In the year 2000, when I was in the second year of pursuing my BA English (Honours) degree at Miranda House, Delhi University, director Deepa Mehta was trying to make Water. The film, which dramatised the plight of widows at a Hindu temple in the 1930s, was scheduled to shoot in Varanasi but the Uttar Pradesh government claimed it was provoking civil disorder. There had been a riot on the sets, allegedly caused by protestors who claimed it was anti-Hindu.

At Miranda House, the conversation was rife about supporting Mehta’s right to shoot. A human chain was organised and students were encouraged to go. I remember asking few of the protesting girls, and my teachers, if Mehta was planning to donate the profits made by this movie to the widows still existing in Varanasi. And no one really knew or had an answer. And so, at the time, I felt no need to go and support this cause. I was looked at snidely, and my choice dismissed as one made by a dumb (a snap judgment that was based on my fondness for dressing up), frivolous, boy-crazy chick who knew no better.