Here it is, late Thursday night. I’ve just put in a full day at the office, finished a novel I’m reviewing on the way home on the train, spoke to the author for close to an hour for the same article, made some pasta for dinner, chatted on the phone while The Celebrity Apprentice wrapped up in the background. (Well played, Piers and Trace.)
And before turning in, I was in the mood for some light entertainment, some filmi song and dance. Hey, where’s the stash I brough back from Bombay? What will it be? Partner or Jhoom Barabar Jhoom? Well, I’d seen chunks of JBJ over and over on a long flight a few months ago, so I opt for ChiChi’s fedora-clad megahit from last year.
After I unwrap the cellophane, still bearing the Rs 399 sticker from PlanetM in downtown Bombay, where I plunked down a considerable amount of greenbacks on my last trip back, I open the silly cardboard cut-out flaps of the DVD box, and see the hot pink T-series DVD laying there. I lift it up and – don’t ask me why – flip it over, and I don’t believe it: the disc is SO scratched and dusty, it looks like it’s been left on the Juhu Tara Road and driven over by rush hour traffic.
Call me optimistic (anyone who knows how long I endured through a certain relationship can attest to that), but, after some gentle cleaning with an appropriate dry cloth, I pop the scarred disc into the tray of my player, hoping beyond hope that it will go.
But, alas no.
Shame on you, PlanetM, for selling such damaged merchandise, and/or shame on T-Series for packing such crap to sell to the public. I’ll be over to see you one of these days.