It was, to put it briefly, an exciting weekend. To start with I had the unstoppable itch just waiting to be scratched, and put into itch hyperdrive after the Ganapati photographs last week where it was confirmed that one has truly and absolutely morphed into comfortably rotund behenji mould. The itch being the realisation that highlights put in way back in May have reached the shoulders and the roots are blacker than a moonless night, and therefore shamefully virgin. Untouched with the abominations of chemicals and dyes, given I’d decided to give them a rest and let the hair be for a while. Make that two months of peace.
Therefore, the weekend saw me hightailing it, like I had a rocket tied onto my broomstick to the friendly neighbourhood parlour and grovelling before the puzzled girls there to do something to my hair, slap on the highlights, some colour, cut it short, do anything but save me from dying a behenji.
Four hours later I have emerged a copper streaked tabby cat, and very chuffed with self. The mother in law reminesced fondly of her glorious childhood in the native pahad land where the poor and snotty with no money to oil their hair achieved a similiar effect through negligence and sun exposure. I developed selective deafness.
The husband looked at me and raised singular eyebrow in question. The child burst out laughing. I rest my case. I probably go to LOreal Excellence creme overall coverage sometime this week to rectify the damage. Or, what the hell, I’ll just be my brilliantly insouciant self and pretend thats the way its supposed to be.
Then we went to see Rock On. Or should I say, I knew I should dress up for this movie and put my eyes in and my eyeliner on. Having heard from a bunch of girlfriends about how hot Farhan Akhtar is in this movie worth giving up your wedding vows for, I went fully prepared with a new set written down only to find myself panting like a puppy dog everytime Arjun Ramphal came on screen. In the most undignified fashion. I screamed. And shouted. And even put them fingers in the mouth and wolfwhistled in the most vulgar fashion possible, And then quickly glanced at the husband, fully expecting the standard raised left brow, but found the man air guitaring in ecstasy.
Okay. This confirms it. I am officially old. I am tripping on movies that remind me of Queen and Dire Straits and Mark Knofler and Pink Floyd and Roger Waters and other such demi gods. Even if the guitaring was far from perfect and the vocals were a good ‘effort’, but clearly enough, nowhere close to the level of excellence required. Farhan Akhtar, god bless the man, has his fathers voice. And it is not a voice that is suited for rock vocals. Nonetheless I am willing to suspend belief and just get caught up in the moment and the movie and go with the flow. For a moment. I was 25 again and back at the Deep Purple concert, and waving my arms in the air, and standing for hours on totally unsuitable shoes.
The first movie from this director, Abhishek Kapoor, Aryan, was good. But this one, it rocks. Way to go, guys. But I wish they’d stayed away from the cliches. The idealistic musician who is a no good, the one who sacrificed music for a career in investment banking and lost his soul, the one who compromises and sells his tunes for jingles.
Go see the film. If you’re over thirty, it will eat your soul with the regrets of the passions you gave up to get on with the business of life.