So am sitting in my shorts and ganji waiting for some inspiration to strike.
That’s a large part of the reason one has moved here. To be away from the city. For peace and quiet. To be alone.
I listen. There is nothing. No rush of ideas. No brilliant line to kick start it. Nothing
So I pretend to wait for the right moment and look for something else to do. Like clean the metal chimney. Or the fridge. Or wash clothes. Amazing how domesticated we become in search of inspiration.
I hear the bell ring and walk over to open it.
There is a young man standing. He asks for me. Tentatively, he tells me he has written a story about his life. He has faced many challenges and wanted to put down on paper how he overcame them and became the person he was.
I asked him how he came to know about me. Apparently through small talk among taxi drivers. They have a database of filmmakers in the area.
So much for fame. 24 hour news channels. Red Carpet Invites. Flashbulbs. All that will have to wait. Right now the Taxi Drivers’ Association of Aya Nagar is following your career.
So I set to demolish his enthusiasm. Tell him how difficult it is to make a movie. To raise money. You know the kind of theories you develop to explain to yourself why you have not moved your ass about the four scripts lying in your secret vault and twenty other swirling in your mind. And most people believe you.
He is not interested. He wants to read out his story. He seems like he is on another planet.
Where I was 20 years ago.
So I give up.
We have a script reading on Monday morning.