It all began innocently enough. Having an off-day after a while, the morning of which I rather pathetically spent in office, I forced myself to venture into the city and Siri fort. It was quite a brave decision, given the combination of the three men on my bed at the moment - Rushdie, Wodehouse and Ray - and the thirty percent discount at Papa John's I've taken full advantage of, all thrown in together with rather handicapped communication skills in Hindi. The motivating factor was the screening of Wong Kar Wai's film My Blueberry Nights. The single largest influence on me and justification for all my amorous adventures had been a line from 2046:
"It's no good meeting the right person
...too soon or too late."
So quite naturally, I was keen to find out what he had in store. Yes, Norah Jones' presence in the movie was a detracting factor, given that my musical sensibilities will not allow me to dethrone her from her unparallelled distinction of being an example of the worst use of genes ever. But Wong Kar Wai and blueberry as a concept overruled that detracting factor. However, making my mind up was only the beginning of my adventure.
It can only happen in Delhi that three successive autorickshaws have no idea where or what Siri Fort is. It can also only happen in Delhi that three people you call up for directions will tell you "everyone knows where it is". So, I found myself about an hour later at a place that looked neither like a fort nor an auditorium. The signboards saying "Operations" and "Emergency" did rouse certain misgivings, but I soldiered on bravely, lured by a sign that said "book cafe". I also managed to convince myself (I'm rather good at that) that the emergency entrance might be for film fanatics trying to escape a stampede, or celebrated directors trying to escape the film fanatics. But even I could not convince myself that paediatric and maternity wards would find place at a film festival. I mean, ten days does not warrant procreation, however hardcore an aficionado one might be. So I went rather sheepishly to the reception desk, smiled the way I usually do when I need to ask an awkward question and asked the most friendly (and gullible) looking man at the counter how I should go to Siri Fort.
"Ma'am?" he looked at me, wondering if he had heard wrong, I'm sure.
"Si-ri Fort..." I trailed off.
Even a face that gullible and friendly could look decidedly hostile when it thought you were abandoning a dying relative for a film festival. But rather than disclose I had entered a hospital to ask for directions, I let the fiction prevail. I think most people would rather be thought of as callous than blonde. At least, I would.
"Ma'am, you can exit through the emergency gate, there you will find auto stand, it'll be costing you seventy to eighty rupees, and half an hour journey."
The security guard, whom I asked for directions to the emergency gate, almost panicked and indicated in the fastest Hindi I've managed to follow, where it was. Then, it probably struck him that a woman running about on heels was unlikely to be in need of emergency care, and he began to look contemplative. That was the mood I left him in as I hailed yet another auto, the driver of which did not know where Siri Fort was. I called up someone else for directions, and managed to guide him there.
It was all going well, and I had bought my tickets, eaten, fought my way through a lot of artistic smoke and ended up red-eyed and spluttering inside the auditorium. Three Palestinian films later, I was in line for My Blueberry Nights. And keeping in mind the most sensible lines I've ever heard on screen - this one is courtesy Bernardo Bertolucci - that the best way to watch films is up close, I wisely seated myself in the second row. I knew the enthusiastic first-benchers would be unseated to make way for the distinguished guests. So I found myself sitting right behind Rajit Kapoor and a few other Mumbai theatre glitterati.
And then...this woman comes up to give us an introduction to Wong Kar Wai. The fact that she said "Waang Kar Voy" for most of it was putting off enough. But then, she went on to give a synopsis of the film, which any true film freak would know is genocide when delivered to an audience of film freaks. Some people muttered and panicked. Others, like me, pretended there was water in their ears and began shaking their heads and poking around furiously, hoping not to hear anything more than a pleasant buzz.
When the old lady left, the projector room decided to take it from exactly where she'd left off. And so it happened that as soon as the first reel was through, the fourth came on. In a moment of panic, they moved on to the third, and then the fifth...and then, somewhere close to the end, which was predictable enough, to begin with. The highlight of the evening was a timid-looking woman of substantial proportions, who took up the mic. and said, "I apologise on behalf of the festival", at which the mastermind behind the festival, Neville Tuli, looked up with something like surprise. Then she said, "I'm sorry for the inconvenience...screening will begin shortly". The poor thing didn't even have the malicious note of the woman who says "The person you're trying to call...is busy" or the bored note of the woman who says "Your call is important to us...please stay on the line".
A few more screwups later, the lady made another appearance and looked ready to cry, and then went off, half-relieved, half-petrified after the Mumbai theatre glitterati in the first row warned, "don't say anything".
Finally, the movie done with, and the unintended trailer sequences having been viewed in context, it was time to go home. I crossed over and managed to park myself at the one place all autos seemed keen to avoid. I saw at least five people who had left the auditorium with me pack themselves into autos. Then, a moment came when an auto finally slowed down for me, and then I looked on, as, in slow motion, a remarkably chivalrous indivual intercepted it before I could get in.
So, an hour and a half later, drenched in the rain, I got out at my place, to find the landlords had given up on all prospects of my return and locked the gate. At that moment, I knew I could never think of anythig containing blueberry as comfort food ever again.
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