Break ke baad

You rush for popcorn in the interval. Hot, salty popcorn or cool caramel popcorn. You munch on it desperately in the hope that some of the headache that the movie has caused in the lower back of your head will reduce if not vanish altogether. You grab a quick coffee, Coke or Pepsi, which gives you just that little spike which enables you to stop from sliding into an imminent clinical depression.

You look around to chat with some familiar face, a fellow soul in anguish, who may well share your view of the movie at large and the actor of the film in particular and agree that both are a complete disaster with the small caveat that the actress is as pretty as they come.

You buy yourself an ice cream which will fortify you against the next fifteen minutes of the film. You are tempted of course to walk out, icecream in hand and proceed immediately for dinner but have been taught since childhood to give an artist a chance and while it is true that describing this movie as art is either perjury or contempt of court, you find that having paid good money you must stick it out till the very bitter end. And so you look at the young college girls chuckling and chattering and wonder what they are so animated about.

And when the film ends, all you remember is the interval.