Eight and a quarter shudders

It would seem that my life has been changing in more than one dimension.

One very important dimension would be the slow and creeping introduction of Bollywood in my life. This would mean that from the average interface of about one bollywood movie (read non art cinema) per year I am now indulging my cheaper instincts with one movie every three months. Shudder, shudder and shiver till you drop.

It all started when my sisters and cousins and all and sundry decided that we all needed to go watch a movie, as it would be oh so family building. I was informed that the name of the movie is “I hate love stories”. Of course, I, not knowing my adversary (read Bollywood) well, decided that it would be a bad romantic comedy with Sandra Bullock and Keavu Reeves. I was correctly immediately upon seeing the poster of the movie after the tickets had been purchased in copious quantities. Where art thou Sun Tzu when you are needed!

Last night, I was forced to enjoy another Bollywood creation. The movie was of course not worthy of a moments reflection, but what scared me, yes, scared, was the fact that I was actually going through an emotional experience during the movie. Yes. Shudder. Shudder. But, in my defense, I must declare that the emotional experience was not due to the contents of the movie, it was despite that. It was due to my actually being present in a cinema watching a Bollywood flick.

That I wanted to die for most of the two and a half hours would be stating the obvious. That I did not find anything of the least bit interest in the movie would also be stating the obvious. That I did not learn anything in the movie except that maybe there is a restaurant (caught as a backdrop) called Dickens Inn in London that might be a good haunt is also stating the obvious. That I imagined a pair of chopsticks and used them as weapons to end my pain would also be stating the obvious. That I cried a little at the depth of my predicament would not be stating the obvious, rather it would be a lie, as it did not happen.

I have always been very strongly effected by my environment. And I have also always been very critical of things. Kaboom. I realized that there was something wrong with modern cinemas. I realized that the one thing missing in modern cinemas. Vomit chutes. For the likes of me, to properly show our level of love and affection for the disgusting spectacles in front of us.

Mirza Ghalib in a poem had said that since Farhad needed a weapon to kill himself on finding out about the demise of Shireen his desire could not have been complete, and I for one am ashamed to look at myself in the basking glow of Ghalib’s keen perception of humanity. It would seem that my hatred for Bollywood and the experience that I underwent is corrupt and diluted. It is neither perfect, nor complete. Shudder, shudder, shudder, and a bit more of shuddering.

Worrying about this particular state of affairs I have since last night descended into a state of illness which includes an upset digestive system, shivering, and pain all over my body. I think this small token of forgiveness to the Gods of Aesthetics will help me recover my strength and perchance a bit of dignity. Perchance to dream.

PS – The fact that I have realized that I may be the fattest, most out of shape and most ugliest man in Dubai as of this moment could be one of the reasons for the extreme acridity of this report.

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