That the camera still cannot capture the mind’s hidden secrets is great consolation and relief.
Living in a world being increasingly leached of secrets is painful. There is love, that which is fuelled by a chain reaction of the creation and discovery of secrets. There is surprise, that which derives its energy from the centrifugality of secrets. There are relationships which flower only outside the camera. There are stories that die when trapped on camera. The CCTV has turned people into nations, and our lives into instalments of surveillance. There is always the fear of slippage, of a hand moving to a neighbour’s collar, a word dropped without wooing consequence. And there is the fear of moving away from the linearity of sanctioned love, of waiting at roadsides to let love gather moss like it only can.
We are now scared of being lovers, at least on camera. The camera vetoes all other loves – only the legal, love by law, must be pampered. The other love stories gather in the dark room, where they are scanned and analysed for unconstitutionality.
To be a lover in the age of CCTV is to be a criminal.
Our contributors, Kaushik Barua in his short story, and Rony Nair, Namrata Pathak and Jyotirmoy Talukdar, in their poems, write about that love, their love crimes.