The air was light and filled with the smell of wild roses. Two teenage girls with small bindis on their forehead had the same pinkish hue on their cheeks as the roses they were picking. The cinematographer went closer to take a close-up shot of their faces. It prompted a relay of giggles from the girls. My crew and I were on the last day of the shoot among high hills and dense clouds in Joshimath, a small town in Uttarakhand. After lunch, we packed up for the day and started climbing the insurmountable number of stairs that led us to the main road. Some of our crew members were complaining about the intense physical strain that this job demanded. As soon as we reached the main road we were greeted by an army officer.
Since the village was near an army base, we needed permission from the local officials to shoot aerial shots of the village and the chain of mountains. Our line producer had managed to get all the permits. I think that as a form of courtesy (mixed with the intrigue that the camera often evokes in people), the officer decided to meet the director.
The army man was tall with an impeccable posture. I don’t remember much about his features, but I did notice that throughout the conversation, his arms were either crossed or gently placed near his hips with his legs wide apart.
My boss and two other members of my crew greeted the officer with utmost formality. After pleasantries, my boss like every other time went on to explain the purpose of our visit: to make a documentary series on organic farming practices in the states of Uttar Pradesh and Uttarakhand. Any more detail might just cost me my job.
After a couple of nods and mandatory laughs, the officer presented a proposition to them. I was just across the road near our car with a bunch of my colleagues waiting rather patiently for the conversation to end. After a long day of work, everybody wanted to either lie down or have a long steaming bath. I wanted both.
“Why don’t you guys visit Badrinath? It’s only about 40 kms away. It’s a once in a lifetime experience,” said the officer with a huge grin on his face, probably proud of the suggestion, “I can pull some strings and get your crew an entry to the temple hassle-free.”
For the readers who do not know about Badrinath: It is a place of great significance for Hindus all over the world. A place of worship which is only open for four months for the pilgrims. Hindus come in great numbers to visit the temple. It is a once in a lifetime experience. But this experience could lead to a greater issue. This plan would mess with the airtight schedule that I had planned with meticulous detailing.
Since the proposition was in fact a good one, my boss had decided that we would be visiting Badrinath. Almost all the crew members grew excited since it mostly comprised practicing Hindus.
“Bhagwan ka bulawa aaya hain. God is calling out to us.”
I, on the other hand, went into a sort of panic – my palms suddenly felt sweaty, my breath quickened and different scenarios started running through my mind. I began re-planning the [week’s] schedule in my head, trying to find the best way to account for this unexpected departure from the plan.
“Okay so… if we decide to go to Badrinath, then we would have to postpone the recce and then the shoot, which means I have to stay an extra day. Or what if we skip the recce and start with the shoot the day after… then we would be able to complete the shoot within the schedule but the one time we did do that, it was a disaster.”
The laughs of the suddenly energized crew who were crying and complaining a few seconds ago, agitated me even more.
The conversation had finally ended and we all sat in our respective cars. My boss sat next to the driver’s seat while I sat just behind his seat. As soon as we boarded the cars, I leaned forward and started babbling, “Sir this is not a good idea. This is a disaster. And why do we need to travel to another place and waste a day? This doesn’t make sense sir. I did not plan this.”
With a calm and heavy voice, he said, “We’ll see what we’ll do. Calm down. I know what’s at stake,” and soon fell asleep. I leaned back and put on my headphones, still thinking about the decision he would take.
That day, while having our tea in a small shop with old wooden benches and the sweet smell of milk, I realized I may have overreacted to my anxious thoughts.
“I am sorry sir. It wasn’t my place to say these things. I am really sorry.” I said with remorse.
With a smile on his round face, he gently tapped my head. We continued to cautiously sip our hot tea, a relief in the cold. It was a little too sweet for my taste but that is the speciality of the hills.
“You need to let it go. You don’t have to do everything.” This phrase kept ringing in my ears. Something my boss had suggested to me a few times.
To let it go. First of all, I still don’t know what it entirely means. Secondly, the last time that I felt like I had let go, I was lying on the bed day in and out, binging on shows and had become numb to my surroundings. No exercise, irregular food habits and no hope had pushed me into a deep black hole of weight gain and subsequent PCOS or it could be vice-a-versa. It is safe to say that I had no clear ambitions.
Somehow during Pandemic when all of us faced a collective crisis of existentialism, I decided to convert my longtime hobby into my profession.
I still remember the first time I attended an online workshop for non-fiction writing. They had asked the participants to add our bios on a Google Docs page that everyone shared. Every time I would type “writer” near my name, my mind would reject it. I did not earn the title yet. How can I be a writer if I haven’t published anything? After much back and forth, writing and then deleting, I chose to write “wannabe writer”.
As Clarice Lispector wrote, “Writing is just one of the ways of failing”. Something that I was way too familiar with, so I never did put my hopes up.
Gradually, I started sharing this news with family and friends. I was again faced with the familiar expression of pity but somehow for the first time in the longest time encountered hope.
The closest ones came to my aid. A friend of mine made a short film with me and another one introduced me to my boss.
During the first couple of months of my job, I was in constant fear. What if they realize that I am a living hoax, a talentless, good-for-nothing pretender? I did not have room for failure. Soon, this job became my everything.
I spent countless nights researching, reading and writing. After a stomach infection, a UTI, a great number of fevers, sciatica, more than 20 outings, 300 interviews, a bunch of drafts, 2 panic attacks, and numerous 12+ hour shifts later we were ready with the scripts. I even added one more responsibility to my plate and became the Assistant Director of the project because who better to look out for the project than me?
Letting go meant letting go of control, of not constantly thinking about the next step. To let go meant being complacent with the choices I made and being at risk of ending up on the familiar path of indecision and failure.
After I came back from this trip, I realized that I never really enjoyed my trips. I always equated them to work. Always stayed a little too focused and on my toes trying to anticipate all the possible problems we could face. I had to bring out the best in me because who wants to see the worst in me? I had forgotten to enjoy the little things. I would chart out the schedules that were planned every second of the shoot. But during my shoots, I started to face the irrevocable nature of change. Every time when we went for a shoot, religiously something new would come up. Sometimes the characters were too shy to speak on the camera, or a rainstorm would delay plans, the research we did was not adequate enough or simply that the characters had changed their practicing styles. On a whim we had to find solutions and sometimes even new storylines.
To see my scripts and stories crumble apart made my head hurt. The imposter syndrome would suddenly make a comeback. Surprisingly though, whenever we’d let go of expectations, we’d find that the shoot transformed into something new. Sure, it wouldn’t always turn out better, but it would never turn out worse.
The constant need for change during production challenged me and, in fact, prompted me to give up control. Sharing rooms, sleeping on unfamiliar beds, eating new food, ending up in new locations, meeting familiar and unfamiliar faces, canceled shoots, and whatnot loosened my grip.
I always felt because of a failed initial career, I was lagging behind my peers- losing a race, so to speak. I felt as if I had no other option than to make a sprint for it.
Recently we were back for a shoot in the hills of Uttarakhand, at a place called Supi. Even though we were covered in padded jackets, somehow the cold managed to penetrate through the thick jackets and into the skin. There was constant cluttering of teeth and the sound of hands rubbing together. The strong winds froze my nose. Unexpectedly, silver specks of snow started falling from the heavy clouds floating above us. Tiny dots started appearing on our black or brown hairs. The frowns on our tired faces slowly converted into smiles. The phones started popping out of everyone’s pockets. Momentarily every one of us had forgotten about the bone-chilling cold. I tried to make some videos of me catching some snowflakes on my hands but failed miserably. A not-so-loud “cut” came out of our director’s mouth.
The host of the place came running towards us. With a huge grin on her flushed face she exclaimed, “You guys are so lucky. It usually never snows after January.”
It was a once in a lifetime experience and I wasn’t going to miss it. While documenting the lives of others I had forgotten to document mine. Even worse, I forgot to live my life.
The snowfall lasted for about an hour. I experienced it all. My phone was filled with hundreds of photos and videos of myself, my colleagues, the mountains, the fluffy dogs, the snow, and possibly everything that would make this memory last forever.
As the snowfall reached its end, I took a deep breath; a smell loaded with pine and musk that filled me with delight.