the engineer.Mature

The son of a famous Indian director who makes cheap commercial films in Mumbai, escapes from his 'movie life' to become a civil engineer: so that he can make trains that travel for 600 km/hr without a stretch, soap that cleans the body using just waves, and many more practical inventions which are eventually ignored by the Indian public.

Tushar stands, surrounded by a period film.

His day is filled with astounding variety.

A number of mirror-like set pieces reflect his face. Two actresses are crying, the script just demands too much.

Morning: He’s traversing through the make-up that all his friends have to wear to keep doing one take after another.

Evening: He goes through the beautiful pieces of cardboard that Dad has selected.

Late night: Actresses learn to cry without needing crocodile tears.

Tushar stands, surrounded by action stunts.

Something explodes beneath his ear. Violently.

He can feel it wind through him and it’s like an arrow shot towards your body. Maybe it will hit you, maybe not. It’s a part of a set, it’s film-making. You’re your director’s son.

Maybe you’ll be killed one day. There is an arrow pointed at the apple on your head one day. Maybe not.

You read about it on IMDB when you were growing. Sons of famous directors who never amounted to anything. They died without notice. You’re one of them. You’ll die without notice – maybe even your father will.

One day Dad’s legacy will surround you like fucking rose thorns when you have learnt to walk all your life in rose parks.

Tushar stands, surrounded by an action thriller.

He’s just playing along with all these set pieces. All the extras, he’ll make friends with. There can’t be a real life here.

Then maybe, under his father’s tutelage, he’ll grow up to be a great Actor.

Tushar stands, surrounded by complete misdirection. He doesn’t know what to do with his life, while Dad runs between sets.

He hates what Dad directs. He hates it. It’s too sappy for his age. People on sets are already telling him, ‘Tushar, you should go and learn from other directors – just not from your father.’

He’s only 18. There’s so much time to grow. So much time to know and he already knows it all.

Actor uncles and actor aunties, trying to be familiar with him. Trying to patronize him. Tushar frowns under the limelight. One day, someone tells him that everyone’s nice to him because he’s the son of The Director.

Motherfucking pathetic films. Dad makes things that copy reality. Real life matters much more. Dad makes plastic. Dad makes loose change. Dad makes steady cash. Dad makes shit cinema. No one goes to them, anyway. Except villagers.

Tushar stands, surrounded by a revenge saga.





















 

The End

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