I just remembered my absolutely ouch! Irrfan moment, that makes me cringe each time I recall it. One of the relatively early big film programmes I curated was Made by Women, an international women's film festival, way back in 2004. We screened great films, mostly 35mm prints, directed by women filmmakers from all over the world. They ranged from Marziyeh Meshkiny's The Day I Became a Woman (Iran), Anne Fontaine's How I Killed My Father (France) to Ligy Pullappally's Sancharram (India) and Joan Gratz's Mona Lisa Descending a Staircase (animation, USA). We opened with Aparna Sen's beloved classic 36 Chowringhee Lane at the YB Chavan Centre (remember it?). Bishakha Datta, who heads Point of View, a non-profit that amplifies women's voices and had organised the event, was Festival Director.

Sen had flown in for the inauguration from Kolkata, ever elegant. Irfan Khan (the second 'r' hadn't rolled in yet) had very kindly agreed to be special guest at the inaugural. A huge crowd had turned up, and we let them in. My colleagues escorted Sen in, while I remained outside waiting for Irfan, who unfortunately had been held up in traffic, and arrived later than planned. When I escorted him in, the hall was pitch dark. I realised to my horror, that Sen had inaugurated the festival alone and, as the crowd had got restless, the screening had begun. Eeks! I apologised profusely to Irfan, and escorted him to the reserved VIP row, only to find that the enthu crowd had ripped the 'reserved' seat signs and occupied every seat in the house; many were even sitting in the aisles.