I put on my pants one leg at a time like everyone else (except on Sundays of course. Sunday is no pants day) but sometimes I do things that make people say, "hey, look at that guy! Golly, he's awesome. I want to be like that. I wonder if he wears pants on Sundays." I am talking, of course, about eating bran cereal flakes with mustard. Yes, I have gone and done what no man, woman or Andie Macdowell has ever done before. And don't those flakes look happy? Besides watery bowel movements there were no repercussions at all. So for all the people who thought it was a bad idea, in your face. Now out of my way! I've got a load in my pants.
It happened right as I placed a frigid hand on a packet of tortilla chips. They came at me from all sides. All with arms extended in sick exuberant expectance and a smile extending from one ear to China; half a dozen hands vying for my own weather-beaten paw. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood standing there in aisle number two while my six ghastly acquaintances advanced like a pack of wolves. None of them was disguised as my grandmother my mind astutely observed. I tried to distract myself from this approaching onslaught of pointless small talk but my mind soon turned to disturbing and oddly unrelated things; genocide, disembowelment, Bambi’s mother getting shot and Andie Macdowell. Moments later, I was in the thick of it. I expelled breath through my mouth audibly to indicate my disinterest but for that moment I was a light and they, moths. When it was over I felt abused. Now I only do my shopping after midnight.
I absolutely detest bumping into acquaintances in public. They’re the mongrels of human relationships. You don’t feel comfortable around them but you can’t ignore them either. But what’s this handshaking business? What kind of godforsaken mongoloid gets excited about shaking someone’s hand? Wouldn’t you rather shake an apple tree? Why would anyone be happy about shaking a hand when they’ve got two of their own? Whenever I’m subjected to more than two handshakes, my hands end up smelling like a medieval tavern. The worst thing about a handshake is that it’s like a pact you’re making with the person whose eager hands you’re reluctantly shaking. You’ve now committed yourself to a ten minute conversation about lawnmowers and ungodly weather, jackass!
Some days I wish I were invisible. That or one of those unobtrusive people who could stand in the middle of a crowd, hit themselves on the head repeatedly with a rubber ducky whilst singing “pour some sugar on me” and still nobody would notice. I will cut off my wrists before I come into contact with another appendage that’s attached to someone I barely know. I’m officially off handshakes. Come to think of it, now I know why Alanis Morissette has her hands in her pockets.
If I had beads of condensed thought trickling down my face, I’d be standing in a pool of confusion. I was a limp noodle. Elton, with his head under my right shoulder, was trying valiantly not to buckle under half of my enormous bodyweight. Zoheb on the other hand, did it effortlessly as we inched closer to home. Faru marched ahead of us, screaming at anyone who stood in the way. She was quite a screamer. My mind had sprouted arms and legs and was now doing cartwheels inside my head. I longed for tomato soup. I tried to voice this sudden craving but no words came out. Faru, as if on cue, looked into my vacuous eyes and said everything was going to be alright. So we went on, my brain feeling like a severely tossed salad and my rubbery feet dragging behind me. My memory of what happened next is a tad sketchy but after hearing a detailed account from Faru, I have been able to reconstruct most of what happened that day. I shall begin at the beginning.
I was fifteen and school was boring for the most part. Being tall and conspicuously rotund, I was always asked to move to the last row of desks to let the smaller kids see better. The last row was home to a veritable group of freaks and emo kids. Elton, being one of the smaller kids, occupied a front row desk. He was a nimble-footed soccer fiend. His screensaver was a photograph of some soccer player I’d seen in a ridiculously dim-witted toothpaste advertisement. He also knew more about constellations and galaxies than anyone else I knew; except Faru. Zoheb was a year older than me and Elton. He had one of those shy cowboy smiles that you read about in books and he was so funny you’d have to change your pants after hearing one of his stories. He was over six feet tall and every girl in school held a candle burning brightly for him in her heart. Faru teased him relentlessly about this and Zoheb never had a satisfactory comeback against his champion little sister. Faru was a walking, talking melting pot of intelligent and sometimes wonderfully weird ideas. She had doe-like eyes that brightened every time she learned something she didn’t know before. It was because of the way her eyes became flying saucer-like upon gaining new information and because of her extraordinary knowledge of celestial bodies that Elton called her ‘E.T.’
That particular day, I found myself sitting next to Sam Thomas. It was Geography class and I was on the verge of slipping into a deep coma. Sam was bent over his desk, scribbling furiously on it. When he was done, he sat back in his chair, a triumphant ‘you can’t see what I can see’ look in his eyes. I glanced over at his desk. It was a proud declaration. “I am a dark element woven into the soft fabric of society by an untamed hand”, it said in bold letters. I rolled my eyes and immersed myself into Nicaragua’s farming developments.
By the time school was out I was feeling like someone had notoriously attached a straw to my head and had sucked out all my energy. I was sapped. Elton was usually the first one to bolt out of class. He had a bladder problem but always found some excuse to cover it up. I had reached the school yard when I heard someone scream exactly what every schoolboy wants to hear at the end of a tiring day. “Fight in the school yard!” someone said with boundless exuberance. I spiritedly pushed my way through the crowd that had formed itself around the skirmish till I reached the center. My excitement quickly gave way to utter dismay.
It was Elton. Two strapping older boys had made up their minds to introduce him to the business ends of their shoes. Now, Elton possessed a number of desirable qualities but giving someone the old one-two wasn’t one of them. I quickly ran to his side, ready for action. They didn’t wait. The bigger one launched himself at me, an infernally wretched look on his face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elton swinging his fists madly. Acting surprisingly swiftly for someone my size I lifted my knee and connected it with the boy’s abdomen. He doubled up in pain. I had finished doing a number on him and had half turned when the other boy gave me a sudden violent shove. That’s when things went wrong. I struggled to find my balance and realized that I was going to fall. What I didn’t know was, a solid three inch wooden cricket bat had parked itself on the ground. The last thing I saw before my head hit the sturdy willow was Faru screaming and Zoheb running at full pace toward me. The look on his face told me that the two aggressors would soon bite the dust. Then I was out like a light.
When I came to, I was being supported by a determined Zoheb and a hopelessly struggling Elton. I was a confounded troll. I tried to stand on my feet but they seemed to be made of lead. The trek home took an eternity. Faru reluctantly rang the doorbell. The door opened and there stood my mother, spatula in hand and flour on her forehead. It took her one full minute to register the state I was in. That comforted me because for that one whole minute I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t speak. Then she dropped the spatula. Much crying, cursing and hysterical praying ensued. I was somehow transported to the bed and the doctor was called. The good doctor, after a thorough inspection, concluded that it was a concussion and it was only a matter of hours before I’d be able to lift my beastly arms again. I was beginning to come around and saw Faru sitting by my side while Elton and Zoheb tried feebly to explain what had happened to my mother. I looked into Farus eyes and strained the old brain to figure out how I’d ended up here. She put a comforting hand on my forehead and with the other reached for something on the bedside table. When she brought it into my field of vision I felt a rush of affection for her. It was tomato soup.
My fingers have reached the sticky bottom of the bucket. I can feel sweat breaking out on my brow. Up in front of me I see a grown man chase a woman around a tree. I struggle to make sense of these moving images. Every fiber of my being seems to be rushing to my head. I half expect my spirit to leave my body and then watch as I simultaneously combust in my chair. I was promised a “wholesome” movie experience but this I didn’t expect.
That’s the thing about Indian romantic movies. You think you’ve seen them all but they always surprise you. Some, with their intrepid song sequences (picture a skimpily dressed heroine dancing in the snow-clad Alps) and some with their abysmal “actors” who have the emotional range of a pitchfork. But what is astounding is that most of these movies do very well at the box office. It probably has a lot to do with the ingeniously simple plots that these movies revolve around. Boy meets girl. They fall in love. Boy is poor. Girl blows nose into handkerchiefs made of money. Boy meets girl’s father. Father is infuriated upon knowing of boy’s financial situation, tells boy to remove himself from his property. Boy leaves with tail between his legs. The father promptly requests the services of the local gangster to “take care” of the boy (here, the audience is expected to understand that it is perfectly normal for reputed men like him to make frequent society with shady, hostile characters). Meanwhile boy and girl have clandestine meetings and go about the usual routine (hold hands, sing songs, dance around trees etc.)Few days go by before the aforementioned gangster and his motley crew of goons pay a visit to the boy. Now, these are the most listless gangsters you’ll ever see. That is not to say that they don’t earnestly try to look sinister. They do, but they look so disinterested that they might as well be postal workers. Needless to say, boy is beaten up badly. The next few days see the boy wallowing in self-pity and the girl singing songs to the moon on the balcony. Then, a sudden epiphany presents itself to the boy. He must fight for his love! So, armed with newfound determination, a little knowledge of taekwondo and the amazing ability to write impromptu poetry, the boy fights for his love. For the sake of brevity, let’s just say that the boy wins over father’s approval with an inspiring display of character. Boy and girl live happily ever after (by “happily ever after”, one can only assume that not a few offspring are spawned and several hundred songs are sung).
One hot afternoon I said, ‘dash it!’ and went down to the movie hall to watch the latest offering. It was a romantic drama where two best friends develop feelings for the same girl. The theatrical trailer marketed it as a coming-of-age, romantic drama. I’m always surprised at how seamlessly moviemakers combine multiple genres of filmmaking to form a complex mishmash. But coming back to the hot afternoon, I moved to the back of the hall as I usually do. This not only gives me a good view of the screen, but also let’s me gauge how well the film is going to do by looking at the audience’s reaction. The movie began, not surprisingly, with a song chronicling the childhood of the aforementioned best friends. Then the camera swiftly cut to their present life. The next one hour was dedicated to off-color jokes, inordinate backslapping and pseudo-comical adventures that added absolutely zilch to the relevance of the plot. Then, the intermission descended upon the hall from heaven.
Much to my dismay, the audience seemed positively excited at the thought of what the second half of the movie would be like. I loaded up on water and food to prepare for the oncoming onslaught of idiocy. Things got very serious in the second half. The leading lady, a walking, talking Maybelline advertisement, waltzed into the lives of our heroes and left them wide-eyed and obviously ogling her svelte figure. I was momentarily distracted by a patron who was complaining to his wife about the caramel popcorn in loud tones. People threw him annoyed glances and one gentleman even offered to shove his foot up dark, unmentionable places. Nobody seemed to realize that what was really getting this distraught man’s goat was the absurdity of the movie. ‘A kindred spirit’, I observed and diverted my glance back to the screen. The movie was nearing the end now. All the bonhomie and geniality had been replaced by hostile feelings and acrimony. The heroine, after much playing around had settled for the taller of the two friends. After some fighting, dramatic walk-offs and a song or two, it was revealed that our young vivacious heroine was dying of blood cancer. The two male protagonists were shell-shocked. This unfortunate news, however, served as the m-seal to the hole in the kitchen pipe that was their friendship. Later, as she lay on the hospital bed, the two friends embraced and everything was all right again. Except, the heroine died thirty seconds later. The movie ended with the friends walking into the sunset together. I couldn’t help wincing. Why are people always walking into the sunset? Are there more hot dog stands in that direction? Is it easier to get a taxi from there? I don’t get it. Needless to say, I walked out of the theater feeling older than my years. Almost like one of those people who sit by the fireplace all day in their rocking chair, stroking a cat and smoking a pipe. That day, I made up my mind about being more prudent in life.
I have made many attempts to get into the psyche of the producers of such baloney but always keep coming back to one question: why? That’s right. Why put the unsuspecting movie connoisseur through such a taxing time? Why, pray, spring upon him a song or dance or badly written dialogue every few frames or so? Why spend truckloads of money on sets, crew, technical apparatus and “actors” only to churn out what barely qualifies as balderdash? The answer is simple but disturbing. It’s what the people want. If you brought along to the movies a flashlight and focused it on every man, woman and child one at a time, you’d see that they all want to live the life they see on the big screen. Women swoon, men, even though less prone to exhibit strong emotions, smile widely as the hero goes through purgatory filled with bad guys with daddy problems to rescue his lady from the evil clutches of the “main” villain. So while I twist, turn and convulse in my chair, the people around me cheer the slick-haired hero and his well-placed kicks. What seems like an unfortunate collision between a garbage truck and a waste-management factory to me, is kosher cinema to most people. I have abandoned all introspective efforts and am now convinced that something is horribly wrong with people around me.
The thing that keeps me going despite all the twaddle is the hope that one day some enterprising, empathetic filmmaker will deliver people like me from this wasteland of cinematic garbage. Hope, That Thing With Feathers, is the reason I surrender to the will of friends who absolutely must devour every romantic film that hits innocent movie theaters. I take consolation in knowing that one day, when all the fog has settled and every bird that flies by me has a song on its lips, I will get out of a movie theater with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Then, whistling merrily, I will walk into the sunset.
Bran flakes and mustard. 'Nuff said.