Junak Baruah wants to win the prestigious short film competition in his university. But with hundreds of participants and a stellar jury on board, winning means making a film that's never been made before.
And that means breaking the rules and taki...
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"Don't tell me you're an artist if you cannot take risks."
In his messy handwriting, Junak scribbled "take risks" on his notebook, at the centre of a blank page, and drew a rough circle around it.
"Show me something fresh, something original," the woman on his laptop screen continued, her eyes so sharp that it felt like Junak was there in the room with her, instead of a thousand miles away. "Do what no one's done before."
Junak continued to drag his pen over the circle, on and on, till the blue ink bled from the page and stained the ones lying beneath it.
"Take your leap of faith; that's what art is. That's the kind of art I want to see, the kind that the Jury will love."
Junak held his forehead with his free hand, feeling a headache tugging at the sides.
Risk.
Take risk.
What was that even supposed to mean? He took the class because he wanted proper guidance, not stupid metaphors about things he already knew.
When the woman went on about one of her students making a film by taking a literal leap of faith - off a high-rise building - Junak couldn't take it anymore. He took out the earbuds, pushed off the desk and walked out of his room.
The large house was deserted, except for the cook working in the kitchen. The whirring of the washing machine downstairs reminded him of their maid's presence as well but that was all. The rest of the house was a ghost town; cold, dark, silent.
Nodding to Tora, the middle-aged woman chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter while humming a song to herself, Junak went to the fridge and poured himself some grape juice out of a tetra pack. From the open window to his left, he could hear the whistle of their neighbour's pressure cooker, heard the clamour of construction work in the distance and the tireless cawing of crows.
"Bihu is almost here," Tora said without looking up from her work.
Junak nodded absently, his eyes on the bright blue sky outside. Behind the buildings jutting upwards, there were faint outlines of blue hills crowning the horizon. "When is it?"
Tora gasped at his sheer lack of knowledge. "Why, it's in a week!"
Her reaction did not bother Junak. "You'll be going back home?"
"Hmm." She nodded, then looked up at him. "And you? Will you be going to your grandparents' place?"
Junak had no idea why she bothered to ask when they both knew the answer. He shook his head, taking a sip of the drink. "I have a lot of work."
Tora nodded. "I'll ask Deepa to cover for me for the week."
"It's okay." Junak walked up to her, picked up a piece of carrot she was chopping and put it in his mouth. "It's Bihu. She should be having fun with her family. I'll manage to cook for a week."
Tora smiled, and Junak didn't miss the pity in her eyes - poor boy, all alone during Bihu. "I'll make pitha for you before I go."
Junak smiled despite himself. "The coconut ones!"
"Of course, I know which ones you like."
Picking up a handful of carrots, he skipped back into his room. The woman on the screen was talking about the rules of the competition.
Junak had read those so many times that he knew them to heart. He ignored her and fixed his gaze on the phrase TAKE RISKS etched on his notebook.
The Diamond Jury Awards was the biggest annual competition held in their university. The winner got the opportunity to work with big names in the industry. For struggling artists like himself, it was the golden ticket to set his career on the yellow road to success.
He needed to win.
But he had no idea how. Ever since he decided to pursue a full-time career as a writer-filmmaker, it was like some part of the artist in him had died. He was struggling in classes, struggling to come up with ideas that were original enough, bold enough... risky enough.
Coming from an upper middle-class family, spoon-fed with riches, a part of Junak feared he had never learned to take risks. An artist could dabble in fiction, yes, but at its heart, it had to come from a place of honesty. But what honesty did Junak have to offer? He had no struggles; he had no pain.
Except, of course, the whole deal with his family. And his sexuality. But those were clichés, really, and he was tired of the same old retellings of a queer kid unloved by his family -
The sound of drums broke through the air, pulling him out of his reverie. A few seconds later, the drumbeats settled into a rhythm and several other instruments joined in. A high pitch but melodious voice began accompanying it.
Junak knew that song.
Almost involuntarily, his feet led him to the large window and, peering down, he saw the source of the music. In the small playground in front of his house, a group of around ten kids were gathered. He recognised them as the children from a nearby school. They were in casual clothes - pants, skirts, t-shirts and hoodies; clearly, it was some form of rehearsal. Two of the boys held the dhool strapped in front of them that they were beating in an exciting tempo while the others danced.
A smile touched Junak's lips seemingly on its own.
In blue script, on white pages, I write you letters at midnight, the song went, in his mother tongue. The girls spun on their heels, moved their arms and wrists in a graceful, coordinated manner. He watched two of them looking at each other, giggling as they sang the song together - I saw you in my dream one night, darling, but woke up before I could reach out to hold you.
And just like that, an idea dawned on Junak. The intensity and the absurdity of it nearly knocked all breath out of him, and the excitement was more like the cold touch of dread than the joy of stumbling upon a new project.
Take risks. Be bold.
His hand shook as he brought it to his lips, heaving.
This was it.
It was a crazy idea, unimaginable almost, but goddamnit, it gripped every part of him and he jumped into action.
Discarding the cup of juice on his table, he picked up his phone.
"The fuck, Jun," came a slow drawl from the other end, clear that the person had been sleeping. "Don't you know what time it is here?"
"Niri," Junak breathed, the plan taking life in him, growing, growing, growing. This was it. This could work. This would work. "I got it."
"What?"
"An idea for the Diamond Jury."
There was a brief pause on the other end. When Niribili spoke again, all traces of sleep were gone. "Go on."
"Go wake your girlfriend and pack your bags," he said. "We're making sapphic bihu."
