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The one common refrain I hear from the people that regularly read my stories is that they didn’t see the end coming. That little sting in the tail that I consciously or sub consciously seem to conclude my tales with. This has never been a planned thing. Not at the beginning anyway. Yet, from way back when, I always seemed to enjoy those stories more where I could not predict the outcome. Perhaps at some point I decided that this would be the way my stories would operate too.

Recently I watched ‘Gosford Park’ the much feted 2001 film. Even as I enjoyed the excellent ensemble cast and the central mystery, my overriding feeling was one of disappointment. I guessed who’d done it in the whodunit well before the final reveal. More crushingly, I’d guessed the why as well. Maybe that was not the point of the film, yet I couldn’t help but feel a tad cheated.

Conversely, when I finally got to sit down and marathon watch series 1 of ‘Broadchurch’ , the superlative British drama broadcast on ITV, I had no idea who had committed the crime. The series was littered with red herrings. With a growing cloud of suspicion over nearly every central character, the sting in the tail turned out to be even more venomous along with a complete jaw dropper. Now that was satisfying.

If there are, as claimed, only 7 plot lines to work with, then it gets very challenging for a writer to create an unpredictable denouement. This is even tougher in a short story, as the length of the tale as well as the number of characters are limited. A master of the twist was O. Henry. Within that limited scope he created stories like ‘The Gift of the Magi’ (of a penurious couple that each sell something of great value to themselves, to buy something of value to the other with an ironic but happy end) or ‘The last leaf’ (in which a painting saves a life but also loses another). For many of us, these are school days fodder. Yet the skill that it takes to create an end that no one saw coming is often undervalued.

These days I frequently find myself labouring to create that twist. Why? Because along with everyone else, I seem to have fallen into the trap of believing that this is my USP (unique selling point). Yet, that goes against the very grain of what I started my writing trajectory with. I wanted, more than anything else, to enjoy the process. Success, praise, applause would be very welcome. Yet I refuse to let it become the fountain of my inspiration. Equally, to believe that each of my stories should deliver a shocker at the end is subscribing to someone else’s idea of what my work should be.

So, I have taken a step back, and allowed myself the luxury of letting the story grow organically. I am not trying to strait jacket my characters into behaving to a prescribed formula. If that means they still surprise you at the end, then happy days. If not, I still hope the story stands by itself and for itself.

As always, I remain open to criticism, ridicule and censure…..with a bit of a sting. 🙂

The temple attendant tut tuts his disapproval at my shorts and gives me a sarong to cover my immodesty. I am too awed by the ornate white structure in front of me to be embarrassed. I am standing in the presence of Wat Rong Khun (the White Temple) on the outskirts of Chiang Rai, Thailand.

Blindingly white in the afternoon sun, it reflects majestically in the lake that surrounds it. Yet upon closer inspection, there is something almost sinister in its aspect. Hundreds of sculptured hands that rise out of the ground beseechingly, some holding up skulls or pots, others curved in agony or torment, it is bafflingly malevolent. A path in the middle leads up towards the bridge, a large set of horns on either side, scimitar like, threatening to decapitate one at a moment’s notice. This strange and frightening welcome is further enhanced by the presence of two large gargoyle like creatures, frowning and pointing, swords at the ready.

With shaky hands I take a few photos, and pause for a moment to compose myself. A contingent of saffron clothed monks passes me by, and something of their calm reaches out to soothe me. I put the camera in my pocket cognisant of the no photography rule inside the temple, and follow them.

In the cool, hushed interior, all hubbub subsides, as locals and tourists examine the single, small room that comprises the ubosot, or the main temple. On the facing wall is a huge mural of the Buddha, serene in meditation. My jangled nerves are only momentarily calmed by this vision, as more perplexing murals adorning the other three walls swim into view. In particular the wall behind me. From Michael Jackson to Elvis Presley, from Hello Kitty to the Minions,from the airplane hit Twin Towers in New York to Neo from the Matrix, there is an assortment of Western characters, largely American, that seem to symbolise some kind of prevailing wickedness. On the side walls are murals of boats filled with people heading towards the Buddha. I can only surmise that this is a depiction of man’s journey from ignorance and greed towards enlightenment.

In a shadowy corner, a man sits quietly, paintbrush in hand, touching up a mural. Could this be Chalermchai Kositpipat, the famous Thai visual artist, and architect of this mystifying structure? I am too afraid to ask, and quietly make my exit.

As I walk around the grounds, still processing all that I have seen, I wander into the golden enclave of the museum. Here I chance upon a large statue of the Hindu deity Ganesh being carved. I watch fascinated as they labour over his trunk, carving intricate details into what will one day reside in the environs of this incredible structure.

Like the Sagrada Familia, this is a work in progress. Yet, it is Kositpipat’s vision, funds and determination that propels it forward. His own life, as much as this temple, is an extraordinary entreaty to mankind to shed their earthly ties, and move towards something that is far larger than themselves.

That is a lesson well worth imbibing.

The other day I sat with a friend discussing the merits of the latest Bond film, Spectre. She, being an enormous fan of the franchise, thought it was wonderful, exciting, adventurous, clever and fun, with fabulous locales, and the incomparably delicious Daniel Craig. I, on the other hand, was distinctly underwhelmed. Although, having always been aware of the tongue in cheek, wink wink nature of the Bond films, this time round I felt that belief had been stretched beyond the point of credulity. A villain that refused to perish, ladies, young and old, that swooned at one glance from Bond, and irrespective of the fantastic locations, a movie that lacked soul.

If I had to pick a franchise that still ticked the boxes for me, it would be the Mission Impossible one. The latest film: Rogue Nation had all the elements that had made the Bond films so beloved of so many generations of viewers. Topping those were a believable premise, an interesting hero, a kick ass heroine, amazing stunts and a villain who was scary enough, yet not unbelievably invincible.

Essentially though, both films were escapist fare.

Over the two decades that I have lived and worked in the West, I have constantly confronted the allegation that Indian films are just song and dance and hoopla. Boy meets girl. They fall in love and then over the course of three hours, multiple costume changes, and various kinds of obstacles to surmount, they finally get to their happily ever after. All loose ends are neatly tied up, and with (yet another) song on their lips, they dance into the sunset.

While not wholly unjustified, this widespread notion has completely sidelined the incredible films that came out of the stables of say, a Satyajit Ray, a Shyam Benegal, a Sai Paranjape, or a Mani Ratnam. Films that unflinchingly presented reality in all its grimness, its messiness, its mundaneness.

Yet the masses throng to the cinemas not for the latter, but for the former.

In every culture there exists some kind of escapist cinema. Something that allows us, just temporarily, to relegate to the background all our worries and heartaches. Why does Hollywood churn out multiple superhero films? Because the child in us wants to believe that this one person/super entity can be the solution to all our problems. Why do we admire a James Bond or an Ethan Hunt? Because they are the ‘good guys’- repositories of all our hopes and fears. In reality, there are no super heroes. Spies are not suave, Martini swilling gentlemen, but shadowy figures that in all probability do as much harm as good, pawns in a political game.

As for the eternal love story factory called Bollywood, the very same producers and directors that churn out these films are well aware that the headiness of falling in love and fighting for love is a brief moment in a lifetime likely to be peppered with disillusionment and disappointment. They capture it over and over on celluloid, in endless permutations, to let us relive that which may never ever happen to us again.

If life is a bitter pill to swallow, then movies such as these are the spoons full of sugar that we willingly ingest alongside. Let the cynics laugh. As long as celluloid dreams exist, we can live vicariously through our heroes and their adventures.

So whether it is a Bond seducing you on screen, an Ethan Hunt taking your breath away with his death defying stunts, or a Shah Rukh Khan beckoning you into his arms, let no man or woman come between you, and that which momentarily lets you escape a life where men are decapitated, women raped, children abducted, and you are powerless to do anything. If this momentary respite from reality lets you recharge enough to face another day without caving in to despair, so be it.

Long may the Dream merchants spin their webs of fantasy, and long may we stay in their thrall.