MY FIRST SHORT AND HOW WE MADE IT AND FAILED TERRIBLY!
Vaatsaru (2009)
” While in studying in the architectural school, I would occasionally stop by to buy some fruit and peanuts from an old lady that would sit on the side of the road. She had the cutest smile. As a college kid, I was always in a hurry and never got a chance to actually talk to her. But the wrinkles on her face had stories to tell. Stories of loss and pain. Of joys and wonderment. And just like that … one day she was gone. No one knew where to. We heard different stories from different people but never saw her again. I wrote this story keeping her in mind. Perhaps she was someone who kept moving on, from one place to the other, never settling and never getting attached; even to a place on the side of the street.This was my first endeavor as a writer – director. I recalled learning the poem ‘A solitary Reaper’ by William Wordsworth. A lonely woman singing to herself. That became the foundation for the story.
A story of longing and the constant motion in which the life keeps evolving. “
Starring Jyoti Subhash and Akshya Tankale.
Written and Directed by Prarthana Joshi.
Produced by Anurag Ramgopal, Upendra Degurkar, Shirish Sathye and Deepak Kulkarni.
Cinematography by Piyush Puty.
A short made in the true indie way
Briefly and concisely explain what you do for your audience.
My living room was production office
It is incredible when friends and family all lend in a hand in our first short film. That is truly a
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The Solitary Reaper
( My inspiration )
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.