I was sitting in the ticketing area of the Kerala film festival, a large space with a roof and no sides with rows of young people sitting behind computer screens on one side of the room when my friend walked in. He is one of those larger than life characters whose voice booms across the room, cutting through the desultory chatter of the people waiting for their cards to be processed. His long, curly black hair and big black eyes give him the look of an Indian guru, a term he would absolutely abhor. It was three o'clock in the afternoon and I'd been contending with crowds of pushing, shoving Indian people since ten thirty in the morning, trying to get a pass to the film festival.
"I'm mighty glad to see you" I said.
"What's happening? Why can't you get your pass?"
"I really don't know. I don't understand what's going on."
"Tell them you are a life long member of the British Communist Party!"
"Go on! You are a white woman. Push your way through," indicating a wall of people.
I pushed, and reached a desk where people were thrusting pieces of paper at a desperate young man. I held out my piece of paper. Bodies squashed against mine all round me in the stifling heat. Eventually the young man said something I didn't understand. My friend translated.
"There's a logistical problem with the printing press. They say come back tomorrow. Let's go to my club."
The club is an old colonial place, all polished teak, wide areas with old fashioned arm chairs, a super cooled restaurant where the food is very cheap.
After a snack we took a rikshaw through the winding leafy streets of Trivandrum in search of an alternative film festival, making repeated stops to ask directions, only to wind up back where we had started, right behind the club. The alternative film festival had a board to list the films showing over the next few days, no programme as such and a few alternative young people sporting beards and sitting behind a makeshift desk. No crowds. We registered and took our passes.
Much later that evening I got my pass to the main festival. So now I have two passes and because of my great age I can get into any film I want without having to queue.
"I'm mighty glad to see you" I said.
"What's happening? Why can't you get your pass?"
"I really don't know. I don't understand what's going on."
"Tell them you are a life long member of the British Communist Party!"
"Go on! You are a white woman. Push your way through," indicating a wall of people.
I pushed, and reached a desk where people were thrusting pieces of paper at a desperate young man. I held out my piece of paper. Bodies squashed against mine all round me in the stifling heat. Eventually the young man said something I didn't understand. My friend translated.
"There's a logistical problem with the printing press. They say come back tomorrow. Let's go to my club."
The club is an old colonial place, all polished teak, wide areas with old fashioned arm chairs, a super cooled restaurant where the food is very cheap.
After a snack we took a rikshaw through the winding leafy streets of Trivandrum in search of an alternative film festival, making repeated stops to ask directions, only to wind up back where we had started, right behind the club. The alternative film festival had a board to list the films showing over the next few days, no programme as such and a few alternative young people sporting beards and sitting behind a makeshift desk. No crowds. We registered and took our passes.
Much later that evening I got my pass to the main festival. So now I have two passes and because of my great age I can get into any film I want without having to queue.
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