From an IFFIan.

          “I’m like a magnet for people who want to sit and chat. Listeners like me are hard to find.”

Shri Husband cleared his throat, indicating disagreement.

It’s true. Even at IFFI, where delegates/journalists/film-makers/hangers-on keep browsing through the catalogues like they’re doing a last-minute revision for an exam, I find that strangers’ tongues seem to loosen up in my presence, over over-priced chai-nashta. I lent a sympathetic ear to a Korean documentary-maker who wasn’t sure what her next theme/subject was going to be, a mother who was disappointed that her son had switched from law to photography and a mother-in-law who bemoaned how her sandwiched generation had to deal with binding traditional elders and rule-breaking, space-wanting youngsters.

Real vs reel life, on-and-off screen mazaa. 

I thought it (the loosening of tongues, not the mazaa) had something to do with where I sat --under a magnificent rain-tree canopy and what I consumed: the overpriced chai-nashta. So I changed places and walked across to the stalls on the Mandovi side of Bandodkar Marg, found the prices at the Food Village even higher, sulked back to the pavilion… and discovered that beer was cheaper than chai.

(Aside I said to Shri Husband: “Must acquire a taste for beer.” He hurrumphed in approval because he thought finally he’d get some company to ‘cheer’ with.)

          Those allowed inside the hallowed Inox compound declared their accessibility by wearing around their necks photo-ids attached to ribbons. The ribbon colour announced one’s status: yellow for the admin helpers, green for media, blue for season-delegate, dark crimson for the daily visitors, red (naturally) for VIPS.

Sitting on a tree stump, I realized the designer/carpenter who made it had a sadistic sense of humour. The seat was cut at an angle, so the buttocks kept sliding down. I had to press heels into the ground and depend on the knee-angle to not slip off. Watching others do the same brought on giggles.

But the prize for worst-designed furniture in the world must go to the bench-tables put outside the fancy-food stall. The three-seaters on either side were attached to the table on at hip level by metal bars. No entry for legs. To sit to eat, one had to 1) rest bum on seat, 2) draw feet up to waist level and tuck them close to body, 3) swing feet inwards and below table level 4) lower them to the ground. After the meal was over, reverse-asana-movement would get you out. A moment to deal with balance issues, and then you could stagger away. The more flexible customers sat cross-legged or in contorted postures that thrust their legs out to trip unsuspecting walkers-by. Some apologies, I noticed, led to instant acquaintanceship, especially when sitter and tripper were of opposite gender and in a lower-double-digit age-group. The senior citizenry sat on the stone parapets.

“What about the films you saw?” Shri Husband asked. “Tell me about them.”

“I’m coming to those,” I said. “Be patient.”

Then I showed him the papers I’d collected: the Daily, the Peacock, the Screen. The Incredible India brochures had pictures of tigers: in a couple of years, we’ll see them (tigers, not brochures) only in photos. Folk/classical dancers and secret royal recipes were promoted, but nada a word on IFFI, which attracts visitors from different states/countries. Some of these regular visitors have become queue friends.

          “Ah, queues,” I said to Shri Husband, “they’re an integral and not-to-be missed IFFI experience.”

“Films,” he muttered. “Saw any?”

I ignored his mumble and bashed on regardless: “I stood in queues for my card, for my kit, for booking tickets, for entering the theatre complex, for re-entering the theatre, for exiting the halls… it’s a democratic set-up, you can join any queue, any time. The best part is, some people don’t know which end of the queue to join. Others voice opinions that there should be separate queues for the silver-haired/ladies/Goans.”

“Good idea,” Shri Husband piped up. “Reservations within reservations, queues within queues, quotas within quotas.” Never know whether he’s serious/sarcastic. Sounded impressive, must use them (the phrases, not the allocations) sometime in my writing.

On the day a particular Marathi film was being screened, the CM was to be present. The queue-people were kept standing outside the building. No one knew when he’d arrive nor why it was important to keep them standing outside instead of waiting inside the theatre. The queues for two screens got mixed up. The ticketed and non-ticketed lines blended. Someone threatened to break the glass partition, a cop present on VIP duty said theatre security didn’t come under him… I rested against a wobbly bamboo support, assured that we truly are a tolerant nation. No stones were flung, no bones broken amidst the chaos and loud voices, no one threatened to leave the country, none choked when in unexpected togetherness everybody heaved, shoulder to shoulder, skin to skin, dupatta to sling-bag-handle, to enter. People have died for lesser causes, like fighting terrorists in Kupwara. Waiting for a VIP to arrive is a serious issue.

“Films,” interrupted Shri Husband. “Saw any?”

I recalled the ones I’d seen, from Spain, this year’s Country of Focus, brilliant ones from Indian states, in the categories ‘Cinema of the World’, ‘International Competition’, ‘Master Stroke’, ‘Kaliedoscope’, ‘First Cut’ and more. And realized that as an IFFIan, I’ve managed armchair travel, entered war zones and other centuries by commuting to Panaji for ten eventful days, got inside the minds and hearts of unusual people, met talented directors/actors/composers/writers.

I said to Bai Goanna: I’m thankful that IFFI’s in Goa. It triggered off a tirade of questions on government expenditure and knowing what’s good for us citizens. I’m still hearing her out. Like I said, listeners like me are hard to find.   

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