Subtle Subramanian - Part I

Vinod Subramanian, sat alone on the beach watching old mamas and mamis in sweaters, monkey caps and mufflers. It must have been twenty-three degrees at least, but in Madras, given its usual weather, this was peak winter. He allowed himself a little smile. The waves hit the shore listlessly, almost as if they were bored of doing the same thing for centuries. Or maybe there was a hint of sadness in their behaviour.

He stared at them until a little drop of salty water was waiting to break free from his eyes and run down his cheek. He held it back, got up, and drove away into the city as dawn eased into a bright morning.
***

"That's the singer who was close to Fidel Castro," she said pointing to a poster that had 'Revolucion' emblazoned across it, and laughed almost endlessly.

"Okay, fine. I'm ignorant. You've said that a million times in a million different ways." Vinod declared indignantly.
"I can understand ignorance, but thinking that Che Guevara was a singer close to Castro..."
"Tell me, why would rock music loving, weed smoking, youth in India who haven't lifted a finger for any cause have posters and T-shirts of a revolutionary in South America? I think I'm entitled to assume that he was a rock star."
She laughed even more.
He continued, "I mean, Bollywood music lovers don't walk around with T-shirts of Chandrashekhar Pandit."
"Who?"
"Chandrashekhar P-p-pandit..."
Now she could hardly sit straight laughing. Her laugh was about the most unique laughs he'd ever heard - some people snorted, others sounded like Bollywood's professional rapists, but this one was in its own league - there was a high-pitched squeak that came in every two seconds or so! In his experience, many of the world's prettiest women lost their aura when they laughed out loud. She didn't.
"Chandrashekhar Pandit?"
His eyebrows knotted. "Wait, I know this guy's actual name - the guy with a mush and a gun..."
"Don't forget the dhoti."
And after two whole minutes of agony, he declared, "Azad!" Pause, "Why do I know Chandrashekhar Pandit?"
"Azad was called Panditji by people..."
"Oh yeah, that's what Ajay Devgan keeps calling him."
"Ajay Devgan?"
"That Bhagat Singh movie..."

More laughter filled a room that was a collage of newspapers, books, wires, clothes and cigarette butts. There was a sofa somewhere, but was well camouflaged amongst the previous days' Economic Times, while a mass of wires that belonged to her sixteen-piece sound system made their home on the mattresses that doubled-up as dewans. He looked nervously around the walls to see more people who looked like singers, but probably weren't, and an odd photograph or two of her family. There was a battered old TV in one corner of the room, and even at 8 pm, CNBC was on - in mute - with the stock prices and headlines flashing at the bottom of the screen. The rest of the furniture in the room was a table that had more newspapers and books, a shoe shelf that was nearly empty, and a little teapoy with yesterday's coffee mugs and a coconut shell doubling up as an ash tray. He cleared a few newspapers off the sofa and settled down on it.

She pointed upwards, towards the ceiling.

"Holy fuck." he exclaimed.
"We need to work on your vocabulary!"
"You painted that?!"
"Yeah. Nice?"
"A nude chick?"
"Yes. A nude chick. We really need to work on your vocabulary."
"An unclothed member of the female race?"
"We're a different race now?"
"A lower one, yeah." She gave him a look. "Kidding..."
"Thin ice."
"Anway, what does it signify? Some female liberation shit, with her clothes thrown away?"
"Thinner ice. But I'll let that pass. Benefit of the doubt and what not. You see that little equation in the corner?"
"Yeah..."
"I read this article once that had this long set of equations to prove that an erectile disfunction is equivalent to the square root of minus one. Those are the last two steps of the derivation. If you look closely, the that the woman is made of..."
"Little numbers and equations! Fuck!! But what does the erectile disfunction have to do with her?" and after a couple of seconds of reflection, "Or the square root of minus one?"
"Oh, that is for you to interpret and understand. One doesn't 'explain' art to other people."
"Yeah, when art is that hot, it is a crime to 'explain' it!"
"You think she's hot?"
"Very!"
"My brother told me that her eyes are a little off-centre - specifically the right eye."
"What?! Come on, look at those eyes, they're perfect! And Bipasha Basu has one eye smaller than the other. So, that really doesn't make a difference."
"I never realised that!"
"You have to observe her closely..."
"Her face? Do guys do that?"
"I do," he said, with a superior look.

She said nothing for some time - just stared at the woman who somehow signified the erectile disfunction and the square root of minus one, and dreamily walked into the kitchen. "What do you want?" she hollered.
"You," he said joining her in the kitchen.
"Sen wont be too pleased," she said.
"Sen'll never suspect a thing," he said moving towards her naughtily.
She thrust a drink in his hand. "For now you'll have to do with this."
"You know," he said, "I used to actually have a huge crush on you when I met you initially."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"You weren't really Subtle Subramanian."
"Damn. I was really hoping you'd break up with Sharma."
"Sherman... I cant believe I was with him for that long."
"Yeah, and by the time I'd heard you broke up, someone pointed out that you were seeing your co-newsreader!
"He asked me. If you had asked me, even when I was with Sherman, I'd've said yes."
"Is that offer open even with Sen?"
She looked at him with that raised left eyebrow. "Are you asking me seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Yes. The offer is open."
He laughed into his drink.
She said, "Vin, I'm serious."
His eyebrow was raised now. And then his eyes grew as wide as two tennis balls. He took stock of the situation, and leant closer to her and asked, "Will you go out with me?"

She didn't say anything. She just leant towards him.

"I must warn you. The features on my face are to the left."
"Eh?"
"My face is not proportional."
She looked at it closely. "No!"
"Yes."
"I've done an experiment. I clicked a picture of myself, and took the left half of my face and laterally inverted it and pasted it instead of the right half. I looked different."
"Bergman-esque!" she said suddenly. He laughed. That's what he loved her for. He didn't understand what she meant by that - who was Bergman? Did he have a disfigured face? He didn't understand most things she said - about discourses and ontologies, about nihilism, countercultures and anarchy, about imagined communities and shared histories, about feminism and maelstroms, about Yugoslavia and Rwanda. But he listened to her, often with fascination, because she had this way of talking that made her look much prettier than she already was.

"Bergman is this famous Swedish filmmaker..." she explained.
"The joke sounded funnier without the explanation," he said.
"Jokes always do."
"But, coming back to the point, I have a disfigured face."
"You actually did that?"
"What?"
"Your experiment?"
"Yeah. I wouldn't have told you, if it weren't true."
"Nice use of the subjunctive mood. Not bad," she commented suddenly.
"The what?"
"Oh, don't bother."
"Yeah. I have other things to bother myself with."
"Like your disfigured face."
"I think I should get surgery done."
"Nah."
"Yeah. Plastic surgery."
"I'll compensate for the disfiguration," she said, moving her lips slightly to the right before towards his face. And the kiss was just the right mix of the spiciness of romance and the tangy tinge of mischief.
***
As much as he enjoyed getting up early in the morning to watch cricketers monkeying around in Australia in yet another Test Match, he hated Ravi Shastri's cliche-ridden drone. The cricket was often 'ordinary', the 'keeper almost always played a 'gritty' innings (unless he was Adam Gilchrist, god bless his soul), bowlers either hit or did not hit the 'right areas', and every now and then, the visiting batsman was "Edged and taken!" On this particular day, when an 'attractive shot-maker' was 'in his element', the ball had 'four written all over it' nearly every two minutes. Some poor soul was doing a lot of writing.

He increased the volume until the drone filled his little apartment and walked to the basin in the interests of personal hygiene. His reflection in the mirror confirmed his recent beliefs - that his face wasn't proportional. Slightly to the left. He told himself that he shouldn't worry about it so much. When he bared his teeth to his reflection, he noticed that his teeth were to one side also. The middle teeth at the top didn't fall on the middle teeth at the bottom. After a whole minute of trying to remember, it came to him - his incisors! That's what they were. They were off-centre.

"You know what I hate about this place," she said suddenly entering the bathroom. "You don't get newspapers."
"I get the Mid-day..."
"Newspaper?"
"Mid-day." he declared, emphasising on the first syllable for no reason, when the dreaded voice came, "Edged and taken!"
"Fuck. Laxman."
"Dravid falls for that teasing line outside the off..."
"Thank god!"
"You know, I think the Hyderabadis' love for Laxman is much like Laxman's batting..."
"Don't theorise about cricket. Please. I mean, how would you feel if I said things like, 'The subjunctive mood is in its death throes, and the best thing to do is to put it out of its misery as soon as possible'?"
"That's Maugham, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I'm impressed."
"Wikipedia."
"Better than Competition Success."
"For quite a while, that was my primary source of knowledge."
"But you actually read up on the subjunctive mood?"
"Yeah, I didn't realise that it was a grammatical thing - I was hoping it'd tell me more about women."
"The sub..."
"Edged and Taken!"
"Fuck. Laxman."
He ran to the TV wearing a worried expression and a T-shirt that now had more toothpaste than fabric. She had other worries.
***

To be continued

Eh?

Roebuck's article on January 8, 2008 in the Sydney Morning Herald:

"The only surprising part of it is that the Indians have not packed their bags and gone home. There is no justice for them in this country, nor any manners."

Roebuck's article on January 30, 2008 in the Sydney Morning Herald:

"INDIA'S performance in chartering a plane to take the players back home in the event of an independent judge finding against them in the Harbhajan Singh case counted amongst the most nakedly aggressive actions taken in the history of a notoriously fractious game. If this is the way the Indian board intends to conduct its affairs hereafter, then God help cricket."

Opinions change. Really fast.

Philosophical Outpourings on Blogging, the Internet, Bad Humour, Mallification of Bangalore and Justice

I entered Forum somewhat nervously, knowing fully well that I was underdressed for the occasion. Bangalore somehow never gave me this feeling before. I'd walked through its busiest thoroughfares and its most fashionable areas in nothing more than faded, grey shorts and bathroom slippers. Forum was a different world - it was like Gurgaon had been transplanted to Koramangala. I've written previously also on Bangalore and its malls, and my (our) theories (my roommate, fiance, lover - Arun - known in the comments section as "ax", collaborated with me on that theory) were strengthened by what I saw that day.

Anyway, there was no time for me to think of the sad state of chillers and chilling in Bangalore - the chomised, made-up, loud, brash, brand-conscious, franchise-chilling was here to stay. I had a mission - it was like in a detective novel. I had a photograph and a vague description - Black Sweater. I looked around matching every woman in the relevant age-group to that description knowing fully well that she had messaged me saying she would take some time more to arrive. Maybe I was reading too much Raymond Chandler in the recent past.

There is this thing about meeting people from the internet. You don't know exactly what they look like - photographs can be misleading - if you saw mine, you'd think I was an upcoming Tamil Superstar (then again, I am an upcoming Tamil Superstar) - and yet you know so much about them. Often, they lead two lives - the quietest in real life have the loudest blogs, the most dynamic never check their email, the friendliest are suspicious. Their profiles on Orkut, Facebook, their blogs, your conversations on Gtalk tell you a lot, but hide the crucial facts - do they exist? Are they actually axe-wielding murderers? Maybe they are people trying to get you to join a mass-suicide cult! Maybe they're Communists! Racists! Supporters of George Bush! Lawyers! Is she even a woman at all?

It is so easy to lead a parallel unrelated life on the internet, that it sometimes scares me.

And then there's the thrill of meeting someone you've never met before, but know fairly well - the sheer unpredictability of conversation, the innate tendency to crack bad jokes, your eyes' inclination to widening unnecessarily, and your sorry attempts to over-impress whoever the other person might be.

By the time I sat at Firangi Pani and browsed through the drinks menu, I felt a lot more at home. I remembered the fascinating DMP - the Drinks Menu Principle - that every time I go to any restaurant with any crowd, the Drinks Menu is always placed before me. I look the shady, alcoholic type, I guess. I thought I'd play the role by ordering some whiskey, but decided to go for the age-old hostel favourite - vodka and Sprite.

And then the nervous eye-shifting started again. Black sweater. Every person who walked in was scanned and audited - maybe she wasn't wearing the sweater, she was carrying it in her hand. Pretty soon, she walked in - complete with black sweater and all. She looked very different from the photographs, and looked too old to be 22. But people age fast, what with age being in the mind and all that. And, as discussed, photographs are misleading.

I put on my most social smile and waved. She gave me this weird look. Wave again. Weirder look again. She turned around and sat at another table. Then it dawned - this wasn't the Black Sweater I was looking for! Message to the actual Black Sweater: "I just waved at some random lady in a black sweater!"

Three sips into my vodka, and 2.4 overs into my cricket game on my cell phone, Black Sweater landed up to meet Maroon Sweater. Social smile. Handshake. "Where's the lady you waved at?"

The ice melted - in my glass - liquids flowed like the conversation that touched upon everything from the concept of justice, riots, drunken driving, and taxation law to Yuvraj Singh and Deepika (How?!! How?!! I have officially lost faith in every Bangalore chick - every one.). The more I think of these varied topics, the more I'm convinced that they are all linked - at the fundamental level, they are things that you'd talk to people you're meeting for the first time about!

At the end of it all, when I got into the auto back to Sadasivanagar and opened my wallet, I remembered, for no real reason a joke I had heard in the morning. My friend sounded horrible on the phone. When I asked him what was the issue, he said, "Not feeling good, dude. Liquidity issues."
***
For another version of the same story, check this out.

The Aussie Way

I write this post in anger over what transpired in the Sydney Test.

I am willing to ignore the umpiring errors for the purpose of this post, as those need to be handled by the ICC and the national Boards. What shocked me (and has shocked me for years now about the Australian team is their "honour and spirit of the game" talk.

This is what their Code of Conduct says, "When you're out, and you know it, don't walk till the umpire rules you out. The edge might be audible in India, you could be caught at first slip, or your stumps might be shattered. DON'T WALK. Wait for the umpire to give you out. BUT, (and this is a crucial 'but', almost as large as Jennifer Lopez's), expect the opposing team, the umpire, and the rest of the world to trust you when you tell everyone that you've taken a catch cleanly. After all, you never cheat."

Michael Clarke showed us how ridiculous this philosophy is. He was caught at first slip off Kumble to an edge that was visible to someone sitting in the far stands at square leg, and he stood his ground - behaved like everything was normal. Next day, he takes a dubious catch of Sourav Ganguly, a catch that even Ian Chappell and Sunil Gavaskar cannot agree upon, and all of us are expected to believe him.

If I am supposed to trust Clarke when he's sure he's taken the catch, I should suppose that he will walk when he's sure he's out. The Aussie Way clearly has some loopholes.

I have this Grand Spirit Theory that can explain The Aussie Way. The Spirit of the Game is in the air in Australia, and the players inhale it when they are on the field. Sadly, this Spirit is extremely weak and cannot penetrate helmets. Therefore, when players are batting, the Spirit is forced to stay in the air and not within them. So, when an Aussie is batting, he isn't playing in the Spirit of the Game, but when he is fielding without a helmet at slip, he is playing in the Spirit.

And then there are those who support Clarke. Michael Slater. Not surprising at all. Wasn't he the low-life who claimed a clearly grounded 'catch' off Rahul Dravid in Mumbai six years ago and then wagged his finger at Dravid and Venkataragavan? We Indians are raised on Bollywood movies. It takes us lifetimes to forget these things.

Oh, let us not forget Ricky Ponting, and his outburst, "Are you questioning my integrity?" Of course we are, Mr. Ponting. When was it ever not in question?

As an aside, why do the Australians look to outlaw anything that affects their game - bodyline, off-spin bowling and sledging?

Music to my ears

I have been chilling in Madras for sometime now - amidst all the heat, humidity, auto bargaining, and the music season. Four concerts a day, the odd lec-dem, CD shopping, musical instruments shops, sabha hopping, canteens, filter coffee, vegetarian thali meals, idli-vada-dosa. The following is a collection of what I wrote sitting at the not-so-inspiring concerts - as in, wrote with actual pen and paper.

On Neatness

When I was much younger, a friend of mine got this formula Hollywood movie involving some cheerleaders and their rivalries and told me that it was a "neat movie". Many years later, someone, while commenting on an upcoming vocalist described her as having "neat presentation". When I watched the movie, and listened to this "neat" vocalist, I realised that "neat" meant 'insipid' or 'characterless' or 'unimaginative'.

No term has irritated me more than 'neat'. Because 'neat' means that you have set formulae that you stick to, and execute well. Artists aren't high school mathematics students who apply a set of given formulae. They are mathematicians who create formulae. And we, as the consumers of art need to give these artists space - the space to make an error once in a while in their search for new boundaries in art.

We need to allow Darren Aronofsky to make The Fountain - magnificent in scope, but a little flawed in execution, hoping that amidst three Fountains, he makes one Requiem. The same way, we need to allow the younger musicians to make a mistake or two in trying something new. It is like raising a child - at a young age, we stamp the child's ability to innovate, because we're intolerant of its mistakes.

In the afternoon concerts, usually of younger musicians, we must raise the bar, and challenge them to do something extra. Instead we expect them to not slip anywhere, and execute whatever they are looking to execute competently. Because of this expectation from the audience, the afternoon concerts are turning into lethargic affairs where nobody is stretching the limits of their creativity, nobody is trying to do anything new, lest they fail.

It is like watching Shiv Sunder Das bat each afternoon, and thinking, 'This guy has potential'.

****

The Thin White Line

I was in a concert when the news of Modi's victory came. For some reason I remembered the meaning of the colours in the national flag - sacrifice, peace and prosperity, they told me. Such nonsense. When I realised what they actually stood for, I couldn't help thinking that it was the white that was the most crucial - because it was this white that keeps the saffron and the green from clashing. When I heard of this victory, I almost imagined the saffron bulging, and the white line getting thinner.

****

The Slip

The little boy was excited. His father had just bought expensive tickets to the Violin Maestro's concert in his little town. The boy stared at his textbooks all day without absorbing a word. But he knew he had to study, else he wouldn't be taken to the concert. Every time he read abouty objects falling under the force of gravity, he would think of the Maestro's dexterous fingers falling down the violin producing that free-fall effect - as if the note just fell and landed on the one below.

He kept staring alternatively at the clock, his textbook and his violin at the corner of the room. And then he couldn't contain himself anymore - he picked up his violin, tuned it and played Shankarabharanam at lightning speed slipping ever so often, and hoping that in the evening, when the Maestro played, he would play Shankarabharanam, and when he played at lightning speed, he would watch how someone could play it woithout slipping!

When he reached the venue with his father, he ran upstairs to the hall, and grabbed two seats on the front row - he put a handkerchief on the seat next to his lest someone grabs it before his father ambled up the stairs. On his other side, a stern looking, middle aged man seated himself. The boy smiled excitedly at this man, but got no response. It was as if the man had only one expression - the one where he looked like he had not seen good times in years.

The concert started with the majestic Bhairavi Varnam. The boy's fingers moved with the Maestro's. He kept pace until the Meastro started indulging in mathematics and fractions. He hadn't heard anything like this before in his life. He had heard hours of tape of the Maestro, but listening to him live was something else - he could follow every small twist and turn of the Maestro's hand, and he could see hundreds of heads all around him swaying to the music.

But there was one head that remained still. It was the man sitting next to the little boy. The same disgusted expression - as if his face was cast in iron.

As the boy had been hoping, Shankarabharanam came. And it was the most glorious Shankarabharanam ever. Each note acquired a life of its own, and each phrase lived and breathed of Shankarabharanam. Every minute oscillation, every grand phrase, every set piece was just right. The audience was nearly in tears.

All except one. The man next to him was still unmoved and had the same expression on his face, though the boy thought there was this slight sense of irritation creeping in now.

And then the tempo increased. The slip never came. The boy watched with wonder, and imitated the Maestro's hands as he followed them closely. The patterns began to get more and more intricate, to the point where the boy could not imitate them anymore, and just watched in amazement. He kept telling himself that he will get there one day.

He turned to look at his father. Was he in tears? And just for contrast, he turned to the other man. Still the same. What was this man's problem?

The boy turned his attention to the Maestro and his spectacular taanam, and remembered what he was playing that afternoon - such a contrast! He closely watched the hands now. And suddenly, he saw the Maestro slip, just for a millisecond. The audience, who were swaying stopped suddenly. His father came out of that trance. How did that happen? The more the boy thought about it, the more he was convinced that this was done on purpose. What was he trying?

The boy looked at the Maestro, who just smiled. The Maestro then looked at the stern man and said, "You heard what you wanted to hear? You can leave now."

He then turned to the boy, winked and continued the Shankarabharanam as the man left in a hurry.
****

Six Reasons Why Laxman Should NOT be Picked for the Australian Tour

For a long time, I have wondered why a sword hangs over Laxman's head in the Test team. A little bit of research, and some shrewd analytical thinking has led me to believe that the answer is as clear as my hair is of dandruff after my morning shampoo with Sunsilk (pink).

1. Although Laxman is not out of form, he has not scored a 150 for India since the last Australian tour. His fifty to hundred conversion rate is appalling, and the Indian team cannot afford such mediocrity in the batting order. He has a bad habit of getting out in the 70s and 80s, which will not do for a player in that Indian Middle Order.

2. The law of averages says that Laxman has finished his quota of success in Australia. His heroics in the last tour are more than what most batsmen have achieved there in a lifetime. Therefore, he is unlikely to score there again. Compare this with Yuvraj Singh or Joginder Sharma, who have never played a Test Match in Australia - by the law of probability, their chances are bound to be better.

3. Laxman is ill-suited to modern day cricket. His last century against Pakistan in the ongoing Kolkata Test Match had no 2s or 3s. The Indian team would value a smaller score with more 2s and 3s more than a large score where runs are scored in boundaries. After all, the boundaries in Australia are longer making the more difficult to reach.

4. The Indian team must engage in building a team for the future, and at the same time balancing our current interests. We can achieve the latter by giving the other veterans their time in the sun (and against the fast bowling) and achieve the former by dropping Laxman.

5. Laxman is ill-suited for the current role he is playing at No. 6, and the rest of the batting order is etched in stone. There are enough players who can play at this position better than Laxman. He does not manipulate the strike well enough. He cannot score quickly.

6. Laxman's close catching skills are of no use in Australia. India will have to rely on its fast men, and we need better fielders at point and gully, where Laxman and his unbending attitude to fielding cannot make things happen.

Therefore, drop Laxman. We do have Arjun Yadav, India's greatest prospect, waiting in the wings.

Bollywooded!

People told me a great many things before it was even released - “It is not a movie, it is a product to be consumed”, “It's like Main Hoon Na – some silly shit passing off as cinema”. People told me other things after they'd seen it - “The second half drags”, “Deepika is hot!”, and lastly, the comment that I find most unreasonable – “Leave your brains outside the cinema hall, and enter – you'll enjoy it.”

When I stood in the large lobby of Prasad's Multiplex, waiting to watch the only Shah Rukh Khan movie I hadn't yet seen, I had my brains in my hand – wondering whether I should run back, leave them in the car, or take them in and challenge the Association of Enlightened Critics of India. I'm glad I chose well.

When I entered, I saw Bollywood's greatest film of the twenty-first century – while Hazaron Khwaishein Aisi inspired awe, Rang De Basanti turned bored college students into murderers, Dil Chahta Hai made men hang out in groups of three sporting little triangle beards under their lips, Yuva inspired political parties, Black gut-wrenched away to glory, Maqbool and Omkara chilled, Om Shanti Om decided to celebrate.

And the subject of the celebration was perfect – Bollywood. From the audacity of the opening sequence from Karz to the cuteness of the end-credits, OSO was perfect. The jokes kept coming in a barrage, quick one-liners, and large set-pieces were woven into one another like deft touches and stunning movement in the Brazilian midfield. Deepika showed the world that her misadventure with Upendra in the Kannada smash-hit Aishwarya was a one-off mistake.

Actually, I need to say more about Deepika – she can act. She's pulled off the 70s superstar and college girl from Bangalore roles to perfection. Her chemistry with Shah Rukh Khan is especially brilliant – in that she was able to do both, play the admired and the admirer, and maintain the duality of her two personas (personae?). And, she is hot, very hot. That helps. (She is, hereby cast in the lead role in the movie version of Love Brinjal.)

OSO is not a repetition of age-old formulae, it is a reminder of their enduring nature. Every plot-twist, every line, every word, every action is a tribute to a style of filmmaking. The song with 31 stars evokes unparalleled nostalgia, the mother, the faithful friend, the corrupt-womanising-businessman-villain, gyrations on gaudy sets, excessive melodrama over red powder worn on forehead, all take us back to all those years of balcony seats and channel-flipping. And yet, I was drawn into the plot. I had seen it all unfold in movies before, yet I wanted to see it once more. And this is where OSO scores.

And what about logic? What about reason? What about meaningful cinema? Why was the Universe created? Did we ask for logic in all those movies where reincarnations always resemble their previous life selves? Did we even question reincarnation? Did we ask for reasons when a small-looking hero beat up scores of bald-headed, dunce-faced toughies? Did we ask for reasons when the villain had this missile with three heads aimed at Bombay, Madras and Calcutta? Did we ask for reasons when asshirvaads from maas counted for more than studying for the exam? Did we ask for reasons when NRIs had strong Indian accents and could recognise the smells of Punjab? Did we even ask where most movies were set?

OSO doesn't require you to stop asking these questions – it only celebrates the fact that none of us ever did.

So, take your brains in, and with your brains, your Bollywood sensibilities – watch with awe as Deepika acts like a reincarnation of Hema Malini, cringe at Shak Rukh Khan's ventures into topless waters, laugh, cry, sing, dance and enjoy yourself as you've done all these years, because it is when you leave your brains behind that you ask for reasons. When you take them in, logic and reason are plain for everyone to see.