Archive | August, 2010

Lost Loves.

14 Aug

I am not, shall we say, circumspect in love. I fall hard, often, and stupid; and I try mask this with smirks and snark. I doubt I am ever successful. There is, for sure, a romantic bone, for I have all 206 of them. It must be a relief to the victims of my violent affections, thus, that I am only as ardent as I am fickle. But this post isn’t about my love life (I promise), which is booming and joyous, thank you for asking. I was explaining my OCD approach to love only in the service of the broader cause: why, unlike Konkona, I would’ve jumped Ranbir Kapoor approx. 206 times over the course of Wake Up, Sid. Well, if he weren’t such a dope and had a better sense of humour. Assuming, and it isn’t a far stretch, that I’m attracted to slacker types who find their inner genius by avoiding it, I would be incapable of keeping a game face on in the throes of early attraction, and this blog is the last place one need look to acquire some knowledge of shallow feelings. And he certainly wouldn’t clog my space were I not interested. Give me six months and a wet bathroom floor, and I have no problem keeping it in my pants. Which is why the chronology of Wake up, Sid perplexed me rather.

Before I watched the movie, I imagined that they dated somewhere along the way and then sensibly broke up: her moving on to the jazzy editor; him to the eccentric arms of a design intern or, in a fit of rare maturity, the pining friend. Where it lost me was the last mad dash of Epiphany Boy to Tell Drenched Girl. What, you have a Mac and no phone? However, I do have friends who blame the bombay monsoon for dispensing magic spells of romance, and I suppose they distilled a vial for the making of this movie. It isn’t the first time weather has had more agency in a script than both plot and character. Remember Tum Mile? As my friend Niru put it, it was so bad that you wished people would drown so you could leave the movie hall already (but Aisha was worse): well, Sid isn’t that awful, which is an achievement in Bollywood. And maybe a blues lovin’, hard drinkin’ journalist is waiting in the wings for when she gets a bit weary of the adolescent.

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