Went to the projection room to ask them to stop the screening. The dvd was getting stuck, it was pointless to watch. They were having tea. One of them offered me a biscuit and said that he had thought that i was a Bengali till then. Asked me where i was from. 'You came all the way from Kerala at this age to study?!' He exclaimed. When i said that there were no film schools in my place he pretended not to listen. Asked me if my parents were at home. If they called me regularly. Went on to say that he knew what the parents felt when their children were far away from home in their youth. His own son had gone to work somewhere and he was of my age. One night his wife had woken up with a start asking him to call the child and ask if he had taken the mosquitoe net. Such was their worry. 'You should start working after passing out' he said. The other man in the projection room intervened saying people from the institute made movies after passing out and not work. But my man was pretty confident. 'She is a good girl. She will start working and get married to a nice man'. Another biscuit came my way and tea offered. Declined. Made him happy saying 'zaroor'. At least for him my future is secure. A nice job and a nice husband.
Was amused to see that 'me' playing in his head for a while. Outside it was cold, my sleeveless sweater wasn't helping. Cycled back to hostel shivering and thinking of all the movies i will never make, the job and husband i will never have and the million dreams of all of us here about life and cinema. I think the fog here is not of the season. Its all our dreams hovering around, on parole from the prison of our minds. There they mate. When they go back into our heads they are not the same ones. Zygotes. Novel.