I was drunk with questions after my large glass of Coke at the multiplex yesterday. Drunk without having been served a margarita, that is. One of my perennial concerns is the curious price of the glass, which I fail to arrive at even after factoring in all costs. The second pertains to audience attitude in the theatre. This is scary because it leaves me feeling depressed, out of place and at odds with the world.
What, for instance, can explain the presence of several babbling, very young children during the screening of Shonali Bose’s “Margarita with a Straw”?
I, for one, clearly remember the A-rated notification that popped up when I made my booking. The parents figured a straw is for kids, perhaps?
Another question that comes to mind refers to the peals of laughter that accompany cinematic love-making or allusion to sex. I can understand the giggles of a twelve-year old, reading about the quirky human body for the first time. It however is unfathomable when similar behaviour is exhibited by adults, seemingly mature and all there. If I manage to watch a “sexy” scene – or one that is low on conversation and background music – undisturbed in the theatre, I consider it a red letter day.
Anyhow, I felt heady after my Coke and Margarita cocktail and decided to look around a nearby bookstore. Splashed all across the Indian Fiction shelves were tales involving college pass-outs and their promiscuous relationships. The books boasted of colourful, vivid covers, to say nothing of their equally colourful titles. I Kissed You, You Didn’t. You are not my Only Girlfriend. It seems strange that a generation with such, err, vast experience of love, lust and all things carnal should giggle during a heartfelt attempt to portray a physically challenged girl’s sensuality.
Back home, I poured myself some iced tea and sat down to reflect. I figured I would need to be sober to hit upon just why the world seems to be growing shallower and more tiresome by the minute.