Sometimes, the lens view takes over real life.
A casual conversation suddenly hushes all ambient sounds. A random passerby looks at his watch in slow motion, the tick from minute-15 to minute-16 audible a mile away. A child’s white-knuckled grip on her mother’s shoulder more desperate, the otherwise infuriating honking joyously cacophonous, even the cemented grey of flyovers meaningfully gloomy.
The job behind the camera has shown me how exactly to achieve teemingness in a not-so-crowded street. How to capture the brightest festivity in a low-key celebration. I now see potential in every moment.
And add to that obsessive movie watching. Everything these days looks like a scene from a movie recently seen, or a dream dreamt with spectacular cinematography.
Which means, out of the job, I’m pretty much living in dramatized moments.
One such is the Sunday autorichshaw ride. All is quiet after the initial bargaining session. The put-put-put is all I can hear. And the flow of unfinished sounds from scenes that zip past. I consider closing my eyes.
“Madam, the perfume you’re wearing…. It’s very good.”
I’m jolted awake.
This is not the opening line of any of my auto-men conversations. Not weather, not traffic, not those damn politicians. He spoke about perfume. My perfume.
Before I figure out why I should feel a comment about my perfume is too personal, he adds to the discomfort.
“What message are you trying to give by wearing that perfume?”
There. His T-shirt turns redder, the put-put-put softens, the situation slows down. A lock of my hair flies slowly onto my face. It’s cinema time.
“Message?”
“Yes, don’t you think everyone has their own unique smell?”
This, he asks in perfect English.
Is he a man with no personal smell, but supreme olfactory senses? Is he on an autorickshaw ride in search of smells he wants to bottle?
“It’s a smell I like. So the message is only that I’m wearing something I like.”
“So, madam, it’s not for others?”
“No, definitely not. Why would you think it has a message for anyone?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t everyone do everything only for others these days?”
Pause. Pregnant.
“Madam, which part of South are you from?”
(How?! But yay, he knows there are 4 states and not just one idli-shaped island)
“Why are you so sure I’m from South India?”
“You called me ‘sir’,” he beams into the rear-view mirror.
Then there was mention of my grey hair, his laughing confession about his sham musical talent until he played the flute at his sister’s wedding. His probing questions about why I didn’t wear any symbol of wedlock. His knowing grin when I say, “Only if the aadmi will wear it too.” His sad definition of ambition as a fading dream. His rejection of associations with Delhi.
40 minutes later, he shakes my hand and appreciates the conversation.
“Aaj kal traffic ko gaali dene ke siva koi kya baath kartha hai?” (These days, who says anything but to curse the traffic?”)
He wasn’t a perfume bottler, but he owned every second of the 40-minute film.
The ambient noise returns.
