Fresh out of film school - twenty, maybe twenty-one years old - I was offered something rare.
An assistant position with one of the few women film editors in Bollywood at the time.
Not video.
Film.
Actual reels.
Cutting on Steenbecks.
The real deal.
It would have paid almost nothing.
But it would have opened doors like nothing else.
I loved editing. I still do.
In college I had been told I could be phenomenal at it. I carried that sentence like a quiet medal inside my pocket.
That job could have set me on a very specific trajectory. I know how that world works.
I would have risen.
I would have built a name.
I did not take it.
Not because I couldn’t.
Not because I failed.
Not because I was afraid.
I didn’t take it because I was expecting my first child.
And I chose differently.
I sometimes wonder if, somewhere deep inside, my firstborn has carried a whisper of guilt about that. As if my not taking that opportunity was something done for him. As if he cost me something.
If so, I want that released.
That was my choice.
At that moment, my profession was not more important than my child. I had brought that child into this world. He had not asked to be born. The responsibility was mine.
Not to raise him in chaos.
Not to outsource the tenderness.
Not to build a life full of nannies, maids, and bickering while I chased a credit roll.
I wanted the world to feel beautiful to him.
Why would I not?
I chose teaching instead.
Not because it was safer.
Not because I loved it less.
But because it gave me time.
Editing in that world would have meant long hours in dark rooms, unpredictable schedules, nights that stretched into mornings. Film does not wait for school pickups. Deadlines do not pause for fevers.
Teaching gave me structure. Rhythm. Afternoons.
Summer holidays with my children.
The ability to be present not only for emergencies, but for ordinary days.
It allowed me time to be ambitious and available.
And that mattered more to me than the electric pull of deciding which frame stayed and which frame fell away, of shaping the emotions of an unseen audience.
As thrilling as that dark room can be, there was something far more alive in building sandcastles, wandering streets with two small boys beside me, watching them claim a park as their kingdom.
That was the edit I chose.
I had opportunities later to change that choice. I could have pivoted. Reentered. Reclaimed that path.
I didn’t.
And if I had to live this life again, I would make the same decision.
Without hesitation.
That does not mean I buried myself.
I built a film school. I created departments. I designed curriculum. I constructed programs from scratch. It stimulated me. It fulfilled me. It consumed my days in the best way.
I gave it my best.
I loved it.
I have often joked that teaching and editing are like a wife and a mistress. I love them both dearly. Teaching became the wife - the stable, respected, public commitment. Editing remained the mistress - the passion that still quickens something inside me.
When I left DA, I laughed that I could now return to my mistress.
I haven’t fully. Not yet.
I have dabbled more in recent years than I had in a long time. And yes - I still want to edit a feature film. I am not going to say if. I will say when.
And if that when never arrives in this lifetime, that will be alright too.
Because my choices were not accidents.
They were woven.
Responsibilities and desires are not enemies. They are interlaced threads.
Consciously and subconsciously, I have always tried to choose what benefits the whole.
We were never individuals orbiting separately.
We were a unit.
An ecosystem.
That ecosystem can change shape. It can morph.
The distances between us can expand and contract.
The amount of time we spend together may fluctuate.
But the pieces remain part of the same system.
Just as I held them fully when they were young - with my time, my energy, my presence - I believe they will not leave me out of their lives as they grow.
What that will look like, I do not know.
How involved will they want me to be?
How involved will I want to be?
I don’t know yet.
But I know this:
We have always moved as a unit.
Not fused.
Not dependent.
But connected.
That is not sacrifice.
That is design.
And I have no regrets.