By Ramjee Chandran
Some years ago, my friend Sanjay Goel and I came upon a not-so-surprising similarity – we both hit the Like button on James Bond.
Nothing unusual about a couple of suave and sophisticated dudes digging the world’s favourite spy, but Goel and I were joined at the hip. We discovered that we both blasted Monty Norman’s James Bond theme every morning as we got ready for work.
The song and its heart-racing electric guitar riff would jolt us out of our normally abstemious, positively Gandhian passivity and turn us into masters of the universe – imperturbable ones that did not need road rage to bend the rush hour traffic to our will. Such was our wont.
All because of Bond. Popular literature has had characters we have emulated, like Bond, like Holmes, both John and Sherlock. (Go ahead, look up John Holmes. I dare you.) Like Bertie Wooster. Even Iron Man 3. Bad boys, all. Booze-fuelled, opium-laced, nicotine-infested bad boys.
None of them ever said sorry. Or vowed to become good boys by succumbing to the hypocrisy of January’s resolutions following the hype of December excesses.
It’s the artless honesty of the season that should not end.