer, recognized the exasperation and weariness in my face. He approach-ed me, then stood by my side as he giggled at his friends, who were still flapping and laughing in the distance. I grinned my false grin.

“You are most wonderful persons to make a film most important,” he said. “But, by God, do I have something for you!” Then he reached over and tickled my ribs. I hoisted my camera, but the footage I then captured of Shah and his friends was shaky and useless. I couldn’t help myself. I was laughing.

Laughter Club
The film is currently being screened at international film festivals and will be in U.S. theaters later this year. A trailer can be seen on the website.
laughterfilms.com

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