Some of us, and the verandah called art films

We gathered under the canopy of mildewed skies, our hearts seeking horizons beyond our own, on which we had but a dim gaze.
We knew there was not much to achieve and we recognized the footfalls of emptiness that came knocking at our door each night and if not, then every alternate day, begging for alms of self-loathe.

We settled in those desperate whonked-out velvet seats, brushed bald in places with overuse and meandered along the path of altered recognition, slipping across its edges, tight-roping a thought, carrying crucifixes, ribbons of grudge and awe.
Some just held on to their breaths, some dozed off to the rhythm of a large fan zzooo, zzooo zzzzo, till the picture-curtain as large as a verandah swallowed our silent dismals giving us new meaning. Dressy or dressed down, they were our own thoughts that came back to us. Why do you think we had different interpretations?
Some spoke into mobiles and got shush-shushed across dark diagonals.
United in grief, united in laughter, we walked away alone, individual, as the credits rolled on. Our cuddled, close-knit consortium was not to be spoken of, only felt.

Some of us:
Sam, you were a liar who searched for employees/writers to employ in your dreamt up, unavailable, non-existing projects. You searched for young women. The younger the better and promised them the things you knew they desired through your well-endowed script. Only that existed not the dreams in it.

Jeremy, you were a film student wannabe. I say a film student wannabe because you still had to learn to learn. You force-fitted earlier lessons on new experiences and refused to give new experiences a chance. But you were cool in your humor because you used Sam as a butt of all your jokes. Sam hated you too but he was evaluative. He would have liked to see if your skills had any use to him.

Baba, you were old and bent and dressed up in all pink khadi, white shalwaar like a branded scriptwriter. I am never acquainted with your work, Baba. I have not reached that place yet where I can sit at the edges of your pen and look into the reflection of your scribbling. But you were present at every place I rolled my gaze. You must be someone great if not to others then at least to yourself.

Actor, you always asked me about the ‘what-next’s’. Was that coincidence? I would like to think so, because you showed no flicker of recognition between one and the next. Clean shaven and chikna, dressed in denim you looked handsome. Didn’t you feel stuffy in that huge jacket worn even at noon or were those your armors that kept at bay anonymity? I looked at you when you looked to see if others were looking at you. But I looked away when you looked my way.

Ponytail, you want to talk but you restrain in the alignment of your purpose. You could have at least asked me my name. Or what I do or if I would have a chai? I wouldn’t refuse, I swear. We have known each other for long - losing and emerging from the crowd of thought, feeling, and dream. Just yesterday, when we crossed over the promenade escaping our eyes, I had this feeling you would miss me if I die and I would, if you. Some knowing happens without words.

-c- Rochelle Potkar
More of us, soon.

(at least that’s the empty promise one should give)