ROLLING, ACTION!

Adithya
Adithya
Sep 1, 2018 · 6 min read

January 10, 2017 18:23

“In this scene, you are going back home on your bike. You are retrospecting about the recent events in your life, and how it all resulted in a break-up with your girlfriend. It’s the winter season and the evening’s cold winds are cutting through the gaps in your helmet. Your eyes are filled with tears because of the sharp wind, and your vision is blurred. Distracted both physically and emotionally, you fail to notice the speed breaker on the road. You hit your brakes suddenly and skid for a split second before you come to a complete stop. You will then take your helmet off while still maintaining the same emotion, sit on the footpath, and wipe the tears off your eyes. This time, those tears are not because of the wind. Did you understand the scene, or do you want me to explain again?” Chetan spoke non-stop until he could not hold his breath any longer. He was explaining a crucial scene in his short-film to one of the lead actors, who was in no mood to finish the shoot today. The winter evening was getting colder than usual, maybe because they were shooting amidst thick vegetation on the outskirts of Hyderabad city. Wearing shorts to the shoot today seemed like a bad idea, but Chetan was more concerned about finishing the scene. Reacting to the cold wind brushing against his bare legs could wait a little longer.

After the actor reluctantly nodded, Chetan gave him a thumbs-up and ran back to where the camera was positioned. They were shooting on the left shoulder of the Outer Ring Road where not much traffic was expected during this time of the day. A lorry carrying varieties of fruits in cream coloured wooden caskets was rushing on the Ring Road, heading towards the Bangalore Highway.

“Is the lighting good enough? Or should we come back tomorrow?” he asked the cinematographer, who was adjusting the camera’s focus. With the sun retiring for the day, the camera guy was fixing the light manually by changing the angle and distance for every take. Chetan was beginning to worry about not being able to capture what he had visualized in his mind when he was writing this scene on paper. This was the eighth short film for which he was working as a Writer and Director. His last short film had garnered the least number of views so far, compared to his other ones. He was desperately in need of a hit but looking at his actor today, he was beginning to lose hope on this one too. On top of that, he was wondering what to tell the Producers’ team if they asked him why the shoot was two days behind schedule already.

“If this guy retains his expressions even after removing the helmet, this lighting will do. He’s smiling as if it’s a hero’s introduction scene,” the cinematographer replied in a very low voice. Chetan had worked with the same guy for all his short films, after he fell in love with the quality of framing and composition of the test shots they took for their first short film, almost two years ago.

“I told him not to smile already,” Chetan shook his head in disbelief. “Anyway, this is the final scene we need to shoot. After this, I am done repeating instructions to this guy.”

“Ready!” the actor yelled from the end of the road. He was sitting on the bike with his helmet on, ready to enact what his Director had explained a few minutes ago.

“Alright! Act 6, Scene 13, Take 7. Rolling, Action!” Chetan shouted at the top of his voice, keenly observing whether the actor was following his instructions. He clutched the script tightly when the actor suddenly applied brakes, trying to make it look closer to reality. The bike stopped a few inches away from the speed breaker after making skid marks on the road. The actor slowly removed his helmet and kept staring at his bike’s handle, thinking about something else. He got off the bike, collapsed on the footpath and buried his head in his hands. He raised his head to smile again only after his Director had yelled, “Cut!”

“Brilliant! That was the last scene we were supposed to shoot. It was great working with you. We will complete editing in a week and we’ll take it from there. I will send you the posters by tomorrow and you can share it with your Instagram followers,” Chetan spoke hurriedly to the actor. He then turned to the cinematographer who was packing his equipment and said, “Bro, we’ll meet tomorrow evening to discuss the shots.”

“You seem to be in a hurry,” the cinematographer responded, before Chetan sped away on his Karizma.

It was the beginning of Pongal (Sankranthi) vacation and Hyderabad streets were bustling with people getting ready to leave for their native places. Most of the residents in Chetan’s neighborhood belonged to the Andhra region, now the sister state to Telangana. Though the states were bifurcated, majority of the people had forgot about it now. Chetan’s parents were going to Bangalore tonight, to visit their extended family in the garden city. He had dropped the plan to finish working on his short film. On top of that, it meant that Chetan would have the house to himself for the whole week. He was already excited about tonight’s drinking plan with his childhood friends. It had been three weeks since they last drank together.

Chetan reached the basement of Suraj Apartments where they had been living for the past 9 years. It was a relatively old building which had not been repainted in a long time. Once painted in dark brown, the walls were now displaying a dull yellowish colour. Parking his bike at the empty spot for Flat 102, he gave a nod of acknowledgement to the watchman who was playing old Telugu songs on his FM Radio. He quickly checked his phone as he climbed the few stairs to reach the first floor. It was almost time for his parents to leave for the Railway Station to catch their train.

“You’re back? I was about to call you,” his father enquired when he saw Chetan sneak into the house, after silently removing his shoes. His father was wearing his favourite green coloured polo T-shirt and black pajamas, ready for the train journey.

“Is Maa angry?” Chetan asked back, hoping that she could not hear them from the master bedroom. However, he realized he spoke too soon.

“Always staying outside because of his useless short films. I will never understand what this boy will do with his career finally,” his mother started yelling from inside. Chetan looked at his father for support, but all he received in response was a helpless shrug. Walking into the drawing room with a glass of water, she placed it on the table and ordered her son to drink it first. “Go wash your face and then eat whatever you want. I did not make dinner for you as you will eat outside anyway. By the time we are back home, clean the house a bit and don’t forget to water the plants in the balcony,” she started repeating instructions one after the other, going back into their room to finish combing her hair.

When it was time to leave, Chetan booked an Uber for them from his mother’s phone. It was still 5 minutes away when their parents went downstairs with their luggage. “Don’t forget to tell grandma that I passed all subjects last semester. Also, tell her that my next short film will release in two weeks. Send me a message when you guys get on the train. Okay, bye!” Chetan reminded, while they waited downstairs for the taxi to arrive. He was standing in the balcony that overlooked the building’s entrance. It was his mother’s favourite spot to sit and drink coffee in the morning, while arguing with the local street vendors about the inflating vegetable prices.

Once his parents left and he finished eating his evening snack, he collapsed on his bed and sent messages to his two childhood friends, asking them to come home whenever they wanted. He then tossed and turned on his bed while playing music on his phone. He was aching to write a new story for his next short film, but it just wouldn’t come to him.

***

Adithya

Written by

Adithya

Author of 'The Mumbai Blues: One city, Two worlds'