Chapter 24: Harsh

# Chapter 24: Harsh

## The Selection

The email arrived on January 14, 2027, at 2:17 PM: Makar Sankranti, the day of the kite festival, the day that Indore's sky filled with kites of every colour and every size, the sky becoming a fabric market's ceiling: red kites and green kites and orange kites and the tricolour kites that the patriotic kite-sellers sold for ₹20 and that the wind destroyed in eight minutes, the destruction, kite's destiny, the destiny of a thing made of paper and bamboo and thread that was sent into the sky to fight other things made of paper and bamboo and thread.

The email arrived on Megha's phone. The phone, in her kurta pocket while she stood on the terrace of her Vijay Nagar flat watching the kites with Sunanda: Sunanda who had come to the terrace with chai (not Harsh's chai; Sunanda's chai, which was over-sweet and under-cardamomed and which Megha drank without complaint because the chai was the roommate's offering and the offering was the love).

The phone vibrated. The vibration: the email notification — the notification that Megha almost ignored because the terrace was loud with kites and the neighbour's Bollywood playlist and the children from the ground floor shouting "Kai po che!" every time a kite was cut, the "Kai po che" being the Gujarati kite-cutting victory cry that had migrated to Indore's Sankranti the way all good phrases migrated: through proximity and enthusiasm.

She looked at the phone. She looked at the email.

From: [email protected] Subject: MIFF 2027. Selection Notification. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

She did not open the email. She held the phone. She held the phone and stared at the subject line; stared at the words that were either the best words or the worst words, the either — binary: selected or rejected. The binary, the artist's particular torture: the email that could contain the "yes" or the "no" and that you could not know which until you opened it and the opening was the risk and the risk was the moment.

Sunanda noticed. "Kya hua?"

"Film festival ka email aaya hai."

"Khol!"

"Dar lag raha hai."

I'm scared.

"Megha, khol. Kya hoga: haan ya na. Dono mein teri documentary toh bani hai. Bani hai ya nahi?"

Open it. What'll happen, yes or no. Either way, your documentary exists. It exists or not?

"Bani hai."

"Toh khol. Haan aaye ya na aaye — teri documentary hai. Tera kaam hai."

Then open it. Whether yes or no comes: it's your documentary. It's your work.

Sunanda's wisdom. The roommate's wisdom. The wisdom of a woman who worked in HR at an IT company and who understood rejection and acceptance with the professional's equanimity: *the outcome does not change the work. The work exists regardless of the outcome. The outcome is the world's opinion.

Megha opened the email.

Dear Ms. Megha Joshi,

We are pleased to inform you that your documentary film ICHHA DEEWAR (93 minutes) has been selected for the Official Selection of the 20th Mumbai International Film Festival (MIFF 2027), in the Indian Documentary Competition category.

The festival will be held from February 15-21, 2027, at the Films Division Complex, Mumbai.

Please confirm your participation by January 25, 2027.

Selected. The word; — the word (word). The word that the chit on the wall had wished for. The word that the yellow pushpin held. The word that the deewar had granted.

Megha screamed. She screamed on the terrace of her Vijay Nagar flat at 2:17 PM on Makar Sankranti while the kites fought above her and the neighbour's playlist played "Kal Ho Naa Ho" and the children shouted "Kai po che!" and Sunanda spilled the over-sweet chai on her own kurta in surprise.

"Kya? Kya hua?"

"Select ho gaya! MIFF mein select ho gaya! Mumbai International Film Festival! Official Selection! Indian Documentary Competition!"

The words tumbling, the words, the excitement's debris, the debris that the explosion of joy produced: fragments of the email, fragments of the subject line, fragments of the dream that had been submitted on December 4 and that had lived in the ₹2,500 submission fee and in the pirated Premiere Pro and in the borrowed Canon and in the ninety-three minutes that she had edited in forty-one nights after her IBN MP shifts.

Sunanda hugged her. The hug, which was the roommate's response, the response of a woman who had watched Megha edit at 1 AM and who had brought chai to the desk at 2 AM and who had listened to the same Brajesh audio clip forty times through the thin wall between their rooms and who understood, the way roommates understood, that this email was not just a festival selection but a life selection: you are selected. Not just the documentary. You. Your eye. Your ear. Your choice to walk into a chai shop on a September night and to stay.

"Harsh ko bataya?"

Have you told Harsh?

"Abhi bataati hoon."

She called Harsh. The call going through at 2:19 PM, the two minutes between the email and the call, the two minutes that the joy required for processing, the processing that was body's response: the scream, the hug, the spilled chai, and then the call. The call to the man whose shop was the documentary's subject and whose pour was the documentary's opening shot and whose father's voice was the documentary's first and last line.

"Harsh."

"Haan."

"Select ho gaya."

"Kya?"

"Documentary. ICHHA DEEWAR. Mumbai International Film Festival. Select ho gaya."

The silence on the phone. The silence, the stillness: Harsh's processing. Harsh's processing being slower than Megha's processing because Harsh's reference points were different: Megha understood what MIFF meant (the festival: one of Asia's oldest documentary festivals, the oldest meaning prestige, the prestige meaning career). Harsh did not understand what MIFF meant. Harsh understood the deewar. Harsh understood the chai. Harsh did not understand film festivals.

"Matlab: matlab log dekhenge?"

Meaning. People will see it?

"Haan. Mumbai mein. February mein. Film festival mein. Jury dekhegi. Audience dekhegi. Critics dekhenge. Sab dekhenge."

Yes. In Mumbai. In February. At the film festival. The jury will see it. The audience will see it. Critics will see it. Everyone will see it. The atta dust was fine and dry.

"Baba ki awaaz — Baba ki awaaz bhi sunenge?"

Baba's voice. They'll hear Baba's voice too?

"Haan. Baba ki awaaz; documentary ki pehli aur aakhri line hai."

Yes. Baba's voice is the documentary's first and last line.

The silence again. The silence, which was longer this time, the longer: emotion's depth, the depth that the emptiness measured: the deeper the emotion, the longer the silence. This silence being very deep. This silence being the depth of a man hearing that his father's voice would be played in a festival in Mumbai and that the festival would hear the voice and that the voice would say "Chai sunne ki cheez hai" and that the hearing would be the voice's survival, the survival beyond the room above the shop, beyond the Parkinson's, beyond the disease that was slowly taking the voice away.

"Megha."

"Haan."

"Teri ichha poori ho gayi."

Your wish has been granted.

"Haan."

"Deewar ne poori ki."

The wall granted it.

"Deewar ne. Aur. Aur tune."

The wall. And — and you.

"Maine kya kiya?"

What did I do?

"Chai banayi. Suni. Yahi toh kiya."

Made chai. Listened. That's what you did.

"Yahi toh karna tha."

That's what needed to be done.

---

She told Trivedi-ji the next morning. She told Trivedi-ji because Trivedi-ji was her boss and because the festival required her presence in Mumbai from February 14-21 and because the presence required leave and because leave required the boss's permission and because the boss's permission required the telling.

Trivedi-ji's office was on the third floor of IBN MP's building in Palasia, the building, which was a converted commercial complex that IBN MP rented for ₹3.5 lakh per month, the ₹3.5 lakh being the channel's largest expense after salaries, the expense: real estate's demand: media needed space, space needed money, money needed advertisers, advertisers needed viewership, viewership needed stories, stories needed journalists, journalists needed Megha.

"Trivedi-ji, ek baat karni thi."

"Bol."

"Meri documentary; ICHHA DEEWAR, Mumbai International Film Festival mein select ho gayi hai."

Trivedi-ji looked at her. The look that was . Producer's look, the look. The look that assessed: what does this mean for the channel? What does this mean for the journalist? What does this mean for me?

"Film festival."

"Haan. MIFF. Asia ka sabse purana documentary festival. February mein hai. Mumbai mein."

"Tune IBN MP ka naam use kiya hai?"

Did you use IBN MP's name?

"Nahi. Director mera naam hai. Producer. Producer koi nahi hai."

"Footage?"

"Personal camera pe shoot kiya. Keshav ka Canon."

"Company ka equipment nahi use kiya?"

You didn't use company equipment?

"Nahi."

The answer: the answer that Trivedi-ji needed, the answer that said: *this documentary was made outside the company. On personal time. With personal equipment. The company has no claim. The company has no liability. The company has no credit.

Trivedi-ji's face shifted. The shift: from assessment to, to something else. The something else being: respect. A respect that bosses showed when employees did something independently, the independence, thing that bosses officially encouraged and unofficially feared, the encouraging that was corporate policy and the fearing, which was the human reality: if she can do this on her own, she doesn't need me. If she doesn't need me, she might leave. If she leaves, who will do the 9:30 PM pre-weather slot?

"Badhai ho," Trivedi-ji said. Congratulations.

"Shukriya. Trivedi-ji, mujhe February mein ek hafte ki leave chahiye."

I need a week's leave in February.

"Leave. Ek hafte ki."

"Haan."

"Paid?"

"Unpaid bhi chalegi."

Unpaid is fine too.

"Nahi; paid leave milegi. Aur. Aur ek kaam kar."

No, you'll get paid leave. And; do one thing.

"Kya?"

"IBN MP ka ek small logo documentary ke credits mein daal de. 'With support from IBN Madhya Pradesh.' Bas."

Put a small IBN MP logo in the documentary credits. "With support from IBN Madhya Pradesh." That's all.

The negotiation. The negotiation, the producer's skill — the skill of a man who understood that the employee's achievement was also the company's opportunity, the opportunity: the documentary would be seen at MIFF, and the seeing would include the credits, and the credits could include IBN MP's name, and the name would be the company's presence at a national festival, and the presence cost nothing except one week of paid leave instead of unpaid.

Megha considered. She considered the trade: one week of paid leave (₹28,000/30 × 7 = ₹6,533) in exchange for a logo in the credits. The ₹6,533 being the trade's value. The value: fair. The trade, which was acceptable.

"Done," she said.

"Achha. Aur, Megha. "

"Haan?"

"Achha kaam kiya hai. Bahut achha."

You've done good work. Very good.

The praise. The praise from Trivedi-ji being rare. The rarity making the praise valuable, the value — inversely proportional to the frequency, the frequency, which was: Trivedi-ji praised approximately once per quarter, the quarterly praising, which was producer's economy, the economy of a man who understood that praise was currency and currency that was printed too often lost value.

---

She called Ranjit that evening. She called him because Ranjit was the co-author of The Wire article and because Ranjit was a Delhi journalist who knew Mumbai and who knew festivals and who would have advice.

"Ranjit-ji, MIFF mein select ho gaya."

"Main jaanta hoon. MIFF ne mujhe bhi email kiya — press accreditation ke liye.

I know. MIFF emailed me too — for press accreditation. I'll cover it.

"Aap cover karenge?"

"Haan. Aur; Megha. Ek baat sunle."

Yes. And. Megha, listen to one thing.

"Boliye."

"Festival mein, festival mein bahut log aayenge. Distributors aayenge. Producers aayenge. OTT platforms ke log aayenge. Netflix, Amazon, MUBI, sab ke representatives hote hain MIFF mein."

At the festival; many people will come. Distributors. Producers. OTT platform people. Netflix, Amazon, MUBI, all have representatives at MIFF.

"OTT?"

"Haan. Teri documentary: teri documentary agar achhi response leti hai, toh OTT platform pick kar sakta hai. National release. International release. Subtitles ke saath."

If your documentary gets a good response, an OTT platform could pick it up. National release. International release. With subtitles.

National. International. The words, scale's expansion: the words. The scale having expanded once already (from IBN MP to The Wire, from local to national). The scale now potentially expanding again (from national to international, from The Wire to Netflix, from the 5,10,000 article readers to the millions of OTT subscribers).

"Ranjit-ji, main toh; main toh bas ek story follow kar rahi thi."

I was just, I was just following a story.

"Yahi toh achhi baat hai. Tu story follow kar rahi thi. Story ne tujhe yahan tak laaya. Ab story aur aage jaayegi."

That's the good thing. You were following the story. The story brought you here. Now the story will go further.

The story going further. The story that had started on a September night in the sarafa bazaar and that had traveled through the gali and the shop and the wall and the train and the ocean and the editing room and the submission fee and the email and that was now going to Mumbai and possibly beyond Mumbai, possibly to the world.

The story, the story, the deewar's story. The deewar's story being: a man built a wall. People wrote wishes. The wishes were granted. The granting continued. The continuation, the story. The story never ending because the wishes never ended because the people never stopped wishing.

And now the story had a new wish, the wish: let the documentary be seen. Let the world see the wall. Let the world hear Brajesh's voice. Let the world see Santosh's face when the ocean appeared. Let the world see Pushpa in the magenta silk. Let the world see the pour: the eighteen-inch pour that caught the light like amber silk.

The wish, which was, the wish; on the wall. The wish — Megha's chit, pinned with a yellow pushpin, written in her journalist's handwriting, held by the sky-blue plywood board that Brajesh had installed in 2004 and that Harsh maintained daily and that was now holding the wish that would take the wall to the world.

The circle. The wall holding the wish that would show the wall to the world. The wall granting the wish that would make the wall known. The self-reference being the deewar's final trick: the trick of a wall that could grant its own survival by granting the wish of the woman who filmed it.

Harsh was right. The deewar granted wishes.

Even its own.