“Tell me again: why are we going to the City-You-Call-Bombay?” says Bins. “I’ve told you a dozen times already,” I say. “To spend some time with one of my favourite cousins. And maybe watch a film.” He nods sagely. “Ah yes! You told me about it. Something about a play someone wrote ... right?” Then he grins and admits that he remembers perfectly well. “It’s your play, Lights Out. Your friend Govind Nihalani has made a Marathi language film-adaption of the play.”

It’s a play I wrote in 1984. I was in Bombay at the time, living as a paying guest in Churchgate. A friend of mine witnessed a brutal gang rape from an apartment window. Even though she was some distance from it, she narrated the incident so vividly that I couldn’t get it out of my mind either. One thing led to another and, ultimately, I wrote a play based on what she told me.

“It’s interesting,” says Bins, “that so many years after you wrote the play, people want to perform it now.” It’s true that three different groups have been in touch, asking for performance rights. No doubt the renewed interest in the play is on account of the “rape-crisis” of recent years, in India. But Govind has, in fact, been keen on making a film based on the script from the first time he read it, 30 years ago. I’m very pleased that he’s finally succeeded.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” Bins wants to know.

“No,” I say. I’m guessing it’ll be quite different to the play. Not just because every performance of a script is different to the performances that went before it. But the medium of film has a way of transforming a written work into something quite different to what the author wrote.

“Oh dear,” says Bins. “Are you going to become all moody and artistic? What a bore!” He hates it when I show the slightest sign of “temperament”. He believes creative people are no different to trees or plants — “far inferior, actually, since you can’t produce even one leaf never mind a whole tree!” — so we have no right to be egotistical about our puny little efforts.

“You know perfectly well I’m not like that,” I say, starting to get annoyed. “La-la-la!” says Bins, “now it begins! Already I can see the tantrum building up!” He is SO irritating! “I never interfere in what a director does with my plays. That doesn’t mean I HAVE to like the result. Everyone thinks an author will instantly want her work to be made into a film. But it’s not true. Once a book or a story becomes a film, that’s what people remember — not the book or the story it’s based on!” Bins vehemently disagrees. “Anna Karenina!” he thunders. “The Lord of the Rings! And anyway, stop being so spoilt. Just be grateful that a famous director even wants to make a film of your work!”

At which I have to smile. He’s right and I AM grateful. “Even so I still might not like the film!” I say. “The right to disagree is sacred!” Bins waves his hands in the air like a conductor hushing the violins. “Enough,” he says.

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