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Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The story for my next short film!!!!!!!


Yellow

A burnt hutment on the outskirts of a forsaken village. Sand infested gusts casting an ironic golden shadow on the sad land. Sharp heat dripping flooding the desert, drowning that stands amidst: A forgotten piece of thatch, within it... forgotten people.
“Sheetaala Bauua sheetaala... chau gangya paari kheti meri, eeju kheti meri... Sheetaala bauua sheetaala...” (Sleep my baby sleep... I am to cross four rivers to reach my farm... so sleep)
The old lady of the hut, in her mid-thirties, sings. Her voice, coarse, like her face, coarse and not cruel, brushes against the walls of the hut to return to her son’s ears, smooth, as he stares into her, with love, drowsy and confused.
A door-long boy in small khakis, small... like him, for his age. He is fiddling with his mothers naval with one hand while picking his nose with the other while she pats his face to make him sleep. He looks through the gaps between her fingers, spitting each time she stops patting. To show that he is awake. After some time, the fiddling stops and spit remains.
She sits head down for another while, trying to recollect what she is thinking, before jerking herself off sleep. Briskly picks up her steel tiffin box that is hanging on the wall above the stove and sets out. Into vulnerability. Into fire. Of false hopes.
For survival.
The boy gets up the moment his mother leaves. However, it is not the mischievous getting up of a child; his expression is rather grave as he looks out of the hole adjacent to the chaarpayi. At the sight of his mother. Walking unsteadily, flickering in the loo. Around her, more women with more steel tiffins, but they aren’t walking. They are being ridden on bicycles by door-long shadows, like his.
A twitch runs his body. He frowns to distract himself. Then takes out a slate and chalk from underneath the chaarpayi and starts to draw.
Two little kids (Way too little for his age... his friends) hiss from the door, “Ber todhne aa riya hai??”
“Na. Hat”, he shoos them away.
And continues to draw. Flat ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. All yellow.
He stares at the drawing. Then looks out. And looks at it again. Drawing comparisons. Comparing intentions.
Quietly then, he gets up and goes to the back yard of the hut, to his favourite matka (He painted a face on and made holes according to his eyes). Summons him. They talk via heat waves, his hollow eyes fixed on him, both their hearts upfront. And a deal is struck!
So he puts him on his head and sets out.
Towards the village. Where he and his mother are unwelcome, but what does he know... silly boy!
........................................................................................................................................................
The village is silent, stirred only by sounds of DD television from selective few houses. Outside one such house, parked is a bicycle like the one he drew! It stands consciously like it is being judged. It is.
By a brown matka, heavy on a weak body, with finger legs covered in small khaki. And, underneath it, a 20 year old boy. Their eyes maliciously set on the bicycle. The bicycle maliciously set on their eyes.
Two smiles and two nods!
The cycle follows them outside the verandah. Like a prisoner. Dust rising over their trail, in rebellion, in tribute. As they march through the village road, ignoring the noises reverberating along the path. ‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal.’
They grow heavier.
The boy is running now. Faster with each step. “Go slow” the matka warns! “No” he runs faster, the cycle beside. Shaking. “Go slow.” ‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal.’ He is sprinting now “No.”
More noises, and as he shuts his eyes to shout... he trips over a stone... hitting the ground. The matka shatters, dead instantly, quick and easy. While the bicycle, in its final attempt to escape rolls over and knocks on a nearby house gate. Sounds flood in from the houses.
The boy is still on the ground. As doors open and people are scrambling out of their houses.
But, just before they can catch him, he collects, both his self and dreams, and runs. While the cycle looks on, panting in one corner. Mockingly!
They follow him till the village wall, hurling stones and sticks. And then dismiss their pursuit.
‘Pagal. Pagal. Pagal. Pahaadin ka Pagal’
But he runs fast right till the house.
.....................................................................................................................................................
He is happy to return to the unease of his house. Its dead smell fills his senses bringing them to life again, as he relishes the heat and hunger and despair. Not that they make any sense to him.
The vision comes back to him. And he gets back to his drawing.
......................................................................................................................................................
The sun has almost dried when his mother comes back. And so has she. She finds her son sitting in one corner near the hole. He is holding a cloth against his knee wound, which is heart red. But she can’t see that.
She squats near him, eyes shut. The stench of her sweat makes him dizzy. He puts his head on her feet and caresses them. Her hard feet. Then takes out his slate from behind and puts it in front of her.
Initially she doesn’t notice, she caresses back his hand, that’s when her hands touch his knees.
Immediately, she lights the stove and brings it near too see.
Light falls on his knees.
She looks at him, he looks at her.
Then he brings the slate near the stove. Light falls on it making it glow.
Flat ground. Above it a bicycle. Huge sun. All yellow.
A door-long boy in short khakhis riding a cycle. And a lady with a steel tiffin box behind. Being ridden.
All yellow.
........................................................................................................................................................

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