Buffering Love

  The time to make a film, however, was running out as the years went by like a breeze. He spent most of his twenties taking care of his parents. His thirties went by in selling tea. In his forties, he was busy building Stories. The times when he missed female companionship, on weekends, he kept himself occupied by attending screenings or reading about films.

  He got himself a second-hand laptop that he used to watch YouTube interviews with famous directors, writers, cinematographers and editors by the dozen. That he wasn’t hitched so far was not exactly a hitch for him. He had his films and Godard to thank.

  In 2015, for the first time, revenues from Stories showed a decline. The younger demographic in Delhi had moved towards illegal online downloads and the raging hot trend of video streaming. All the new films would also come on television within a month and there was no shortage of new English and foreign movie channels.

  Mohanty believed great cinema needed to be distributed as freely and frequently as possible otherwise art might not grow to be as eternal as it should be. Such liberal thinking wasn’t good for business, Jagannath warned him.

  Mohanty’s life had changed for the better thanks to his love for cinema. A tea vendor had even become a prime minister in this country, and there he was, another tea vendor who was now invited for some of the biggest film parties in New Delhi. ‘I’ll be fine. People who love cinema will keep coming to my store, and people who love cinema only grow year after year,’ Mohanty would tell Jagannath.

  While a few small online rental players like SeventyMM were already available in the country by then, 2016 proved to be a watershed year with a string of high-profile video streaming platform launches that included biggies like Flixtser and Star Videos. That year, except for the holiday season of November, each month registered a decline in visitors to the store as more and more people started discovering their favourite films on these streaming sites.

  In December 2016, a panic-stricken Mohanty revamped his store and gave it a new look. For the inventory that seldom moved from his store, he announced a throwaway sale. The number of customers he got that day was a glimmer of hope that Stories might just weather the storm. In addition, he halved his store space to reduce his rent.

  He also let go off his trusted assistant and started negotiations with his landlord, the forever grumpy Ranjit Khanna, to reduce the lock-in period to eight years instead of ten.

  ‘What if you can’t pay for next year again?’ growled Ranjit.

  ‘I intend to take a salaried job. I have sent out feelers to my customers already. I will meet the rent commitment for 2017,’ assured Mohanty.

  On 1 March 2017, Mohanty put a telltale signage on his beloved store that had served him well for so many years.

  ‘CLOSING DOWN SALE’ it read. ‘ALL STOCK MUST GO,’ the signage pleaded.

  Loyal customers of Stories came from all over the city to offer their commiserations. It was the fraternity of film lovers with exquisite taste. They knew their Ritwik from their Satyajit and their Ford from their Scorsese. That March, every evening was like a little party in the Outer Circle lane outside Mohanty’s store.

  While they all had come to buy the DVDs that were available at the closing down sale, the truth was that they were crying inside. Oh, for how many evenings had this little store taken away their misery because Mohanty recommended the right film for their mood. And now all of them must depend on some faceless, heartless, computer-generated algorithm for a choice of a film for the evening. How low had civilization stooped, they pondered. And then they all went away for new year shopping with their families, while Mohanty desolately walked to his house in Mandi House.

  The only DVDs that Mohanty kept for himself were a few of his Godard favourites. He remembered how this was the first film that was rented from his store.

  The lone bright spot that dark month was that Mohanty got a new job. He was relieved that his new job still had something to do with his beloved cinema. Mrs Roy’s son was now a sales manager at PVR Cinemas and he offered Mohanty a job as an usher.

  Mohanty was filled with gratitude towards Akash. Pity was, unlike before, he couldn’t repay him in any manner. The other option, which was perhaps a more stable job, was offered by one of Jagannath’s friends. It was to man the Delhi Metro rail platforms as a security guard with flexible hours. Mohanty preferred to be an usher simply because Akash had thrown in a trump card that allowed Mohanty to watch any film during off-peak hours without buying a ticket.

  Thus, on 2 April 2017, Mohanty Sarkar began a new life at the age of sixty-two at PVR Cinemas in Connaught Place. He smiled warmly at all the ticket holders and looked at their seat numbers on the tickets before guiding them to their seats. Some smiled back and some scoffed but no one ever spoke. If only someone would talk to him about the climax. Or about the first act setup. But no. It was all about ‘Three rows up, ma’am, first seat to the left’ or some such one-sided tepid verbal snack.

  Over the next month though, Mohanty made peace with his new job. But his overall cinema consumption came down considerably. He didn’t have the same drive to talk about cinema either. Occasionally, he would speak with Akash about any upcoming French film and that was that.

  One night in October, as Mohanty saw everyone out from the last show that ended at 11.30 p.m., he observed an infirm old man who was attended by another man alongside him, trying to walk towards the exit slowly. Mohanty didn’t remember ushering this old gentleman in. Maybe he had got in from the other entrance, where his colleague Kumar was stationed, Mohanty reasoned. Kumar was nowhere to be seen now, so Mohanty patiently waited for the two men to come out.

  As they approached the exit, Mohanty caught a closer look at the old man. He seemed familiar. His spectacles were particularly reminiscent of someone he knew. And then it struck him.

  ‘Mr Godard!’ Mohanty choked.

  ‘May I,’ he offered his hand to the great auteur.

  A younger gentleman in a black suit, next to Godard, politely interrupted in a French accent, ‘He is fine. Thank you for asking. He is actually . . .’

  But Mohanty Sarkar was seeing stars. He didn’t hear a word of what the man in the black suit said. Now breathing heavily, Mohanty said, ‘It has been my lifelong dream to meet you, sir! I have seen all your films. Even the ones from way back in the ’60s. They were the very raison d’être of my existence not too long ago, sir,’ Mohanty said, feeling rather smug about throwing in that timely French phrase.

  Mr Godard, frail of age and heavy of breath, couldn’t comprehend this fast-paced slur of words coming in from Mohanty. He questioningly looked at the younger man in the black suit and slowly uttered, ‘Remi . . .’

  Remi went on to translate for Godard what Mohanty said. Mohanty regained his breath and continued.

  ‘Please tell him. I have seen them all. Les Carabiniers, Le Gai Savour, Tout Va Bien,’ Mohanty started reeling the names of them all, in French. He deliberately didn’t mention Breathless. Everyone who knows anything about Godard would talk about Breathless, but Mohanty was the true connoisseur. He had seen the lesser known ones, the failed ones and the ones that by every measure were better than Breathless.

  Something caught Godard’s attention and he mumbled something in French to Remi. Remi clarified, ‘Mr Godard wants to know where you saw Les Carabiniers.’

  ‘I had a DVD store that I ran till last year. The first DVD I rented out was yours, sir. And it had a big poster of yours in front of it. It was the riot, sir. I had to shut down the store because the video streaming trend killed my business.’

  Godard sighed and gave a disappointed look.

  And then Godard spoke in a measured voice to Remi. From his tone, Mohanty sensed this was important. Remi patiently let Godard finish his sentence.

  After what seemed like an eternity once Godard stopped speaking, Remi said, ‘Mr Godard is sad to hear about your store shutting down. He has been looking for a copy of Les Carabiniers for a long time. They had given the film to a film-resto
ration company but while restoring it to DVD, they missed a few frames that were very dear to him. He wished your store hadn’t closed down, otherwise he would’ve liked to visit you to see the DVD of Les Carabiniers. It’s a film that he holds very close to his heart. Thank you for your kindness though. We must be on our way now.’

  Mohanty’s heart leapt a thousand times while he heard this from Remi. ‘No, no, no. I still do have the DVD of the film. Please tell him I have kept a few copies of my favourite Godard films. And I will be able to give him a copy if he so wishes.’

  Remi relayed the information to Godard, at which point the old man had a sudden burst of energy to his voice. He spoke to Mohanty in poetic French, looking at his eyes with much kindness and love. Remi spoke an instant later. ‘Mr Godard will be very grateful to you if this could be arranged. He thanks the Good Lord that he met you today. It is actually Mr Godard’s final wish that he wants to see this particular film with his grandchildren before he dies.’

  Mohanty suddenly realized the significance of the last statement. As a third-generation tea vendor, Mohanty’s life fortunes had got him to the point where he could lend a helping hand in fulfilling a wish of the greatest director in the world.

  He collected himself and said, ‘Well, you have no clue how lucky I am to be hearing from Mr Godard and seeing him in person. Could you tell me where you are staying? I shall head home right away and bring it to the hotel.’

  ‘We are at the Le Meridien. We leave early morning so we don’t wish to bother you, but tonight is the only night we have.’

  ‘I understand. That won’t be a problem at all. I should be able to drop it at the hotel by midnight. Shall I leave it in your name?’

  ‘Yes, that would be perfect.’

  Godard had a beatific smile on his face by now and extended his hand warmly to Mohanty. Mohanty, moved by the gesture, kept a real brave face to not well up with a tear. It felt like he was shaking hands with a celestial power. He felt a warm rush of blood through his veins as his hand clasped Godard’s.

  His final words to Mohanty were in pure Victorian English, ‘Thank you and good night.’

  Mohanty saw Godard slowly walk back with Remi.

  That night, Mohanty went back to his home in Mandi House and turned it upside down. He remembered distinctly that he had Les Carabiniers among the eight films of Godard he had kept for himself when he shut down the store for the last time. These were the only films he wanted to retain for himself.

  Mohanty checked under the mattress, in his trunk, repeatedly swept the floor under the bed and went through all the smelly leather bags he had, which contained old records of his customers from the store. He had them all except those of the clearance sale. Did someone flick that DVD from under his nose? Or did he end up mixing the DVDs with someone else? It was impossible to track who might have taken that DVD now.

  He sat in the middle of his room and contemplated a thousand ways in which he could source Les Carabiniers this night for Godard. There was no way out. He was crestfallen.

  As the night wore on, Mohanty felt worse about letting down the great Jean-Luc Godard of all people. Imagine, the one person who had such an influence on his life over the last ten years, and whose films he revered like a disciple, was waiting in a room in central Delhi upon Mohanty’s given word.

  Mohanty’s whole life flashed before his eyes. By all accounts, it was a decent life but maybe he had outlived his time. Could he wake up the next morning, thinking that he had nothing to show for ten years in the profession of admiring the magic of films? Tonight’s failure was an indisputable sign that this life was not worth living any more.

  An inconsolable Mohanty went back to the metro station and threw himself under the last train to Dwarka.

  Meanwhile, back at the Le Meridien, Godard, old as he was, spoke cheerily with Remi in French as they dressed for the night, like only father and son can.

  Remi was clenching his stomach in a sudden fit of laughter, ‘These Indians, such naïve hero-worshippers. They will believe anything. But, father, haven’t I told you before that you look like Godard?’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ said the father, Pierre Lacour.

  ‘This guy was the absolute pits. How idiotic can the fanatics of filmdom be?’

  ‘Don’t delay the gag, though. Once he comes to the hotel, buy him a warm drink and maybe even get him a room here. He deserves a good night’s sleep,’ said Pierre before slipping himself underneath the comfortable satin sheets.

  Most of my education around film classics and world cinema is thanks to a store called Habitat Music and Movies on Church Street in Bengaluru. It housed an enviable collection of DVDs that had some unique labelling such as ‘Limelight’ and ‘Limelight Plus’ and ‘On Request’. The last was seldom on display and made available only for customers who requested the specific title. Back then in 2008, I would rent a film a day from the store. I left the city in 2009 and returned in 2012. By then, Habitat had shut down. My current DVD dig is ‘Once More Video’ in Indiranagar, whose owner tells me, ‘Not only do they not make movies like they did before, they don’t even rent DVDs like they used to.’

  I would be surprised if the store is still around by the time this book releases. But if it is, do look it up. You will find a genial man, only too happy to help you with a recommendation.

  Run, Zelda, Run

  Every year hundreds of runners descend in New Delhi from around the world to participate in the New Delhi Half Marathon. Scores of such visitors stay at the Le Meridien near Connaught Place. Some would be serious runners trying to better their time, while others hoped to check a box of having finished a half marathon.

  Ravin Chatterjee had been with the Le Meridien for close to a decade, ever since he joined work after completing his master’s in hotel management from IHM, New Delhi. So much had changed in these ten years. In these years, Ravin went from having a thick mop of hair to what could now be described as a steadily receding hairline. His friends from that batch who had joined the Le Meridien had all moved on, but every year he saw those familiar faces that came to the hotel during the week leading up to the half marathon.

  There was that elegant oriental lady who never spoke a word and simply handed over her passport. She had affectionate eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. Her lithe body spoke volumes about what a fantastic runner she might have been. Then there was a French father-son duo. The father, who bore an uncanny resemblance to French film-maker Godard, was perhaps in New Delhi every year only to accompany his son who looked like the runner of the two. These were the ones Ravin was accustomed to seeing since 2007. Acknowledging them with a warm twinkling smile only added to the charm of working in a world-class hotel like the Le Meridien.

  And then there were the new ones who came every single year, with whom one ends up having benign small talk, like Ravin did with that leggy blonde who sauntered in with the air of a princess.

  ‘Are you here for the half marathon?’ Ravin prodded, tucking his belly in at the same time in an attempt to appear fitter than he was.

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ Zelda replied with a Russian accent, handing over her passport. Her immaculate hair and her thick eyelashes were thorough distractions, but Ravin was an equally thorough professional.

  ‘Good luck for the run,’ he said and simultaneously sighed from within. Her face had a glow that was unreal. Involuntarily, when he stole a glance at her body, he wondered if she was a ballerina.

  It was just another day in the office for Ravin. Pretty women walked into his hotel all the time, but Zelda had something about her that made him want to continue the conversation. Except that the check-in was all done and Zelda was set to head to her room.

  She shot back a question at Ravin as she collected her passport, ‘Are you running too?’

  ‘Yeah, I am.’ It was the most ordinary question, and yet Ravin felt like he was getting hot under his collar. He didn’t want to continue this conversation.

  ‘What are you shooting for?’r />
  Runners and their timings were inseparable but Ravin had only registered because there was a special price for Le Meridien employees to register for the run and the entire staff had signed up. Most of them had even set a target time for themselves. His boss, Kunal Tarapore, was going for an hour and forty-five minutes. ‘My aim is the Boston Marathon in 2020,’ he had told Ravin.

  Ravin didn’t understand the fascination serious runners had to improve their timings, but he knew that running a half-marathon under two hours was an incredible feat for amateur runners. Though that would be a real stretch for a non-serious runner like Ravin, he didn’t want to come across as a complete novice in front of Zelda. He went with a safe estimate.

  ‘Two hours and thirty minutes, I guess,’ he mumbled.

  Zelda was surprised. Ravin was a lean, well-built man. Most men she knew back in Russia of Ravin’s frame comfortably finished a half-marathon in under two hours.

  ‘You can do better than that,’ she told Ravin. ‘In fact, I could see you doing it in under two hours with three months of training.’ The way she said it reflected a certain interest that she perhaps didn’t express with everyone, but Ravin chose to ignore it.

  ‘I am a newbie runner. I am going with low benchmarks.’

  ‘Your low benchmark should be 2.15. Not a minute more. Trust me.’

  ‘How can you be so confident?’

  ‘I am a certified RunTracker coach. I train amateur athletes back in Moscow.’

  Ravin felt the degrees of separation between him and Zelda diminish. RunTracker, that popular GPS-enabled running app that runners around the world used to train, was nestled in Ravin’s phone too.

  ‘Wow. That’s amazing. I use RunTracker too. But I guess that’s where the similarity ends. What are you gunning for?’

  ‘An hour and twenty. Or thereabouts.’

  Ravin was stunned. By every measure, Zelda, for someone in her early thirties as attested by her passport, was a fit woman. She stood tall and straight and her lean arms and legs indicated a certain competency but an hour and twenty was a ridiculous time to finish a half marathon.