Giri woke up with a start, the nightmare too real for comfort. The dream had chased him through his childhood, making him run to his mother every night. When he became a teenager, he learnt to deal with his fears, but that didn't make the nightmare any less...nightmarish.
Slowly, the fear of going to bed and see this sight made him delay his bedtime. Even as an adult, he found the nightmare disturbing, and the predictable repetitive imagery compounded the problem, making him feel stressed even during the day. He worked out, not so much to keep fit as to tire himself so that he could get dreamless sleep. He found only limited success in that.
And then, one day, he accidentally discovered that penning his fears gave him an outlet. Soon, the mere narration of facts as seen in the dreams gave way to adding some imaginative conversations, scenes and fleshing out of people so that it started sounding like a story! Every visual in the nightmare became an episode in itself as if it were happening in his life. Now he even longed to see the nightmares and willed himself to visualise whichever scene he wanted more details for. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes new images came up. At the end of six months, he realised he had written sizeable content to be published as a novel, maybe even as a series of books: one for each stage in his life. His life? What a strange thought. But it was like that. As if he had lived that life. As if it were an autobiography...
He chuckled, but felt uneasy all the same. He read and reread, adding a line here, a nuance there... Some scenes seemed different from what could have occurred. So he changed them. The plot was weak in places, but he was convinced that that is how it had to be.
The more he read, the more he was tempted to make it into a TV serial instead of a book or book series. And, to suit the current trend in serials, the end seemed nowhere in sight. Something eluded him... He didn't know how the story turned after one character was killed, just the way he saw it in his dreams.
Anyway, having come this far, he was bound to see the story reach a natural end...
He had no experience making a serial. He tried to identify some production houses. And though they claimed they liked his story, they wanted to make changes that went against the grain of the story.
"Why are you always so pensive these days?" asked Sumeer, his friend of several years.
Fearing he would be laughed at, Giri first evaded a direct reply. But it was hard to appear normal when his soul burned with the need to see the story of his dreams on screen. "I want to make a serial. I have a story almost ready... But I am not getting any producers... Those who will let me make it my way."
Sumeer raised an eyebrow and said, "Wow! You dark horse! Never told me you were a scriptwriter!"
"I am not! This is not some story off my head!" Giri exclaimed before he could stop himself. But when Sumeer pressed him to explain himself, he admitted reluctantly, "I have been having nightmares since I can remember. Variations of the same theme. Nearly the same people... So I thought I will convert it to a story."
Since Giri was reluctant to discuss it further, Sumeer let it go. But he was intrigued and asked to read the script. Giri was loathe to part with it and gave it only after extracting a promise from his friend that he would keep it safe and return it in one piece.
But his friend proved more resourceful than Giri gave him credit for. Sumeer spoke to a couple of his friends who had relatives with good financial strength. "One of them wants to meet you," he said unable to contain his excitement.
Giri's hopes rose, and he arrived at the office at appointed hour. He was ushered into the presence of an old man who assessed him critically. The old man, Radhakrishnan, gestured for Giri to sit down. "This story..." he said in a stern voice. "How did you happen to write this?"
Giri shrugged, feeling nervous under the probing gaze of the older man. "How are stories written?" he evaded a direct response, wisely abstaining from telling him about the dream.
"Have you personally met the people you have written about?" the man asked further.
Giri frowned and shook his head. "No sir... It is just pure imagination."
"Have you visited Tiruttani, or met anyone from there?"
Giri shook his head, his puzzled expression proof enough that he was telling the truth.
Radhakrishnan seemed to be appraising Giri and evaluating the veracity of his statement. "I will finance this," he said, his expression changing. "But you have to accept some changes."
Giri started getting up, but Radhakrishnan waved, gesturing for him to sit down. "You must give a correct picture," he said cryptically.
"How do you know this is not the correct picture?" Giri asked angrily. "And what do you mean by correct picture?" he looked at Radhakrishnan suspiciously.
Radhakrishnan pointed at the script, "You have written a biography."
Giri was shocked, as he remembered thinking of it as autobiography. "No! This is just my imagination."
Radhakrishnan shook his head. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he invited Giri home. Mystified, Giri accepted, wondering what revelation awaited him. Radhakrishnan lived in an imposing house. Giri was overawed by the sprawling grounds and the palatial house in the middle of the city. He climbed down the car and followed Radhakrishnan into his house.
A lady, definitely Radhakrishnan's wife, looked at the two of them in surprise. "Are you alright? How come you are home early?"
"Meet Giri, a promising scriptwriter... I brought him home so that he can hear the story of our marriage from you," Radhakrishnan smiled. Giri was baffled. "No... I..."
"Meet my wife Kala," Radhakrishnan cut in. Giri joined his hands to pay his respects. Kala responded in like but looked bemused. "Why are you bringing up that story now? I thought we had decided never to talk about it!"
"Yes, Kala. But you know what, he has already written about it," Radhakrishnan told his wife with surprising softness on his otherwise immobile face.
"What?!" Giri and Kala exclaimed in unison.
(Click here for Part II)
Slowly, the fear of going to bed and see this sight made him delay his bedtime. Even as an adult, he found the nightmare disturbing, and the predictable repetitive imagery compounded the problem, making him feel stressed even during the day. He worked out, not so much to keep fit as to tire himself so that he could get dreamless sleep. He found only limited success in that.
And then, one day, he accidentally discovered that penning his fears gave him an outlet. Soon, the mere narration of facts as seen in the dreams gave way to adding some imaginative conversations, scenes and fleshing out of people so that it started sounding like a story! Every visual in the nightmare became an episode in itself as if it were happening in his life. Now he even longed to see the nightmares and willed himself to visualise whichever scene he wanted more details for. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes new images came up. At the end of six months, he realised he had written sizeable content to be published as a novel, maybe even as a series of books: one for each stage in his life. His life? What a strange thought. But it was like that. As if he had lived that life. As if it were an autobiography...
He chuckled, but felt uneasy all the same. He read and reread, adding a line here, a nuance there... Some scenes seemed different from what could have occurred. So he changed them. The plot was weak in places, but he was convinced that that is how it had to be.
The more he read, the more he was tempted to make it into a TV serial instead of a book or book series. And, to suit the current trend in serials, the end seemed nowhere in sight. Something eluded him... He didn't know how the story turned after one character was killed, just the way he saw it in his dreams.
Anyway, having come this far, he was bound to see the story reach a natural end...
He had no experience making a serial. He tried to identify some production houses. And though they claimed they liked his story, they wanted to make changes that went against the grain of the story.
"Why are you always so pensive these days?" asked Sumeer, his friend of several years.
Fearing he would be laughed at, Giri first evaded a direct reply. But it was hard to appear normal when his soul burned with the need to see the story of his dreams on screen. "I want to make a serial. I have a story almost ready... But I am not getting any producers... Those who will let me make it my way."
Sumeer raised an eyebrow and said, "Wow! You dark horse! Never told me you were a scriptwriter!"
"I am not! This is not some story off my head!" Giri exclaimed before he could stop himself. But when Sumeer pressed him to explain himself, he admitted reluctantly, "I have been having nightmares since I can remember. Variations of the same theme. Nearly the same people... So I thought I will convert it to a story."
Since Giri was reluctant to discuss it further, Sumeer let it go. But he was intrigued and asked to read the script. Giri was loathe to part with it and gave it only after extracting a promise from his friend that he would keep it safe and return it in one piece.
But his friend proved more resourceful than Giri gave him credit for. Sumeer spoke to a couple of his friends who had relatives with good financial strength. "One of them wants to meet you," he said unable to contain his excitement.
Giri's hopes rose, and he arrived at the office at appointed hour. He was ushered into the presence of an old man who assessed him critically. The old man, Radhakrishnan, gestured for Giri to sit down. "This story..." he said in a stern voice. "How did you happen to write this?"
Giri shrugged, feeling nervous under the probing gaze of the older man. "How are stories written?" he evaded a direct response, wisely abstaining from telling him about the dream.
"Have you personally met the people you have written about?" the man asked further.
Giri frowned and shook his head. "No sir... It is just pure imagination."
"Have you visited Tiruttani, or met anyone from there?"
Giri shook his head, his puzzled expression proof enough that he was telling the truth.
Radhakrishnan seemed to be appraising Giri and evaluating the veracity of his statement. "I will finance this," he said, his expression changing. "But you have to accept some changes."
Giri started getting up, but Radhakrishnan waved, gesturing for him to sit down. "You must give a correct picture," he said cryptically.
"How do you know this is not the correct picture?" Giri asked angrily. "And what do you mean by correct picture?" he looked at Radhakrishnan suspiciously.
Radhakrishnan pointed at the script, "You have written a biography."
Giri was shocked, as he remembered thinking of it as autobiography. "No! This is just my imagination."
Radhakrishnan shook his head. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he invited Giri home. Mystified, Giri accepted, wondering what revelation awaited him. Radhakrishnan lived in an imposing house. Giri was overawed by the sprawling grounds and the palatial house in the middle of the city. He climbed down the car and followed Radhakrishnan into his house.
A lady, definitely Radhakrishnan's wife, looked at the two of them in surprise. "Are you alright? How come you are home early?"
"Meet Giri, a promising scriptwriter... I brought him home so that he can hear the story of our marriage from you," Radhakrishnan smiled. Giri was baffled. "No... I..."
"Meet my wife Kala," Radhakrishnan cut in. Giri joined his hands to pay his respects. Kala responded in like but looked bemused. "Why are you bringing up that story now? I thought we had decided never to talk about it!"
"Yes, Kala. But you know what, he has already written about it," Radhakrishnan told his wife with surprising softness on his otherwise immobile face.
"What?!" Giri and Kala exclaimed in unison.
(Click here for Part II)
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