The story of me and my film column on our first anniversary
Frames and Flashes turns one today!
As I sit down to write this anniversary column, I feel a little like Konkona Sen Sharma in a Life in a Metro–meets–Luck By Chance-type scene. A blue sky and the Arabian Sea before me, breeze in my hair, the city bustling in the background and good company by my side to mull over moments and reflect upon the time that has gone by.
So come, bring a cup of Chai and sit with me. Be the Monty to my Shruti or the Vikram to my Sona. Look up at the skyline, breathe in the salty air and listen to my lore.
The first column I wrote for this space was a love note to Bangalore, the city I (reluctantly) call home. My brief, reflective piece was about the 2005 Kannada song Nee Amrithadhare. To put it mildly, I wrote about how watching Ramya and Dhyaan dance in the rain had convinced me that, despite its alienating ways, I was living in the city of love. I also wrote about how the movie had created quite a buzz, not least because Amitabh Bachchan had a cameo in it. In his limited screentime, he says this dialogue:
“Three days of a meaningful life is far greater than a hundred years of a meaningless existence.”
But what is a meaningful existence?
I have carried this question like a lump in my throat for most of my twenties. Somewhere in between reaching milestones and making mistakes, “life” in the conventional sense started happening to me much faster than I was prepared to understand it.
In 2023, I began working at a legal journalism platform. A good place. One that values rigour, imagination and craft. But for most of my first year, I was simply trying to stay afloat. I was learning to do things I had never done professionally before. I was attempting to handle adult money while desperately trying to speed my learning curve. I think I managed to achieve it, but I was stretching myself thin with hope and caffeine. I was surviving…chaotically and breathlessly, but still surviving.
My survival instinct softened a bit in 2024. The chaos found a rhythm. I wrote and edited with confidence, not fear. I walked into work looking not only to give, but to also be inspired by what I found. My days gathered predictability. But beneath this security of familiarity, the pursuit of meaning lingered. I was, all things considered, content. But I was not happy. It was like Javed Saab’s lyrics in Sapno Se Bhare Naina:
Sukh hai alag aur chain alag hai
Par jo yeh dekhe woh nain alag hai
Chain toh hai apna sukh hai paraaye
One day, I found myself sitting in a dark movie theater, wondering how I ended up here…on this side of the screen. How had I—the person who memorised dialogues and casually reenacted scenes at family gatherings—become just another watcher? How had I, the conjuror of stories, the director of plays and the queen of drama, abandoned my dream to be part of the movies, without even trying to claim it? How had sitting on a recliner chair in a popcorn-scented hall become my only connection to cinema? How?
But these questions often lead to meaningless spirals. Meaningless only because my need to live and survive was not tethered to these dreams. This acceptance was a hard one, for it made me feel like I never wanted it that badly in the first place. I had mentioned that I wanted to be connected to films in some way, write about them, at least. But I did nothing in service of those words. That’s not how dreams are dreamt, right? They must consume you whole. Mind, body and soul. Na neend, na chain. Even Dr. Kalam once said that a “dream is not that which you see while sleeping. It is something that does not let you sleep.”
By this measure, I seemed to be sleeping as adequately as the rest of my life allowed me to. Did this mean that I did not want it hard enough? To be connected to movies beyond the theatre seat?
My running thoughts at the time can be summed up by Sahir Ludhianvi Saab’s words in Main Zindagi Ka Saath Nibhata Chala Gaya: Jo mil gayaa usi ko muqaddar samajh liya…Jo kho gaya main usko bhulata chala gaya. I was grateful for a roof over my head and for the security of a consistent income. I suppose that was enough. Zinda thi yaar, kaafi thi….nai?
Nope. Nahi thi. I needed to do something more. Something different. I needed to stay connected to the screen and, through it, my life in a meaningful way. Acting seemed far-fetched, but I had gotten better at writing. I did, after all, do it for a living. So why not use some of this newly developing muscle memory to write about the things I loved?
On a late Saturday afternoon in March, I casually mentioned to my friend V that I was writing an essay about my favorite kisses in Bollywood. When he checked in on me in August, that essay was still incomplete.
Sigh.
But it is as SRK said: agar kisi cheez ko dil se chaho…toh puri kainaat usse tumse milane ki koshish mein lag jaati hai. As if to show me these words were real, V shared an Instagram post by a Magazine seeking submissions for essays on “Bollywood love stories.” The submission deadline was 30 August.
“Finish things,” he said to me, “you are already doing more than 99% of us if you simply finish things.”
His words moved me. I finished my essay the following weekend. It was the first piece of writing I had done because I wanted and not because I needed to. And I made the deadline. About a month later, I got an email saying my essay was selected!
In that moment, I was Will Smith at the end of The Pursuit of Happyness. I was elated. It felt like my dreams had learnt to fly. Javed Saab’s lyrics from Khaabon Ke Parinday best sum up my state of mind then:
Hawa mein beh rahi hai zindagi
Yeh hum se keh rahi hai zindagi:
O ho … ab toh joh bhi ho so ho
That email was my push to go on. It was my symbol, my sign. Everything. I was inspired enough to reach out to the curator of the magazine and the website it was hosted on to ask if she’d be interested in me writing more regularly for the site. Something about my interaction with her made me feel like her space was the one for my words. I was right.
We got on a call and brainstormed ideas. Finally, we both agreed to shape my words in a column. I deliberated on the name for days, but it was staring me in the face all along.
An imagery that has always fascinated me is how people who came close to death saw their life flash before them in frames, like a movie. I have always wondered how the human mind does that. And thus emerged Frames and Flashes.
In my introductory note, I wrote that this space was “my ode to the life that has made me feel and the cinema that has made me heal.” I meant it.
Since its inception, I have written about some parts of my life and some parts of movies.
For my first column, I wrote about the city I live in. This column seemed to resonate with people in ways I did not expect. Strangers and friends who I hadn’t spoken to in years responded to it with such admiration and love that I mustered up the courage to share it with Rahul Desai, my favourite film writer. He replied later that night with so much encouragement that I teared up. I remember gushing to V and telling him that my heart was full. I was happy that I got to share that moment with him. Happiness, after all, is only true when shared.
In the new year, I wrote about the year that went by. For Republic Day, I wrote about a scene from Swades that I admire deeply. A few months later, I wrote about two women on screen and how they have shaped many of my ways. More recently, I wrote about the feeling that is consuming my body and soul—unrequited love.
No, I did not write as often as I wanted to, but I found myself thinking about movies in ways I hadn’t before. Thanks to my column, a friend whose work as a dancer and writer I admire reached out to ask if I would write for her brilliant film and south-Asian culture page on Substack. For her dazzling newsletter, I wrote not one but two pieces about on-screen movement in Telugu cinema.
The many messages, stories, DMs and comments people left in support of my work have moved my heart beyond words. Through this column, I found joy and validation. I also began interacting more regularly with others who obsess about films like me. With this column, for the first time in a long time, I did something simply because it made me happy. As Aayan from Ae Dil Hai Mushkil would say: mera dil ka pet bhar gaya.
That to me feels like the beginning of a meaningful life. One where I am not just doing things I need to. One where the bare minimum no longer satisfies me. One where I am not just surviving, but living, bleeding and thriving.
I still have a long way to go. My writing needs significant improvement. As does my ability to notice things on and off screen with more care and wonder. I also need to write more regularly. I know. But I am confident that my craft will get better with time. So will my regularity. So stay tuned and continue to share your love and support because picture abhi baaki hai mere dost!
To V, who pushed me to do things for myself and whose love for words and sentences satiates my heart every day.
To Anushka, for the many patient conversations about films and feelings. The care with which she handles my pieces makes me feel valued and nurtured.
To my beloved Priyanka, Niyathi and Dhanisha, who are the first to read my good, bad and ugly drafts with honesty, selflessness and excitement.
To my dearest Sahana, whose love and awe for my words keep me smiling on bad days.
To all the friends and strangers who read what I write and engage with my work in tweets, DMs, comments and stories with tenderness and joy. I love you. You have moved me beyond verbal articulation. THANK YOU!
Spandana is the writer of the column Frames and Flashes, a space that explores films through personal experiences and unfulfilled fantasies.