Four film-obsessed boys from Calcutta pledge to shoot a film, but never end up making any film throughout their lives.
It’s probably six in the morning, chilly and inching towards winter, a joy to be with the rising sun. For a moment, the Ganges shimmers in ripple-like gold and the Howrah Bridge literally lights up without needing darkness. Buses from Howrah have already started entering Calcutta, the first wave of workers and employees from nearby districts - Sealdah, Midnapore, Jhargram, Digha.
In a few hours, the political protests will rise up and a city of chaos will emerge, torn between ideologies. On public walls, there are angry messages scribbled in paint from hundreds of years ago; things from the Middle Ages, convictions about religion and the Earth still being flat.
This is the perfect time for the four of them to meet.
Each of them has reluctantly taken up a new job to save up for the camera. The cheapest kind will do, they will shoot a low-budget, independently made film and pass it around major film festivals, knock at the doors of Satyajit Ray, Mrinal Sen, Ritwik Ghatak if necessary. They will quote lines from directors they have come to adore, they will do everything to explain why they want to give up everything for this.
It’s still pretty cold, and each of them sits wrapped in a white shawl, drinking hot cups of ginger tea. Sleepy laborers and bus drivers sit around; serious talk about the first business of the day.
Newer and newer foreign and Indian films are being shown in the theatres nowadays; the Metro, the Star, the Vishvaroopa. That’s where all their money goes, the pocket money and most of what they earn. The oldest among them is the banker’s son. He is twenty three and always making notes.