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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"Were you at Baruah bor-deuta's place?"
Dikhou froze, one leg half raised to cross the threshold. His mother was sitting at the porch, gathering the rice stacks that were put out to dry. She was busy with her work and did not look up but he could sense her displeasure. "Yes," he said. "Aitaasked me to stay for lunch."
"Lunch was hours ago."
"I..." He sighed, unable to come up with an excuse. He wondered why he needed an excuse at all; his mother never disapproved of him going over to Nildeep Baruah's house. "I lost track of time."
His mother still did not look up. "And what about the cows?"
"I asked Milon to bring them."
"Well, I just saw Milon goofing around with his friends." She finally turned to him, her eyes sharp. "No cows."
Dikhou mentally cursed, her displeasure making sense now. It was so typical of Milon to forget important tasks. "I'm going," he cried, running back the way he came, out of the gate made of bamboos.
The grazing field was deserted except for their three cows. He went and untied the ropes from where they were attached to stakes buried into the ground. Uttering the familiar words to make them follow him, he tugged the cows out of the field and towards his house.
When he returned, his mother was no longer sitting outside. Lights poured out of the windows of the medium-sized brick house, its exterior walls painted a light blue that had dulled and greyed over the years.
Dikhou tied the cows in the byre, washed up and walked inside.
The drawing-room was small and mostly bare except for an old sofa set. There was a framed photo of Dikhou's father on a high shelf, with a garland of dried flowers around it. He was in his late thirties in that picture, with bright eyes and dark curly hair that resembled Dikhou's and a shy smile that didn't. On the wall opposite to it were framed certificates – awards and degrees earned by Dikhou and his sisters - and a picture of his eldest sister with her husband, taken on their wedding day.
Dikhou walked to the door on his left that led to the dining room.
Kopili was sitting there, at the table, with her head downcast. She was aptly reading from a notebook that had stick-figure-like numbers scribbled on it in pencil. Next to it, half a dozen thin notebooks were neatly stacked.
"Tea?" his mother asked when she saw him enter.
Dikhou nodded, taking a seat opposite his sister. The room, housing a dining table meant for six people, was too big for just the three of them. Its walls were bare except for a japi hung on one side. Next to it were three small framed photographs, each of Dikhou and his siblings; they were all kids there, with gaps in their teeth, silly hairstyles and unabashed glints in their eyes. A lone tubelight bathed the room in white, unflinching light.
