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Journalism of Courage
Clouds of smoke form waves on the glass. The waves gradually take on a shape.
You know that your mind is talking. Yet you watch with your eyes, trying toconcentrate on the image in the mirror. You try to locate your eyes on theother side. But the smoke has other intentions. Or maybe the images withinyour mind do. A face appears through the foggy barrier. A woman. On closerlook, a merged face of two women 8212; the right eye of Liv Ullmann, almost in atrance, stares at you while the left eye of Bibi Anderson looks onsuspiciously. Ingmar Bergman8217;s Persona floats by. You stub out your cigarette. You see the Mirror. You remember Andre Tarkovsky. Your mind takes the form of a screen. Your eyes refuse to see otherwise. Cinema has captured you. But you enjoy being its prisoner!
You visited your grandmother on her death bed. There she lay counting her last few breaths. She held your hand in a tight grip and whispered, 8220;I wantto live! I want to live!8221; There you saw Supriya Choudhury8217;s Nita refusingto let go of her grip8230; desperately trying to ward off death, and the filmends with these four words repeated over and over again. Ritwik Ghatak8217;sMeghe Dhaka Tara. You wake up from your trance. The grip has loosened8230;only the fingers touch. Your grandmother just died!
You lay in bed pretending to read a book. Your mother was sitting in theroom doing her make-up. Once in a while you dart your eyes towards her. Anethnic Bengali lady 8212; Ray8217;s Charulata? In walked a young man, aworking-class man with a sex appeal never gauged before. Man, woman, childor animal, he just played with your senses. Marlon Brando in A StreetcarNamed Desire? Your mother walked out with him. You couldn8217;t believe yourmind. You merged Satyajit Ray and Elia Kazan together, by default of course!
You are walking down the road. You see a woman. She looks attractive and intelligent. You look at her. She smiles and turns away. Your mind wanders to Francois Truffaut8217;s Jules et Jim and for the next two days Jeanne Moreau refuses to let go of you.
You keep walking. You8217;ve landed in a desolate place, without realising. There8217;s only a spooky bungalow nearby. You can see a tall, lanky man in front of it, looking at a window high above. A silhouetted woman can be seen through the window. The man turns to look at you. You recognise him. You shudder. Norman Bates! Anthony Perkins in Alfred Hitchcock8217;s Psycho! You run for life. All this while you thought violence was cool. Now when it is following you, you strain your legs. But that is pleasurable too! So in a way Quentin Tarantino was right. So was Pulp Fiction!
You8217;re out of breath and stop for a second. However, that8217;s long enough tomake a prisoner of you. You happily succumb and the screen lights up. Andthe images unfold. Life takes a back seat and you are finally comfortablewith your companions8230; you, the darkness and the screen with its images!
