Whisky, Women and World

Chapter 3

I heard about the production house from a colleague and was intrigued by the opportunity they offered. As a writer, I always made sure I was up to date on any available opportunities in the industry, and this was certainly one I did not want to miss. After parking my car, I made my way to the production house to submit my work, or to discuss a story idea they had in mind.

Their office was located in a residential area. It was not very grand looking, but it had an old-fashioned charm. As I approached, I noticed a few young lads hanging around the garden. Inside the office, three more guys were sitting around an old wooden table, awaiting their turn. The walls were adorned with various antique paintings and photographs. There was a desk in the corner with books and paperwork scattered around it. A TV mounted at the top of the wall broadcast the live event of thousands of people marching joyfully in the streets, waving rainbow flags and proudly holding hands. The atmosphere was electric as the LGBTQ+ rally passed through the city. People of all ages, genders, and sexual orientations marched together, united in a common cause. The passion and energy was palpable as the crowd shouted chants of solidarity and celebration. Many people held signs saying "love is love" and "we are family". Smiles and laughter abounded as the crowd moved through the streets, united in their pride and joy.

The two guys next to me were in panic, their feet tapping against the floor and their eyes bulging with fear. I paid them no mind, instead turning away and taking out my draft from my bag. Although I felt their eyes on me, perhaps it was my age and grayed beard, so I ignored them. I ran my fingers over the dried ink on the paper. The delicate details I had so carefully crafted came to life at my touch. I found solace in my writing, even in the time of darkness. I reveled in the stories I wrote, even though I could never sell them. The draft was one of the stories I completed recently which talks about a judgmental society seen through the eyes of an innocent man. It is a world where people hate each other and give no love in return. It was a harsh and bitter reality, but I enjoyed bringing it to life.

A fiddle-footed man in his late fifties had a strange air of urgency about him as he quickly strode towards the office room. He stopped suddenly as he passed by me, giving me an unpleasant, piercing look through his rectangular framed glasses. My gaze shifted to his face as I noticed something peculiar—one of his thick gray mustache hairs had escaped its boundaries, curling outwards and touching his nostrils.

"Sir, why are you sitting here? Who let you in?" He asked me in a rushed, almost aggressive tone that instantly infuriated me. His words were clipped and hurried, as if he expected me to immediately understand the urgency of the situation.

"I came to meet the producer." I pointed my finger towards the office.

"Is the producer sir expecting your arrival?" He scrutinized me from head to toe as I stood there, searching for an answer. His stare was intense as he observed every inch of my being. I could feel his eyes absorbing every detail.

"No. I came to know that your production house is looking for a writer and I want to submit my script."

"The stories of the people waiting here have been shortlisted and awaiting final confirmation from the boss. You may place your manuscript or whatever you have at that table and we will contact you. You are not allowed to be here without an invitation." He looked me in the eyes as he tried to grab my hands in the middle of the sentence.

"I am no debut writer and my story was once made into a successful movie."

"Everyone here holds that badge of yours. Now please leave the place."

I scowled at the three guys, my nerves betraying me. I retorted, "You don't compare me to these kids. What do you write?... Your failed romance or a remake of a movie you watched last week?... Or those stupid films with irrelevant songs and dance?"

I yelled at the top of my lungs, pushing him away from me with all my might. He stumbled back, surprised and taken aback by my sudden outburst. I glared at him, not wanting him to come close.

"Sir, keep your voice down and leave the place." He put his hands up in the air, a sign of surrender, and said in a firm voice.

The guys waiting in the queue looked at me anxiously, their eyes full of anticipation. I could feel the tension in the air, and suddenly, a lean woman came out of the office room. Glancing around the room, she observed the scene before closing the door quietly.

"Sir, you need to leave now." The man whispered again.

As the years went by, rejection and humiliation became familiar companions in my life. With another load of disappointment and defeat weighing down on my shoulders, I turned away from yet another failed attempt. The scrutiny of judgmental eyes bore into me as I strode away with purpose. Hastily, I returned my draft to my bag and pushed away the guy approaching me at the entrance.

On my way to the office, I parked my car in front of a wine shop and rushed inside, pushing through the throng of people. I shouted for the cheapest bottle of whisky that cost a hundred rupees. The money slipped from my fingers as the bottle was placed in my palm. I fought my way through the crowd, tightly gripping the whisky bottle in my hand. A petty store at the entrance to the wine shop allowed me to buy a Pepsi bottle. I poured the bottle content onto the ground, filled the bottle with whisky, took a swig and started the engine.

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