Next time, let me be born in another country.
After a long day of this-and-that, I tune into my home box office and all I see is Harry Potter doing something with his broom. As much as I like Chinese action flicks for gravity-defying deeds and long plaits on men, I fail to understand why I have to watch them 11pm after 11 pm every late night. I know Shrek’s dialogues by heart (all parts) by now. I assure you I can play the theme song of Madagascar on my flute despite being tone-deaf and not knowing how to hold a flute even. And I also think if I were to try, one of the magic spells from Potter’s movies will come true in my very house. Lord, how I wish the same spell could deliver me of all things childish and ‘G’ and make me feel like a grown up ‘A’ woman of 30 watching TV with a grown up man of 32, even as my toddler sleeps. Who, just who is wielding the scissors and chopping away to glory not just important parts of movies but whole movies from my heftily paid movie package? Once upon a time, flowers kissed. Now, even they have been banned from cuddling on screen. I go to bed disappointed with my idiot box. But, of course, with thoughts and Indianness as pure as the IB Ministry would like them to be!
I wake up the next day and what do I see, my Lord?
Sir Ass-araam lounging on his seat, sharing spiritual gyan, floral head-gears and, was that a wink I just saw?
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