a novel idea

You count the seconds on your fingertips. The minutes seem like eternities flailing at the sizzle of the butter, you apply the peanut butter in one smooth lump. The jelly needs some scraping. You notice the ants collecting some for the winter. They love sugar. Another lump, this time jelly on the bread. You put them together and then onto the pan. The butter's brown. Turn down the heat. Raindrops keep falling on my head. The call comes within stipulated time. 

"Hello! Kaha hain?" "Ghar pe." "Neeche aa. Jaldi. Hum gate par hain." They hang up.

Subham grabs the paper plate, the Minute Maid 90 rupee bottle off the refrigerator. A bottle of Amul Kool. The sandwich off the pan, heating plate. 

You run down the stairs. A balancing act. The rush of adrenaline pushes you. You almost miss dropping the sandwich. Like the several times before, they stand at the gate. You ask the watchman to open it for you, while he does; you raise the Minute Maid like a ceremonial toast. I notice Kedar standing at the door. He smiles at me and looks at the bottle, but there's something more to it. I look at the driver. It's not Asmi.

We do a mutual "Oh yeah" then enter the car. Asmi is in the passenger seat. She doesn't look behind at first, I put my hand on her seat and say Hi! She turns a gives an off-smile. The driver is Rishabh, her elder-younger brother. I haven't been able to figure out which is which of them. Am I dreaming?

Rishabh sniggers at everything. Hi. Skkkrrrttt. 

Every time I'm out on my own it seems like a decade passes between me and the person I was. So if I leave home and come back days later, it becomes a gathering of all my past selves coming together on a joyous occasion. Awaiting my return. I don't remember a last trip I took on my own. When I went to IFP last year, I think I learnt a lot about my place in the world. I thought about people as little musketeers not knowing how to craft a story or how thankless the jobs of people in films are. An audience is always a selfish one; they never think of the filmmaker as the storyteller. They think of them as the enforcer. Someone who couldn't get a better edit, a better actor or a better performance. Things may look as simple as on the surface; but a filmmaker's job is more difficult than the programmers. You see, it's because the filmmaker is programming on the minds on their audience. They use all the tools at their disposal, the power of suggestion, story blocks, their knowledge of human psychology and behaviour and at the time using these tools to create a good experience. The filmmaker's succession depends on how well their audience understood what was said during the picture, how much fun they had; their laughs, their cries and their thoughts. Their love for the character. What they learnt from everything that befell before them. The impact it had on their lives and how they think about themselves. 

I think about this conversation I hear between Tarantino and an interviewer. It was about Scorsese. Tarantino mentions how Scorsese is cinema. How he (Tarantino) himself would be a better filmmaker if he spent his dinners with Scorsese. I wish I had the privilege of meeting and having dinner with someone like Scorsese or the man himself. To be on his sets and learn from the greatest living director. I want to be a filmmaker, a writer or an editor. I want to be part of the process.

Dear Heartbeat, you're failing me. Someone close to me told me that I have the aura of youth tragedy. For sometime after I began believing in that. They meant to say they don't see me living to be old. So every time I'm in a tense situation, their words playback in my head. I didn't think I'd live to be 20. Let alone being on the cusp of turning 21. I remember the first time those words played in my head, it was pre-CET era during Covid. I had lost all interest in everything, I barely studied. I watched films and devoured all sorts of media, my parents had given up on my education at this point. They said very little on the matter. I began to believe that somewhere between that one year, I'd disappear among the countless numbers who passed on. I survived. 

I passed my exam. Started seeing someone. Began engineering. Since then every other day those words crop up in my ear. I have terrible imposter syndrome. I believe everyone does at times. Mine is come to be a daily prayer. I go to college and I feel left out. I attend lectures I'm wasting my time. I'm useless in the lab. My strengths don't lie in computer theory or programming. I'm stronger behind the camera. Kevin tells me I'm wasting my time sitting for placements. I don't know if its because he believes in me or he believes that you're never to old to try in what you wish to do. Maybe he still doesn't like me. It's a folly.

My problem is my mind. I'm afraid of failing. I'm afraid of not being good enough. I'm not idealistic no. I don't believe if I watch enough films I'll be good. I don't believe storytelling is taught. It's ingrained. For a while I did believe it was for me too. I believe in me making good things happen but I need an honest to God push from within to make it happen. Maybe I can become a writer and tell important stories. If I made money, this would much easier to pursue.

Social media is propaganda that distracts you from what’s really happening. It feeds you sweet nothings about cats, porn and babies while the real travesties occur elsewhere. Even when it informs you on the news on the way how these travesties are happening constantly. It tells you a disjointed story about how the rapist wasn’t at fault; or that women who lie must be slaughtered. The internet is unflinchingly misogynistic. It will classify people based on race, caste or creed but rather ironically throw personal jabs at you. Everyone’s feed is adjusted for the individual. Try forcing yourself into a right-winger’s feed for a day as a minority in this country. You’ll automatically begin to see the festering thoughts dripping sweat like maggots on their temples.

Seventeen and nine; the two days of humble millers of Dee. The Grinch speaks of an esoteric wisdom. The rare wisdom of suffering.  The Dog and the Man have a staring contest. Dog places his hand on the Man's thigh. Are you flirding with me? Then the Dog asks for a handshake. They shake hands and it makes him smile.

The Sister sneezes on the brother. Then takes a bite of his sandwich.

I am now the sad clown. Forsaken, mistruthful and untrusting. Words held back by soaring tongues of fire. My soul unrest. The gargoyles churning down like hardened chocolate. Regurgitated and alarming. The metaphysical self shutters down the radioactivity of my neutral mind in the blink of an eye. I do not believe in anything. I only fear that my future withholds me from actually contributing to anything I deem meaningful. Am I going to create film? Make pictures nostalgic and emotional? Will I be overcoming these hindrances in the face of another. Do not fear. Do not think. Do not feel the anxiety scarring your veins. In the year of inconveniences, existing becomes hindrance. It becomes fear-mongering. You wish to leave the self. To leave the soul behind and jump into the circles of hell. But to create meaning, to breathe life you need your soul. You need your thoughts and your brain and your beating heart. All of this comes at the cost of living. Living as though life has lost all meaning. Living as though feeling is a phobia.

I don't breathe. Much or at all.