After the verbal diarrhoea that assailed me in May, June was spent in relative calm, mostly trying to rid myself of all unwanted emotional baggage accumulated over the past few months, an emotional summer-cleaning if you please.
With July the sporadic showers are back again and so are summer treats like mangoes and jamuns. It’s also that time of the year when
Osian Film Fest for me in a single snapshot means sauntering through glittering venues richly decorated with cine artefacts, grabbing an almost-stale patty/sandwich while rushing from one Sirifort auditorium to another, shedding copious amount of tears in a dark auditorium, marvelling at the young directors and their repertoire, secretly wishing to be part of a film production, catching a Makhmalbaf flick in between edit meets and proof reading (thank God office was just a walk away!), and desperately trying to find an auto after a late-night screening and walking back 5 km at 1 am through Delhi’s deserted streets.
As I write this I fight back the intense urge to rush and book a ticket to
