Saturday, October 18, 2008
Time-bomb mein twist hai
A wise man (my sister's husband & thus ever more wise because he married her!) made a remark the other day, the thought of which has made me chuckle a few times already. He said, and i quote, " Ever wondered that there would have been no Hollywood but for the nuclear bomb, and there would definitely have been no Bollywood without the time-bomb?!"
Come to think of it, the most horrifying plot in almost all of the jolly good Bollywood pot boilers of yesteryears (a fine tradition that has morphed into quite another thing with the use of sophisticated gizmos and gadgets) centres around the time bomb. Various unsuspecting innocents have been the shikaar of this ingenuious device, planted on their persons by the oh-so-devious baaaaad man.
Some Fuzzy Flashes:
The partially blind mother, who has only just realised that the mysterious blood donor who saved her sorry ass after she came under the villain's car is her long-lost son, reappears on screen with a bundle of disco-light emitting sticks strapped to her eternally maternal bosom, weeping silently into her tattered saree pallu while saying this to her son: meri chinta mat kar beta, isko iske kiye ki sazaa zarror dena!" (Don't worry about poor ol' me son, just kick ass! For i only gave birth to you, while he wishes to give you DEATH!!)
The said son finds himself in the same room as said mother after also being mysteriously informed by the said villain's sidekick that "tumhari maa, aur uski hone wali bahu hamare kabze mein hai, unko zinda dekhna chahte ho to Aravind Adiga ke pachaas hazzaar pond lekar bangley par aa jao" (you mother an her future daughter in law are in our lecherous keep; if you want both of them to atttend your upcoming nuptials, for which you have already booked the pandit and the bandwallah, get us Aravind Adiga's recently won Booker booty at the bungalow, ASAP!)
No address is given, but our wily protagonist, tired of keeping tabs on the two women by now anyway, has also mysteriously managed to locate the said bungalow, carrying what looks like .... did he also find a time machine to travel to London and back? did Adiga actually give in so easily?.... but it's only a Louis Vuitton bag stuffed (they don't know it yet) with the clothes he plans to take to the Bahamas with him. But more on that later....
So the swashbuckling son arrives to find his love-disinterest trying to wiggle out of the chains that bind her, in the process of which all she has managed to actually wriggle out of is half her clothes, while Mataji has been trying desperately to shield her jhopdi ki izzat from the roving eyes of the raucous sidekicks with said tattered saree, all the time working gingerly around the time bomb that's loudly ticking away like a large pendulum clock.
Enter son. Loud cries of hope and fear pierce the impending doom of the time bomb. The beady-eyed boys attack him one by one, each patiently waiting his turn to be disposed of in a tangle of kicks and grunts.
As Jack Nicholson says in A Few Good Men "Son, we live in a world that has walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You..?", and here in Bollywood we live in a world that has rules. Yes, rules, my boy. And the keepers of those rules are men with country-made guns smuggled from neighbouring Nepal. The cardinal one being: "Being the evile scumme of the earthe, thou shalt not fire thy katta but once, and then only one at a time, ever-patient till the chosen one has sent your homie flying out through the flimsy walls, with a mere belch."
Getting back to the story, suddenly, there is a loud roar and a burst of evil laughter, as a gaping hole opens up under our as-yet-unvanquished-and-unscratched hero's nimble feet and he is swallowed up even as the ladies in captivity let out loud shrieks of Nahiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin (Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo way! Now what??!!), and in the very same instant, the heart rending screams drowned out by a visual treat of exploding saree and tank top, played in slo mo, over and over again. A horrific The End.
Whaaaaat? You killed the LV bag, you philistine??!!
I know what happened, but, for now, I leave that up to you. All you who are still loyally reading this crap, send in your entries and i will carry the one that pays a befitting tribute to the brilliant logic of Bollywood storylines....
And now i can hear somethin' a tickin' back here. Time to get some work done. Make me proud, ppl! What do you have to lose except your sanity?