IFFI

Walking along newly cobbled,
Luxuriously broad sidewalks,
Lined with gardens and fairy lights,
The gentle lap of the Mandovi (river),
Interrupted, only by a tiny gush of sewage through a storm drain.
Three girls on a parapet,
Admiring the moon.
“Move off” this is a ‘no smoking’ zone, commanded the security,
threateningly waving his long wooden batten.
The streets, filled with the sounds of people,
Strolling by in masses.
Stopping to hear the Gazals and Hindi film music,
Admiring the props and the artificial Tulas,
Gazing at paintings in makeshift art galleries,
Buying Bacardi Breeze and
Hankering over the price of handicrafts.
Old arches, solid lime walls and worn out steps,
All painted and new. Yellow on yellow.
Orchids and glass fronts,
Film posters and neon lights,
The false voice of a singer and the fake twang of the MC.
A flashy red lancer displayed as a prize,
Chief Minister Parrikar discussing unimportant issues
And Francis D’Souza, unrecognized, unaccompanied,
Self consciously walks by.
On smooth floors, thro’ dark corridors
And chilly theaters,
After a hard days work,
I’m staring at the giant screen in front,
trying to make sense of ‘the missing’.
Acquaintances greet each other warmly,
Smart executives, traditional house wife’s, smart ass youth,
College kids, children on a leash, unknown directors and producers,
Rub shoulders.
“I wish I could be one of them, even for a day” says Shreta.
“you are one of them. Faceless in a crowd” I say.
Saris strung high,
Fly hither titter in the tangy breeze,
Thousands of people stomping on the beach,
A giant screen shows “Mission Impossible”
And no one cares to understand a word.
Vehicles zooming by,
unfamiliar faces poke out of car windows,
Kala Academy?
Miramar?
The place swarming with cops
And the CRPF with sten guns.
Chokker Bali, Vanity Fair and The Motorcycle Diaries,
All under one roof.
Lad-ies and gentle-men,
Put you-r hand-s to-gether and wel-c-o-m-e
The 35th International Film Festival Of India Goa 2-0-0-4
Being held from the 20th of November to 9th December.
Let your body swing to the vibrations of con-sume-rism,
Let your feet tap to the jingle of cap-ital-ism,
Fine tune your tastes to cultural imperialism,
And finally a big welcome to all of you, to the land of
Lulled social consciousness.

-written on-
3/12/04
6.55 a.m