Or just another Tuesday night in Bombay.

An upmarket Bandra drinkery the other night saw some filmmakers launch the Indian Independent Filmmakers Worldwide, a coalition dedicated to furthering the cause of independent filmamking.

Ketan Mehta and Sudhir Mishra, apparently be hosting the event, had called on Oscar-winning costumier Bhanu Athaiya and Naseeruddin Shah to declare the IIFW open. Ketan talked about how there are as many definitions of the word independent as there are minds, stating that this was not to be a society of exclusion but rather one aiming to accept and include all sorts. Mishra, eloquent as ever, talked about reaching out to young filmmakers and offering them 'the benefit of our collective experience, for whatever it's worth.'

Naseer was amused at Sudhir describing him as 'the mascot of Indian independent cinema.' 'I would have thought I'd more likely have been called 'the traitor who left good cinema' or something,' Naseer chuckled, only half-joking. He then brought about a note of caution to the proceedings, saying that while the IIFW coalition had its heart in place, it was too premature to celebrate ('althought we'll all get drunk tonight') lest the movement dwarf the filmmakers within. 'That's what we did last time.'

Then it was time, as Shah indicated, for the directors to get plastered. But not before the thermocol. The IIFW logo is a pair of colourful palms, spreadeagled. So a big white sheet that formed the stage backdrop became recipient to coloured hands from filmmakers of all sizes. From Sudhir to Vishal Bhardwaj, from Anurag Kashyap to, well, thanks to Vaastu Shastra director Sourabh Usha Narang knowing my first short film airs on NDTV this Sunday, to yours truly. (My bright palm-prints took unlikely pride of place, rubbing thumbs with Naseer's.)

And then came the alcohol. The music began to blare, trying justifiably hard at driving away soundbyte-hunting tv cameras, and the open bar did the trick, getting filmmakers sloshed with tremendous rapidity. They needed it after a showreel that featured a bit too much Urmila Matondkar and Mangal, Mangal to qualify as representative of independent cinema. But well, blast the labels. Willing PYTs draped themselves around cutting-edge directors (you do realise there are always fringe benefits, yes?) as the item-number crowd mingled, cool as ice, with the arthouse set.

What does the IIFW promise? Or, at the very least, dream of? Narang suggests we not be as cynical, at least not while launching into the initiative. It does aim at fostering creative discussion and collaboration, and hopes to make upper-echelon filmmakers accessible to the digicam-weilding newbies. And I agree when he says its very necessary to promote a spirit of community within Bollywood directors -- much needed indeed.

True, it's a tall order. Especially for a coalition with oxymora prevalent in its very name. Not to mention fragile egos that demand heirarchy. For now, let us truly set skepticism aside and hoep that this federation -- that aims to support every Indian filmmaker and those of Indian origin abroad -- gets off the ground running.

Finally, the crowd begins to thin. Young, one-time directors grimace and open their eyes wide in a soberising attempt, to face the world outside. Others, still grooving to the rhythm of Shakira, who was in town a couple nights ago, get their Blackberrys out to make plans to elongate the night. The DJ plays the last song, the bartendes make the last round a little bit stronger, to fortify their clients -- for the road, as they say.

And in the background stands the wall-of-fame, the thermocol sheet with painted evidence of the night, with vividly coloured hands splashily printed across. Wise fingers who have been responsible for some of India's finest cinema; newer fingers still getting a grip, all fingers hoping to revolutionise cinema. And all meshed together in democratic anarchy, free of labels or heirarchy. It's admittedly quite a sight.

Let us hope the IIFW flies high, and does what it has ambitiously set out to.
Else it's just a helluva hand job.