Coming of Age

Comedy is surely that genre of cinema that gets justice on the celluloid at the rate of noughts. Slapstick and sexual innuendoes may have found their footing with Indian directors but more often than not, its the wrong foot that they find themselves on. It was against my better judgement that I decided to put caution to winds and step out to sample the latest offering on the marquee. "Maalamal Weekly" seemed to lack the panache of "Herapheri", even if I was privy only to the rushes. No reveiews had yet sifted through to colour my vision but Paresh Rawal's "toothsome" antics sure didnt evoke memories of a certain "Baabu Bhaiyya" act. The fears of doom stood vindicated with the hall resembling the parliament ( minus the din ). Although the narrative on reel was far from riveting, it allowed my top floor to meander from the inane to a few real reflections. It was enlightening to hear guffaws from the odd corner strengthening my belief that "value for money" is a phrase whose realization is dependant more on the buying side of the transaction than the selling. Laughter muffled only by the need to breathe from certain sections at jokes that got pre-empted by my companions seemed like a statement on my sense of humour. A statement that seemed to say that I have gone bankrupt in that department. Expectations may be a statistical measure but she who keeps them low does get to laugh. The only smirk that I managed to sneak in was during the intermission when a collection of dumbfounded eyes ( I am sure the collection wasnt "odd") met me near the men's rest room. They were all glaring at a flashy red box that gave an impression of a fire extinguisher from the distance. Reasoning that a fire may not be in the offing considering the look was one of curiosity than panick, I decided to go ahead and add a couple to the bulging collection. The box in question turned out to be a condom vending machine. This was my first sighting of the contraption in India and it was no lesser exciting than sighting a lion in Kaziranga. Not because I cannot find a pack at the local medical shop, but because all that talk of safe sex seems to be percolating down to action too. Just makes me believe that it wont be far when a machine finds itself outside the ladies rest room too. Way to go.

A Sunday with Bachi and Fisi

"Cull ho na ho" blared the title of my favourite space of the Sunday Times. Indication enough that Bachi was in prime form again after a severe bout of mediocrity. Chics were never my plate of grub, notwithstanding the one that flu over the cuckoo's nest. An allusion to my cull-inary skills is enough to get the guillotine out of the bag and here was Ms Karkaria going legs and breasts after the next entry on the endangered species list. Jug's sermon on herbivorous diet felt like a decapitated rooster getting along with its early morning duties. While I was engrossed with paltry poultry issues, it was time for the Italian Fish to get me out of my doldrums. I dare not refer to the person in this country's driver seat as a member of the pisces family. The reference undubitably was to Fisi who sat at pole position in Malaysia this Sunday. Twas a revealation to see the underdog trash that "one race wonder" tag and take his toll on the Sepang highway. Things are back to their competitive best, be it getting the formula one title or getting the title formula right. All that matters.

INCHing towards a new-clear order

Dubya's jamboree to the land of elephants and rope tricks may have set a few tails wagging but those hackneyed details are best "left" unchronicled. For somebody who is credited with utterings that may let a thousand marines sail, it would be a travesty to find his way to these innards of inane ramblings. Sample this for starters and it would be just a single course fare that am going to dish out in reverence for the keeper of the free world.

"Terrorists are becoming stronger and resourceful and so are we, they are looking for new ways to inflict agony on our people and our country and so are we."

What garnered more space on our broadsheets and even more bytes in these spaces was the bill of fare laid out on his plate and palate. He sure pardons one turkey on "Thanksgiving" but the credence for him not getting "hen"pecked should go solely to Avian. Its disturbing to think that a call centre job might have exchanged hands during that public show of "affectation" he indulged in. Back stabbing and back slapping remain so congruous a pair of pastimes that making one from the other is better left to a more discerning eye. I managed to spend half a day's salary on a new joint called "INCH" but was as far from famishing as the distance that famous unit of distance suggests. Had trouble figuring out if the key to my suitcase was 119 or 611. Some numbers do make for fascinating tales. Its a prayer that the 14-8 division doesnt have an unforeseen fallout.