Bomaby wears a cloak of suspense
Years of no change have driven
So called ‘creative minds’ nuts
Hair trimmed , shaved cheeks
Fierce eyes
That say ‘I can stab you in the stomach anytime’
Devdas descends in to unknown territory
Leaving behind teardrops
wriggling about with rampant restlessness
Leaving behind neon bulbs
that shone shamelessly, all day long
Leaving behind the laidback labyrinth of histrionics
And also the little prostitute
who has thrown away her shimmery clothes
who now speaks flawless French and Tamil
and wears clearance sale jeans
Devdas thinks
Humor will kill the emotions
It’ll downplay the sentimentality
Humor was for an audience
Who lived in a world of make believe
Not for the cult loving elite
He drinks Mumbai from the cup called Bombay
Walks along the zig zag routes
Past chimneys those throw lightning
Urban Madness
Nihilistic forecasts
Prose without plots
And at the end of it all
Devdas dies
Insanity survives
Cinema shivers in between
