By Satya Wanvari December 2011 A spontaneous decision to follow her heart turned around a dissatisfying career path and led Satya Wanvari towards her true calling Six,” he said with forceful precision.“Six what?” I asked, confused.He sat back in his large red sofa, crossed his arms around the stomach almost squashed by the sofa arms and looked at me as if I had an IQ less than six.“Bullets,” he said and paused. “But that is silent,” he added.A long silence followed as I tried to summon an expression that was just right. Raise the eyebrows, open the mouth and gasp, “Oh, that’s brilliant. What a title! Of course, the story is a thriller, there is always a gun, a gun has six bullets.”“Brilliant…sir,” I managed. My director laughed in delight, a cross between a rasp and a boy with a puberty voice. I knew I deserved an Oscar in acting then. I waited for him to ask me to show him the story I had developed based on his concept. I had burnt the midnight oil for a week and was eager to narrate it to him.“So I have sent a presentation to the producers. The film starts with a factory making guns and a voiceover describing how fatal a gun is,” he continued.“Presentation?”He quickly fished out his I-pad and showed me a two-minute video with deafening sound effects and some MTV-style visuals. The title ‘Six’ kept sliding on the screen every few seconds.I opened my mouth to give what was by now a mastered gasp of appreciation but found my jaw clamped beyond my control. I managed a limp chin movement.“Khalid Khan ke saath meeting hai. I will give him a narration. The producer wants more emotion. So now our hero is both dumb and deaf.”“Deaf also?”“Yes, yes. Now he will express everything to the heroine through love letters. But he won’t give the letter to her.”“Sir, is this a love story or a thriller? The sight keeps me enthralled for some unfathomable reason. I want only one thing. A camera. I just want to capture the sight. Quickly, I fi nd a cameraman covering the event and pay him extra bucks to shoot separately, just as I visualise each frame. “Both. Theek hai na. You mail me the synopsis.”His peon walks in with a tray full of Marie biscuits and two cups of tea as if on cue.The director waves the biscuit plate at me and starts chomping on them, apparently happy with our meeting.This isn’t the first time I have come across a director who pays me to write scripts but is a closet writer himself. This breed lives in the divine belief of dictation since it cannot type. Since I have recently left a lucrative job to follow my dreams as a film writer, I am willing to be a secretary taking down notes, hoping this would change soon.Compromise of creativity However, only the director changes. The scene is the same. Meetings begin with him narrating and my nodding. I go back the next day with a 10-page script as discussed in the meeting. A dialogue writer has been invited to hear the story. The script is narrated to him. The dialogue writer talks in shuddh Hindi and succeeds in impressing director saab suitably. We meet again in a few days with the script fleshed out with dialogues. The story’s climax has changed. I ask him about it. He says he discussed it with the director on the phone. Since the climax has changed, the director asks me to rewrite the beginning and the middle. Basically the whole story. The meetings continue. So do the rewrites, every time someone gives a different feedback to the director. Every meeting, the story would change. By this time, I have begun to pride myself on coming up with complete scripts every time someone gives a different concept. Along with the pride, comes a disturbing unacknowledged discomfort that compromise of creativity brings. One such afternoon, I get a call from another director. The moment he starts talking about how grand his project is, something snaps within me. Politely refusing, I pick up all the DVDs and dispatch them back to my director’s office. There is no worry about the future, no anxiety. No regrets, no plans. Nothing. Perhaps I am numb. Too drained to think by now, I simply allow my body to dictate to me. I put on my favourite Nike shoes and go for a long walk. Perhaps sleepwalking feels like this. I spend many days in this ever-so comfortable no-mind zone. One day, I come across a small article in a newspaper announcing an upcoming contest for a Hollywood director. I glance at it briefly but don’t give it a second thought. Until I walk into a nearby mall.The mall is buzzing with an event called “cutathon”. Several celebrity hairstylists are busy giving haircuts and makeovers to men and women, almost free of charge, for a charity cause. I go to the second floor and stand looking down at various heads being transformed, hair being snipped with the dedication of artists painting their best work of art. The sight keeps me enthralled for some unfathomable reason. I want only one thing. A camera. I just want to capture the sight. Quickly, I find a cameraman covering the event and pay him extra bucks to shoot separately, just as I visualise each frame. I didn’t realise until next day, how crucial that spontaneous decision was. The next step Next day, I wake up with a vague idea in my head based on the visuals. I take out a few blank sheets and simply follow what I now know as something Julia Cameron suggests in her book, The Artist’s Way. Ever since, I have learnt that nothing is a waste of time, be it playing or becoming a secretary. Everything comes together eventually like a beautiful symphony. I have learnt to take new risks and let go of writing assignments that don’t really involve my writing skills She advises every artist to pour down random thoughts on three pages every morning. That’s exactIy what I do. I feel I am having the best conversation with myself. The next few hours, I simply sit and write, the visuals at the mall whirling in my head. The moment I am done, I know I have a good script for a short film. And this time, I want to direct it myself. I know that newspaper article is a sign. I speak to a cameraman to arrive at the budget for shooting it. The cost comes to Rs 30,000, something I am not ready to spend. I drop the idea. The same evening my mother calls to say that she wants to send me some money. I know then this is no coincidence. My story is based on a childhood experience. My mother has no clue I have written a story on it. Satya Wanvari records allbad hair day moments in herfilmmaking adventures ongayatrigauri.blogspot.com Another sign. Within two weeks, I have a short film ready, titled Bad Hair Day. Within two months, the film is selected in a major competition telecast on national network. The next month I go on to make more short films on the show. By now, I have realised a new untapped potential beyond writing – that of a film-maker. A potential that again had its seeds in my childhood. My father was a photographer and I had spent all my growing days playing with his film rolls as he developed them in his little studio dark room. The images have apparently stayed. Flashback circa 1970s.Ever since, I have learnt that nothing is a waste of time, be it playing or becoming a secretary. Everything comes together eventually like a beautiful symphony. I have learnt to take new risks and let go of writing assignments that don’t really involve my writing skills. I have no regrets, though, of going through the typical Bollywood experience. After all, I ended up writing complete scripts for myself while the directors continue to give presentations, hoping to cast a Khalid Khan without a story.Following my dreams with total conviction has become second nature. This journey has made me realise the power of synchronicity, spontaneity and self-belief. The heart always knows the best. I have learnt to take the risk of listening to it.
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