As a director, Mira Nair gave her cast and crew the gift of both unlimited on-set chai and ample preparation time. The prep period for the film stretched for weeks. This allowed us to rehearse and really research our characters. When you’re working on a film based on a book, you have the entire expanded world at your fingertips. I took the train from New York up to New Haven, tracing Gogol’s fictional steps as laid out by Jhumpa in the novel. Which dorm room at Yale was it where I lost my virginity? Which ATM might my wife and I have entered the password LULU into? It can be rare for an actor to have this kind of time to prepare.
Once we began shooting, even more time. During a somber scene in which Gogol visits his father’s apartment shortly after he passes away, I had several beats of silence before breaking down in tears. Mira allowed only the cinematographer and sound guy on set that day, and when it was time to begin the scene, they too stepped out of the room. “When you think you’re ready,” Mira told me, “just open the door so we can switch on the camera. Give it half a beat and then you can begin.” On a film set, time is money. Mira Nair liked to spend both in ways that respected and facilitated her actors’ performances. The Namesake remains the project of which I’m most proud.1
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A few pretty exciting things happened in rapid succession over the next few years: After I wrapped The Namesake, I got a small role in Superman Returns （had an incredible time but spoiler: most of my lines ended up getting cut）。 We also shot a sequel to Harold & Kumar （Escape from Guantanamo Bay）。 I hired a speaking agent and began doing paid guest lectures on topics ranging from diversity in film to the business of acting; one such gig led to an opportunity to join the faculty at the University of Pennyslvania, where I was hired as a visiting lecturer for a semester to teach a course called Images of Asian Americans in the Media. Around the same time, my manager lined up an audition for a series-regular gig on the TV show House.
The show’s producers were adding nine new characters to play fellowship doctors in the first part of season four. Of the nine, three would stay on permanently. The makeup of the audition waiting room was like nothing I’d seen: women and men, young, old, of different backgrounds and ethnicities. Auditioning for House felt futuristic. I originally read for the part of a Mormon doctor （ultimately played by Edi Gathegi, who is Black）。 Curious about why the show’s creator, David Shore, would be willing to let guys who look like me or Edi audition for a part written Mormon, I would later learn that he purposely cast a wide net for actors so that he could find the best talent. It sounds simple, but almost nobody does this, especially back then. The most exciting part of the House waiting room was that it showed me that smarter people in Hollywood tended to also be the most likely to embrace artistic diversity.
After a handful of callbacks, I got an offer to play a sports medicine specialist named Dr. Lawrence Kutner. It had been eleven years since I’d moved to Los Angeles to pursue this crazy acting dream. Now I was one of nine new cast members for a few episodes of a television drama. If I was further chosen as one of the three permanent additions, it could be my first steady job in Hollywood, playing a doctor2 on a popular medical drama to boot. I was happy with the way things were taking shape. I eventually traded in my mom’s Chevy Cavalier for a black Toyota Prius.3 My new castmates and I got along really well. The start to the season featured those nine new fellowship doctors vying for a permanent job in the hospital. As actors, we were vying for a permanent spot in the cast, but rather than competing against each other, all nine actors embraced this rare opportunity and spent time getting to know one another. Olivia Wilde （Thirteen）， Peter Jacobson （Dr. Taub）， and I （Dr. Kutner） grew particularly close, and those friendships deepened when we three were ultimately hired on as the new series regulars. And with that, my parents finally stopped asking me to “at least” get a real estate license.4
The mood among the three of us on set was light and fun. During downtime, we would solve crossword puzzles, tell stories, and oh right… we’d also play something called Accidentally Fucked in the Ass.5
The premise of this “game” was introduced to us by screenwriter Sara Hess at two a.m. on a Saturday while shooting a scene in the Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital lobby. The rules are as follows: Each player enacts a scenario in which they’re going about an everyday task （like making coffee）。 At some point, the player decides to get “accidentally fucked in the ass” by their imaginary significant other—indicated by a crazy facial expression. For example, while Peter is in the middle of adding cream or sugar, his face quickly contorts—and that’s the exact moment in which he is “accidentally fucked in the ass.” It was not a very complicated “game.”
The winner （usually Olivia） was the person who came up with the best nonchalant task, and the most extreme facial expression. Sara didn’t invent AFITA. It was created by friends of hers to amuse themselves at parties where only they knew they were playing. On our set, however, everyone knew we played. The rest of the cast was always invited to join, but I think they saw Accidentally Fucked in the Ass as an absurdity for only the three new actors. （That said, I’m pretty sure we did convince Hugh Laurie to play once. Omar Epps was always an emphatic no.）
Not to be outdone by Hess’s “game,” Peter started a “competition” called HULLLLLL in which each player:
a） impersonates a castmate （castmate must be present） while
b） pretending to gag on a dick by performing a throaty choking sound （the length and intensity of which varied. Player’s choice!）。
This would always have to take place at a time when:
c） the castmate being impersonated was complaining about something.
Peter does a pretty solid impersonation of me, so when it was his turn at the “competition,” he would wait until I had complained about something innocuous, like my burger being cold or not getting enough sleep the night before. He’d then push out his bottom lip, slouch the way I sometimes do, and say, “My name is Kal Penn and my food was too col—HULLLLLL!” （You either know this sound accurately or you don’t.） Anyway, that’s it. That’s the whole “competition.”
On the off chance you find this game disgusting or immature, you should know that Peter brought “HULLLLLL” to us from his days on Broadway. His understudy taught it to him when they worked on the Steve Martin play Picasso at the Lapin Agile together. From there, Peter HULLLLLLed his castmates at the very serious Atlantic Theater Company during his run of The Water Engine. （If you recall, David Mamet’s Atlantic Theater Company is where I did my first professional workshop through the Governor’s School for the Arts before my senior year of high school. It all comes full circle.） So, when Peter introduced this on the set of House, there was a lot to live up to.
The best “players” on our cast were the ones who would bait you with a long, misdirected setup. I once goaded Olivia with a setup about social justice, something we both care a great deal for. Knowing she had read the paper that morning, I played dumb and said, “I heard there’s a New York Times article on greed and Big Pharma, have you read it?” For the next ten minutes, she passionately talked about economics and morality. I finally interrupted her, leaning in and saying, “You should write an op-ed. I think your take on drug prices with the recent economic data you cited was HULLLLLL!”