When I reach the TAC office, the entrance is still bolted from the inside. I slide my hand through the white rods of the little gate and open it. Sunlight streams through a large tree, creating dappled leaf-shaped shadows on the stone verandah that leads into the office. The wooden front door is slightly ajar.
When the development team reaches, a few minutes later, we set up the studio for a short meditation. Flat grey floor cushions lined on one side of the room. We queue some instrumental music on the speakers and draw the blinds. The room is cool, calming. Someone decides to lead, takes us through initial breathing exercises. The music washes over me,
At around 10.30, more people trickle in, and the space begins to fizz with energy. Some head to the kitchen where Raghu, our ever-present kitchen-head, chatters while whipping out quick cups of black coffee and tea. The people who came early to meditate carry the big communal table back into the space. We’d put it outside the evening before to make space for some Film Workshop acting exercises. I settle in a chair, my favourite patterned cushion behind me, and pull out my computer, pens, notepad. The table’s unpolished wood under my forearms is warm. I can’t help wondering how much this work surface must have witnessed—years of conversations over lunch, the first sparks of a tv show, film or other media that the world now has access to, actors in their very first workshops as they discover secret, beautiful aspects of who they are that they didn’t know existed.
The work begins in earnest.The editors head into the always cold edit room. Across from the acting studio, there’s a meeting about the Puma shoot tomorrow. The Art Director, Assistant Director and administrative staff talk about the set. Once they’ve reviewed their shoot roles, the discussion shifts to their in-house short film. The script about the young girl trying out a plethora of strange jobs before she finds the perfect one, is all ready. They story-board, discussing the shots they want. Still sitting on the floor cushions in a corner of the studio, the development team plans for their next workshop–looking for scene options, discussing the exercises they can use to best connect with participants. Sometimes they stop, throw questions at others in the room; they verify the number of sign-ups they have with the admin staff; they ask me about the structure of dialogue. And I–a writer–do the best I can to help, before turning back to the team focused on writing. We painstakingly comb through research on underground mafia groups in UP, and social media trends that affect sibling rivalries. We frantically edit old scenes, laugh to ourselves as we draft little pieces of comedy.
When the cat from outside wanders in with her litter, and rubs against my legs, begging for cuddles, I decide to take a short break. Some office staff and I play with them for a few minutes, before I return to my computer. As I type, the smallest kitten curls into my lap. The warm weight is calming, and grounds me, among the midst of buzzing activity around me.
At around two, Raghu shoos everyone off the community table and brings out lunch. It’s a lively affair – everybody, bosses, employees, interns trickle towards the food. People eat quickly and quietly if they have a busy day. Others take the time to linger and talk a little.
‘By the way,’ says the co-founder Akhil during lunch. ‘A reminder for everyone. We’re going bowling today.’ There’s a resounding cheer. This is one of those monthly recreation days, when the whole office finishes up early for some special game or event. Last month we played cricket–the film team against the development team and writers.The time before that we watched a movie. Then there was a Christmas party complete with a karaoke machine and secret Santa… there’s something rejuvenating about it all. Yes, we work hard, but we’re also trying to nurture joy and friendship. So at around 5.30, the writers, editors, administrative staff and kitchen staff all crowd into the bowling alley near the office. About 30 percent of the office has never done this before, and a couple of people boast about being bowling veterans. When the game starts though, we cheer for everybody, root for everybody. And then play some arcade games with the enthusiasm of little children. It’s wonderful, silly and fun.
Of course, not every day is a game fest. But the days when we work late into the evening, when we sit in big office meetings trying to frantically finish projects, have their own special quality. Stimulating one another, knowing that as we work, we’re building both the collective and our own careers is heartening.
I go back to the empty office again in the evening. I can still hear the echo of conversation as I watch the setting sun throw long shafts of amber light onto the yellow floor. In the quiet dusky evening, the building seems to hold its breath–in anticipation of the next day, the work that’s queued to go public in a few hours. I grab the bag and pile of books I’d left in the corner and wave to Raghu who, also back at the office, sips tea quietly by himself. I can’t help feeling absurdly satisfied. I am a part of all this, a part of a group that makes stories, that incites feelings in people through those stories. I walk back out through the double doors and the whimsical little gate. And the space lies there, waiting for me, for everybody, to come back.
