That guy you bump into at the bar

I knew the late filmmaker Nishikant Kamat. What did I know about him? Nothing. How? Dont know.

Maybe the act of drinking itself features prominently in conversations with someone you only have a 'quasi drinking relationship' with. It's not a surprise that the last memory I have of filmmaker Nishikant Kamat is from bumping into him outside Bombay's Juhu Wala (long for JW) Marriott, waiting for the car, when he told me he'd been urgently summoned by actor Sanjay Dutt to get to his home for a drink.

"And, man, if he calls, you have to go," he mock-cribbed and flashed that characteristic grin—squaring his fingers to the size of booze Dutt pours into the glass: "There's no way you can say no." Dutt (aka Sanju/Baba) was working with Nishikant (Nishi, in short) on a script at the time. And why should scripts, that are essentially stories, not go well with alcohol?

I mean, what do drinking people (ideally) do, anyway? Drink. And talk. Essentially tell stories. Which is what Nishikant left for—to Pali Hill. And I would've ideally headed, since in the vicinity, to WTF in Versova.

WTF is WTF? As an ex-journalist turned screenwriter describes it: "Press Club of Bollywood!" It's a bar, whose patrons, mostly from the same profession, working as freelancers in films/TV/media, show scant respect for weekdays.

Given that it's in the part of Bombay with perhaps the highest concentration of workforce that doesn't usually have to show up to work early. This is among several reasons Bombay has pubs as intrinsic to its culture. Like with many migrant, night cities of the world. Unlike, say Delhi, which still pretty much decks up to go out chiefly over weekends.

And then there are some no-frills bars like WTF—with Zenzi in Bandra once having been the greatest of them all— that work on vibe to a point that its patrons, over time, become fellow drinkers—a minor sub-culture within what's already a niche of owls, that flock together at a watering hole every other night.

But why the same watering hole? Because each has grown to enjoy the expected. Being at WTF, for instance, is incomplete without spotting Nishikant, often by himself, standing at the far-corner behind the bar. And since fellowships progressively graduate towards randomness after the bar's closing time—it involves, for me, seeing Nishikant at a friend's living room, or another fellow-drinker's terrace, maybe at Wong's, the all-night bar in Juhu...

I would have seen him more than my closest friends who don't live in Bombay. Wondering now, what did we ever talk about? At least it helps to know someone by their profession.

Nishikant, that way, was an accomplished filmmaker, who instantly made a name for himself, particularly among film-buff crowds online, with his deeply enraged/antsy/cathartic Marathi debut Dombivli Fast (2005).

Which he phenomenally ramped up in size and scale with his A Wednesday version called Madaari (2016)—his last release, produced and performed by Irrfan. Nishikant was also as good an actor, if you observe him in Prawal Raman's under-rated 404 (2011), or as the antagonist in Vikramaditya Motwane's Bhavesh Joshi Superhero (2018), his last film.

Between Dombivli Fast and Madaari, and plus the dark, ensemble drama Mumbai Meri Jaan (2008), it seems Nishikant happily went from angry filmmaker to director-on-hire. Technically competent films from the latter are still watched more for stars and their antics in them—say Force (2011) with John Abraham—or they could be remakes, given Drishyam (2015). Lai Bhaari (2014) was a Marathi blockbuster attempt with Riteish Deshmukh in the movie and Salman Khan in the trailer.

"Just having fun ya," Nishikant said. But did we ever talk about any of this; what did we chat about… Honestly? Nothing. And there is nothing more rooted in the moment than people repeatedly unwinding, because tomorrow is another day.

Sometimes this unwinding itself carries on to the following day. Which one must be careful enough to put a check on. For, what good is an escape, when you begin to reside in it. Besides that it loses its comforting value, it causes unnecessary hurt/strain among loved ones who wonder—damn, what's going on with his life? Not worth it. Nishikant died of liver cirrhosis—it was only partly bad luck of the genetic draw.

Did he have wife, children; his parents around? I hear now that he played local cricket. Was a master batsman. And that he cooked like a dream. Okay. We also probably live in an age—of being self-centred and hyper-connected online at the same time—that we learn far more about people, once they're gone. Maybe that's the best purpose social-media serves still. Even if some are dying to be first with news of your death!

A quasi drinking relationship though exists in a higher but similar plain to strictly Facebook friendship—it's in the fluid in-between space of simultaneously being a complete stranger, gentle acquaintance, and warm buddy. Nishikant was like that to me.

I must be like that to so many. We may just never meet with a plan. Or ever again. But remain with each other—not as good or bad memories, just hazy memories. At a time of loss like this though, you just don't know what to make of it.

Mayank Shekhar attempts to make sense of mass culture. He tweets @mayankw14 Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com

The views expressed in this column are the individual's and don't represent those of the paper

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