Wednesday, August 24, 2011 10:02 PM

Dev-D Dulhania Le Jayenge Or Kaun Kambaqt Bardash Karne Ke Liye Pita Hai…

We don’t care if Humpty Dumpty were gay or not. But we really care for the poor Devdas (poor as in ‘fellow’, not the anti-rich guy, coz his father had a 20 mile long balcony, a 30 mile long courtyard and many more things Bhansali could afford). We have shed gallons of tears for him, haven’t we? After getting fucked by Parvati he still had a sexy option to fall back upon, I mean millions of Indians can just die for that ‘dhak dhak’ woman, how can he ignore her? What the fuck was he doing with those bottles man?

Look at our Dev, Anurag played a completely unfair game with him. No Ash no Nene, firbhi, he didn’t give up. He showed his maturity, kicked those bottles and picked a frenchly leaner and thinner version of Chandramukhi (the only option), our very own Kalki. Well, Anurag knows the new age Indian youth has moved from voluptuous to more size zero fantasies, so our Dev is not that oppressed after all. ‘Jhankar Beats’ taught him a simple lesson: ‘Chandramukhi ho yaa paro ki fark paenda hai yaaro’ and believe me, he has never lost focus since then.

But I have this curious little feeling it’s not just that Devdas didn’t get the opportunity to watch ‘Jhankar Beats’ and fucked himself up. It was more than that historical impossibility. Did anybody care to clarify the content of those bottles? Well, Dev was drinking Vodka and Devdas, probably Whisky. And there lies the key. No wonder Devdas was screaming ‘kaun kambaqt bardash karne k liye pita hai?’ He just meant: bullshit all bardash-wardash, I drink because I just love it and I won’t leave it till I die. So, the moral of the booze is, I mean, the prose is whisky is any day sexier than Vodka. Whisky is a drink for which you can leave Madhuri Dixit. Whisky is a drink you can die for. So reconsider the ‘Genie in the bottle’ before you call Kashyap smarter than the melodramatic, extravagant Bhansali.

Thursday, August 11, 2011 1:07 AM


I broke my pen after scribbling his death sentence. Black ink stained my fingers, my skirt, my reading glass and the white paper that soaked the dark liquid like a gluttonous whore. I screamed and threw away the pen in fear, and out it went through my window. I picked a blotting paper that was lying close by, beneath my table; as if it was waiting for the day it would hear its calling. It rose to the occasion, and somehow managed to save not the whole ‘sentence’ but just a word, the name of the guilty. I felt like burning it to its end. I wished to bury it like it never existed. I thought I would cut it into a thousand pieces like the dead leaves of fall but I ended up crying for a long time holding it close to me. I loved it, I enveloved it.