This story is about Venkat, an aspiring film maker. He was one of those who was longing for identity in the film industry. He was passionate, witty and straight-forward. He decided to make a short film that would set as good paradigm, if it comes good. I would plunge into his thoughts to make you clearer what he sets forth.
I believed that the short film I was going to make was very significant in my film career, and that Story should be the cornerstone of my films. Acknowledging my view points, First, I approached one of the eminent story writers, Parthasarathy, whom I adored and revered. I too stayed in the same apartment where he stayed. I went and met him, explained my plans of directing short film and expressed my obligation. He said, ‘Generally, People won’t give importance to stories even in full length films, ironically, why do you want it in short films’. ‘Because, I value stories’, I retorted. He evinced his agreement with his cheerful smile. ‘As you know, I have written numerous stories on assortment of topics. You can select it depending on your choice’. ‘Sir, I want a fresh one. I want my fellow viewers to experience the novelty in everything they see’, I blended my assertiveness with the obligation I made. He too agreed and said he needed three to four weeks to concoct.
Even though Parthasarathy was veteran, he was constantly updating me about the theme and progress of the story. I felt proud of myself for having associated with him in that project; I wanted to be circumspect as I didn’t want to misappropriate his humbleness. Days went by. My two weeks of reverie got over. I was expecting a call from the writer. Parthasarthy’s wife, Parvathy, called me and said, ‘He is not well, and we are taking him to his native; He wants to inform you’. More than my plans got shaken up, I felt worried for the gentle man. After a week, I was informed that the Parthasarathy died in his native, after the doctors failing to identify the dormant illness. All of his friends, associates, fellow readers were in deep bereavement. We cried for someone who had influenced our lives through his creative, expressive writing; the tears those were obscure but carried special meaning
I tried to come out of the shock, and I started to think of alternative plans. I called up my close friends, who were part of film crew. As they advised, we decided to adopt his existing writings. Personally, it was a forced compromise, nevertheless, I decided to work with fervent enthusiasm. Parvathy knocked my door. She brought bunch of papers and said, ‘This is the story you asked him to write’. I took the papers instantly and started to read. At the end of my reading, I found that the story was not complete. I evidently knew since the writer was giving the regular updates, and he had an ambitious plan of writing the climax out of the way. But the story that Parvathy gave me was ended abruptly. My friends advised me to accept the story and suggested that we could extend the story based on our line of thoughts. But, somehow, my conscience didn’t agree to that thought. I politely gave away the papers to Parvathy and declined the offer.
Next day, Parvathy called upon a few young writers, who had been working with Parthasarathy, to extend the story and demanded to write an appealing climax that would enamor the readers. Then, upon their completion, she took the completed story and informed the regular publishers, who obviously had great respect for Parthasarathy. But the story had been vehemently rejected by regular and many other publishers, and Parvathy was accused of dishonoring his husband. At last, after her impudent and desperate efforts, Parvathy could able to find a publisher, who was an unestablished and novice in publishing. The Publisher wanted to make a mark in the industry by publishing the writings of eminent writers and wanted to achieve fame apparently. Parvathy was elated that she would be able to make money out of nothing; otherwise, she would have discarded those valuable writings. Next day, Parvathy received a call from the publisher. The publisher said, ‘We lost a couple of pages. We are sorry’. She screamed, ‘I had only one copy’. The publisher made a false pretense and disconnected the call.
During those dramatic incidents happened, I was busy in preparing for the shoot, by adopting the famous story of Parthasarathy. Someone knocked my door. ‘Are you Venkat? I am Parthasarthy’s friend; this is the story Partha wrote in his death bed. He wanted me to deliver it to you. Unfortunately, I was held up in my village’. I took the story and read it till the end. I didn’t need any anecdotal evidence to prove that was the real offspring of Parthasarathy, as I felt the style and writing were so unique that only Parthasarathy could bring forth that kind of creative art. However, I didn’t understand why the writer didn’t give it to his wife, though I didn’t like to meddle into those affairs. To me, He was like an angel, delivered the message of GOD, and went away.
The eighty pages of the book were comprehended, understood, savored and recast into thirty minutes of short film taken in twenty four days. At the end of the shoot, I was not sure how others would like and embrace it, but, I was happy and satisfied.
