Cretin ka Lunchbox

Even if you haven't seen The Lunchbox yet, you probably already know that it is one of the sweetest, subtlest films to hit the theatres in recent times, with seasoned actor Irrfan Khan, the performer of the season Nawazuddin Siddiqui and newcomer Namit Kaur pitching in well-rounded performances. The story of two strangers connecting through letters sent via a lunchbox pulls at your heartstrings in this internet age and only a cretin would say anything but the nicest words for such a rare cinematic gem.

So let me first tell you a bit about the cretin writing this. You know those sharp, driven career women, brilliant as students and sparkling with talent as they enter the job market? I'm not one of them. I've bunked classes, flunked exams, dropped out of one college, just about managed to graduate, and changed jobs with the tenacity of a software engineer (minus the salary hikes) before landing my present position, about 3 years ago. Yet, in all those years of underachievement, it never once occurred to me to not have a career and just 'settle down'. Having a job or working towards it has always felt like a natural state.

Which is why I find it hard to relate to women like Illa from The Lunchbox. It's not that the job of a housewife is any easier than that of a working woman. I know I'd make a lousy housewife. What I fail to comprehend is Illa's utter lack of options. What compels her to be and remain such a doormat? Would her life and her status in the household be any different (for better or worse) if she had a little financial independence? Would she then have so quietly tolerated the fact that her husband was having an affair? Is it her personality or her circumstances that she cannot see any choices between quietly accepting her lot and running off to Bhutan?

Elsewhere in the cinematic universe, we have met women like Sasi of English Vinglish and Pooja in Arth.

Sasi's family is unappreciative of her prowess as efficient homemaker and beautiful cook, but she has the good sense to leverage her culinary skills for a small business. In time we realize that in their own unspoken way, her family does respect the skill and hard work that goes into whipping up a delicious dessert.

Pooja, who has apparently never learnt to fend for herself in the big bad world, nor has the impressive qualifications that would have employers lap her up, would still rather go through the ordeal of living in a seedy women's hostel and struggling for a respectable job than go back to a cheating husband.

Neither of these women, nor the number of women I know in real life who made difficult choices rather than trade their dignity for the uneasy comforts within a broken marriage, have ever had it easy. There are practical and emotional challenges, social pressures and/or financial hurdles to be negotiated, depending on the choices they made. While I do appreciate that in the real world you are more likely to meet an Illa than a Pooja - the cretin that I am - I would rather go to the movies to see the latter.

That is why, one of the most beautifully mounted films in recent times falls just short of touching a chord with me. This may also be because in the past few years, as a viewer I have been spoilt by a bunch of very talented filmmakers churning out some really polished products, with beautiful stories and well-rounded characters whose motivations are very clearly understandable. It maybe that the slice of life feel of the film, the camera's eye for detail, the nuanced performances at the service of this film are fast becoming the norm rather than a rare treat in Indian cinema. But mostly, I just feel a bit let down because I thought we had moved on from the Abala Naari narrative long, long ago.

Five, Six, Seven, Hate!

Dear Voice of Indian Youth,

Congratulations on once again making it to the top trending topics in India. How's the view from up there, Sir?

I know by now a lot of people have wasted their time in trying to explain to you just why rape jokes are tasteless, but I'll add my voice to the cacophony anyway. So here goes.

First of all, get over yourself. Not everything is about you. Stop classifying the world into your fans who have delegated the job of representing their voice to you, and your haters who 'lurk' behind twitter handles, stalking you, waiting to pounce. There's more to people than what they think of you and how they treat you. Nobody came to this world with the sole mission to read your books, or to badger you. You're not the good Badi Bahu in a prime time TV show, and people who say mean things about your books or your columns or your tweets are not jealous Chhoti Bahus who'll go to any extent to make Saasuji frown on you, even if it means (gasp!) pouring a cupful of red chilli powder into your daal makhani.

No, you're a writer, a popular one, and your books are available in the market for less than Rs 100 per copy. This means anyone with Rs 100 in their pocket has access to your thoughts, your ideas, your opinions, your creativity and they are in a position to say stuff about you. Deal with it. And if you can't deal with it, don't write.

Similarly, when you write something on tweeter, any and all of your over 1.8 million followers can and will have an opinion on what you say. Not all opinions will be kind. And many of them can and will share those opinions in the public space, just as easily as you share your enlightened views on the state of the economy. Don't whine.

Now on the matter of your latest foot-in-the-mouth incident. What is so wrong in what you tweeted, you ask (as do some of your supporters). Here's what:

Rape.

At a time when yet another brutal gang rape has shook the nation, when one of our Godmen has been accused of sexual assault, you merrily used the word as a metaphor for the falling rupee. And when people raised an objection to this - some politely, some not quite - you dubbed them as 'haters' and 'idiots'. Agreed, reactions to your tweet need not have been all malicious. But then, in using the word 'rape',  you weren't exactly trying to be polite, were you? You wanted to elicit some strong reactions, stir some emotion, didn't you? Why are you acting all hurt if some of the reaction is directed at you?

You have the right to Freedom of Speech. But haven't you ever learnt that freedom comes with responsibility? I do not find your use of the word in good taste, but I do recognize your right to use it to convey a strong emotion. Now that you have said what you wanted to say, why not stand your ground? Instead of calling people idiots and haters, why not defend your choice of vocabulary, using any of the various channels at your disposal? Why not make a sustained argument for the necessity of using strong, if offensive vocabulary? Why delete the tweet, and for heaven's sake, did you just use the word 'harmless'?

Please go ahead and explain how that precious tweet of yours would have contributed towards uplifting the economy. Please educate us on how we can 'raise our voices' against the fall of the rupee. Should we hold a candlelight vigil? Should we boycott Mc Donalds? Should we rise in revolution and overthrow the evil government and establish military rule - will that help stabilize the rupee? I'm asking in all earnestness, because I know nuts about Economics and have no idea what I can do to stop the tumbling currency in its tracks.

I hope you have some answers in that brilliant mind of yours. If you don't, the least you can do is acknowledge that your remark was insensitive and apologize. After all, “As an artist you have full freedom to write whatever you want to. However... Should you be exercising the right to hurt people (sic)?” - your words, not mine. You said something to this effect in the context of the Salman Rushdie controversy at a Literary Festival. You were, of course, talking about religious sentiments getting hurt. Are those the only sentiments worth protecting, Mr Writer of the Masses?

Never cease to amaze

Right on the heels of the viral CNN iReport story, came another news, of yet another gangrape in yet another metropolitan city of India. Will all the India defenders please stand up? I'm speaking to you, Mr Senior Rightwing journalist, who said the report comprised gross exaggerations. What do you have to say now that this has happened to one of our own? I'm speaking to you, guardians of morality and dispensers of wisdom. Kindly point out to me the error of my ways now, tell me how I can avoid meeting a similar fate by scaling down my ambition, by putting safety before my job, by not tempting fate, by widening my definition of unsafe urban spaces.

When we step out of the house, we do so at our own risk. When we speak about harassment, we are told to conduct ourselves better. When a leading actress requests media to refrain from printing pictures snapped of her without her permission, she is gently told to stop whining, because a picture clicked in a public space is fair game. I must really thank "FP staff" for bringing this to my notice, so I'd know better than to ever appear in beachwear anywhere in the world, because then anybody clicking my pictures without my permission would be fair game. Sure, Indian media houses won't be falling over each other to publish those pictures, but I'd better not complain if pictures of me clicked without my knowledge ever pops up somewhere I'd least expect (or wish) them to. Because if I'm in a public space, my picture, and by extension I am fair game. Oh, and do you know how I stumbled upon that article? It was linked right below this one talking about the Mumbai gangrape. Bravo Firstpost.

We are a screwed up society. We don't know the lines between curiosity, voyeurism, invasion of privacy, abuse and molestation. We have still not recognized that the only factor differentiating different levels of invasion, or containing the damage up to a certain level is opportunity. We don't take 'minor' offenses seriously, because we don't realize that the guy who can stroke a woman's thigh in a bus can rape her in an alley.

We don't take one white woman's account seriously. Then it happens to one of us.

One India, many different stories

A University of Chicago student recently recounted some of the traumatic experiences she had during her trip to India about a year ago as part of a study group. Her article was published in CNN iReport, a user-generated news platform. Another female student from the same group, a young African American student, posted her response to the story, taking exception to what she perceived in the original story as stereotyping of Indian men based on the actions of a few.

Briefly, this is what happened during the study trip:

A group of students, including our two authors - Rose and twoseat (the penname used by the second author) from University of Chicago visited India for a three-month Indian civilizations program. An incident confirmed by both reports was on their first day in Pune. It was the Ganesh Festival and the American girls joined in the street dancing - dancing which stopped as soon as the group of foreigners joined in. Through their three month tenure, the girls in the group were stared, groped, their pictures clicked and subject to every kind of misbehaviour women, especially foreigners may expect on Indian streets. There was a rape attempt on one of the girls in the group - an incident that left indelible marks especially on Rose. Upon her return to the US, she was unable to shake off the trauma and suffered mental disturbance to the extent that she was held in psychiatric ward for some time.

As of 22^nd August, Rose’s story greets you on the landing page of CNN iReport, and the statistics are impressive:

The article was read by roughly 12,000 more readers since I started writing this post. Twoseat’s kinder take on India and her defense of Indian men at large finds fewer takers at the moment:

Naturally, a part of me wants to jump to the defense of my country and cry foul over western perceptions about India. Anyway, this is not a rant against stereotyping of India and Indians by a white woman. Far from it.

As an Indian, I feel ashamed of the treatment meted out to these girls. I feel more ashamed, because I have long been aware of the strange way in which we all behave around foreigners, but never given it much thought. I have listened quietly even as people I know, sniggered, joked and shared generally uncharitable, uninformed opinions about ‘those women’ - opinions based on their strange manner of dressing, or the audaciousness of women roaming about, un-chaperoned, in places and spaces where even we the local women don’t venture alone.

Reactions to Rose’s article predictably include sage advice from Indian women about how to behave in India. No Indian woman would dance on the street during the Ganesh Festival, points out one comment. That may be true, but why is it the case? What is so wrong, in a country so fond of festivity, to display a little bit of your inner child in a space where a crowd is apparently enjoying themselves? True, I never fancied doing the same, even though I’m usually the first one to get on my feet during most family weddings. 

Sometimes it takes an outsider to make us question the little things that we take for granted. What makes us a society where men dancing on the street is celebration, while a woman joining in is a spectacle?

The incident in Goa seems by all appearances the most traumatic experience that no one should have to face. To be fair, I don’t know if I were to visit Goa with a group of my friends today, something like that would never happen to me. Molestation in India, as most of us are painfully aware, is more a matter of opportunity than the colour of your skin or the clothes you wear, or any physical or personal attribute. Let’s make no mistake about this - individual attributes are for humans; rapists, molesters, stalkers, starrers and gropers don’t see us as humans - they wouldn’t do that to you if they thought of you as a person.

What I’m trying to get at is that the Goa incident was a criminal assault, one that would understandably scar anyone in that unfortunate position. I could potentially be attacked, mugged or face one of the any number of possible unpleasant experiences in a foreign country, and my memories of the country would be permanently tainted by that incident.

As an Indian, my place is not to play the victim and lament the treatment meted out to women in this country, but to regret that a visitor to my country ended up taking back a slice of this reality with her. It is generous on the part of young African American student to weigh in that the whole country and all the men here should not be stereotyped because of the actions of a few. She’s right, there are enough good, honourable men in India to make the place liveable and loveable; my own, somewhat naive belief is that those men are in a majority.

As an Indian however, particularly in the face of such incidents, my place is not to cite the good conduct of those good men, get defensive about what my country is or isn’t like, and belittle the trauma that Rose faced. It is rather my duty to own up to the fact that there is something in the society that I’m very much a part of, that allows some of its men to behave despicably and get away with it. It sucks to admit this, but the sooner we do, the more likely we are to take little steps within our power to change this.

Update: I hadn't read this opinion piece on Firstpost, published on the same day, at the time I posted this. The author puts across many more points that I would have liked to address, and much better than I could have.

The Murderous Mangalsutra in Ramaiya Vastavaiya

(Minor spoilers ahead)

I enjoyed Ramaiyya Vastavaiyya like you can only enjoy a Telugu potboiler or a Salman Khan movie: with a dollop of indulgence and surrender to the movie's loony premise. The movie is no doubt skillfully crafted. I watched it with my in-laws and my parents, and we are an assortment of five very unique individuals. It is to the credit of the film and the people in front as well as behind the camera that each one of us enjoyed the movie and never once got bored. More on the movie later; here I am only addressing a common trope used during the climactic fight scene.

My knowledge of South Indian films is very limited - I cannot tell Tamil from Telugu. Anyone who can enlighten me on the subject here is most welcome to do so politely.

A very knowledgeable friend, a rationalist who has spent the best years of his life fighting superstition in rural Maharashtra, once told me about the origin of the Mangalsutra, a string of black and golden beads that married women in Southern states of India wear to signify their marital status (besides the mandatory bindi, toe rings, bangles, sindoor and whatever else local customs require married women to wear to make it crystal clear that they're taken).

According to him, in olden days when an attacking army ravished a neighboring kingdom, women in the besieged land were considered spoils of war for the victorious soldiers. To avoid fighting among themselves over the best goods, the custom was for the horseback soldier to throw a noose around the neck of any woman he fancied. That noose came to symbolize a man's right over a woman. Over the centuries, this noose evolved into a more elegant ornament called mangalsutra, but it's function, for those who believe, remains the same - it signifies a man's possession of a woman, and the woman's status as one with a living husband.

I don't know if this origin story is completely true, but the brandishing of Mangalsutra in some Indian movies, particularly in Southern potboilers and their Hindi remakes, makes this theory plausible. The errant young bahu in one movie gets her way with her husband and in-laws by threatening to tear the yellow string; the good wife in another movie runs as if for her life when the villain tries to snatch the sacred thread from her, like it would have mortally hurt her hale and hearty husband; the baddies in yet another movie try to get their revenge on the guy from a poor family who secretly MS-ed their precious young sister (using it as a verb seems to convey the action more effectively), by threatening to get the village madman to MS the poor guy's widowed mother. The scene where the old widow is humiliated in front of the whole village by first splashing color on her chaste white sari, then adorning her hair with jasmine - soon followed by a shot of her terrified face framed by the approaching Mangalsutra in the madman's hands - has disturbing undertones of a rape being committed in full public view.

The latest frothy romance from Prabhu Deva turns to the same trope during it's climactic fight scene. Truth be told, the scene where the mild-mannered Shruti Hassan is kidnapped and surrounded by some repulsive-looking goons in an isolated area is creepy enough to make the skin crawl. When baddie-in-chief declares that his son will now make her a proper bride, I began to worry that this so far family-friendly movie was about to turn ugly, when son-of-baddie revealed his evil plan and his evil weapon - yes, a Mangalsutra. Of course the girl's brother and boyfriend promptly appear to her rescue, but even amid the chaos of men fighting and arms and legs breaking all around, son-of-baddie manages to corner the girl and MS her right then and there. Of course his throat is slit by one of the good guys before he can execute this nefarious scheme.

Maybe I'm too much of a softie, but rather than kill a human being, no matter how creepy and despicable, wouldn't it be more amicable for all parties to just let him tie the freaking thread, then go ahead and break a few of his bones, dispose the thread, and get on with your life? I get that tying the thread is a visual metaphor for evil deeds you'd rather not show on screen. Much like Marshall 'reading a magazine'*, noisy neighbors 'playing bagpipes'** and college kids 'eating sandwiches'*** in HIMYM.

Still, it is somewhat offensive to see an educated woman feel so threatened by an object that is only symbolic of a sacred bond. Sacred objects are sacred because of the meaning we bestow on them. Even if the story of the black beads having evolved from a noose is true, in a civilized society the MS would serve only as a symbol, not a contract - certainly not without informed consent from both parties. By brandishing the sacred thread like a weapon - even if it is only a metaphor in a family-friendly movie - these films seem to take us back to a time when women had no more agency than cattle or a notebook labelled with a kid's name.

* taking a dump
** having noisy sex
*** smoking marijuana

I heart luv stories... though not quite

I recently realized that I'm late to the party as far as a slew of retro love stories in apna Bollywood are concerned. Maybe it's a sign I'm getting old, but I never felt motivated enough to go out and watch I Hate Luv Stories, Mere Brother Ki Dulhan, Rockstar, Ishaqzade, Student Of The Year, Ashiqui Thoo, Ranjhana, and while I was curious about Yeh Jawani Hai Deewani, I let that pass too (and no, I won't include Jab Tak Hai Jaan in this list, dead director zombie hero or whatever). So pardon me for admitting that Lootera took me by surprised. I mean, the era of anti-romantic love stories heralded by Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge and Hum Aaapke Hain Kaun is over, and nobody bothered to share the good news with me!

Now before you start pelting stones at this blog, let me explain. First, stop throwing stuff at your computer screen. Second, well I loved DDLJ and HAHK as much as anybody else in 1994. In 1994.

Those films were good. They stood apart in a time when love stories meant a creepy hero stalking a pink-frocked heroine till she gave in to his rakish charms, then beating up a few baddies before riding off into the sunset. Or creepy hero stalking pink-frocked heroine till she gave in to his rakish charms, then getting into trouble with local don who dutifully plunges at hero's sister who in turn proceeds to die either before or after getting raped in order to be avenged by brooding Bhaiyya who then rides off into the sunset or goes to jail, depending on whether brooding Bhaiyya was played by Akshaye, Sunil or Sunny.

All this changed when Yash uncle and King Face Khan stepped in with a film that, for the first time on Indian screen, put stalking in perspective and reminded us all that in the real world, carving someone's name on your chest is a sign of mental imbalance, at par with talking to your dead mother on phone and killing people. Then came HAHK which reminded us that while finding The One you can frolic around the pool with is really nice, you need to think of your family and their interests too - and chances are, Divine Pomeranian Intervention will step in at just the right time before your sacrifice goes too far.

Then DDLJ put a final seal on the new rules of romance, rules that were to be followed for nearly two decades of Bollywood romances:

• You may hanky-panky against pretty European locales as long as you are appropriately chaste, wear your Hindustani values on your sleeves and can rattle off some lines on the moral superiority of desi boys and girls
• The girl is dad's property, to be taken with permission only
• That means dad's permission, not the girl's. You may hand over the girl to Daddy to be married off as he may please, never mind what she wants
• Love is... leaving some poor guy at the altar to be with your puppy faced lover because... awww....

Over the next couple years, the last rule got slightly reset to:

• Love is... the poor guy at the altar happily relinquishing marital bliss for the sake of puppy faced lover because... awww....

And so it went. Whether it was a big banner NRI wedding video or its cheap knockoff, the hero no longer bothered to propose marriage till the girl was properly attired for the ceremony. Even wedding guests got so used to the routine, their faces rarely registered surprise in the event of grooms getting swapped: notice the reactions on all of Kajol's sahelis in the climactic scene of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. They are so damn relieved that Kajol was ditching Salman for the blast from her past, it's like... I mean, if I was invited to a wedding where the card says Bunty weds Babli, and then Bunty stops mid-ceremony and hands Babli over to his good friend Bunny, I'd be very, very confused. Unless I had an unreciprocated crush on Bunty.... anyway, I digress.

A nice twist to the last-minute groom swapping tradition came in Jab We Met. 

(Spoiler Alert for losers who don't want to know the denouement of a six-year-old movie) 

Here we have a girl, the guy she's supposed to want to marry, and the guy her family thinks she's going to marry, and all she has to do is to tell everyone that while the wedding preparations and decoration are spot on, they might want to change one of the names on the card in time to spare some unsuspecting guests a lot of confusion. The only problem is, she no longer wants to marry the guy she's supposed to want to marry, and wants to marry the guy her family thinks she's going to marry instead! Now that was a deliciously confusing conclusion to a simple love story if there ever was one. 

(End Spoiler Alert for losers who don't want to know the denouement of a six-year-old movie)

From all evidence, love stories are becoming more real, more relate-able now, where actions have consequences, locations are more earthy and matters of who marries whom are settled outside the Mandap.

***
Coming back to Lootera...

I liked the somewhat bratty, strong headed heroine in Lootera as much as I liked its flawed hero. What I liked most, though, were the little things - like Barun Chanda's colonial accent, Vikrant Massey's no-head-bobbing Dev Anand impression, the haveli with its colonial knick-knacks and its lime-washed walls, and all those little details so lovingly compiled by Motwane.

Now some of my favorite critics have already given some beautiful reviews to this film, so I won't go into all that. Just sharing a few thoughts here.

The setting:
The first time Sujay suggested watching Lootera, I flippantly dismissed the idea - "Not another period film." The heavy costuming, the posturing, the affected speech from most characters, all the artificiality of your average period flick usually wears me out. It was a bit refreshing then, to see a lot of outdoors, bright & fresh colours and a Sonakshi with very little jewelry and brocade. I'm also glad that the two leads do not try too hard to fit into the period setting, and focus instead, on the story of these two people they're portraying, and their emotional journey.

I've mentioned before that I'm not a sucker for authenticity in my movies. My views were reinforced recently by the first half of Matru Ki... I am no more motivated to finish the movie than to finish typing its name here. All the hilarious sounding capers - and this film puts you through two crazy drunk scenes with the spectacularly talented Pankaj Kapur (one of them in a twin seater plane), a pink buffalo, a pink Navneet Nishan, a corrupt Shabana, a gorgeous Anushka, a buffoonish fiance, kidnapped zulu dancers, a flying Mao... all in the first half - just didn't do it for me. Perhaps because Imran, who is given an enviably complex role here, puts all his energy into the Haryanvi accent instead, which by the way sucked.

What I found in Lootera instead was just as much detail of the era as was necessitated by the story. The many little treasures in the old haveli of the landlord are also an important component of the story, and they walk out of the picture once they have played their part in catalyzing some key events. The lavishness here never tapers towards the obscene, and the buildings, the people, feel like people and stuff in a real world rather than the ghosts haunting one of SLB's blue-green studios, rehearsing the roles they were meant to play in the local Ram Lila before tragedy struck. It is interesting that Motwane has been mentored by the man Bhansali himself. If the ambiance of this film owes anything to said mentoring, then Motwane is the best kind of student out there, one who can really cherry-pick the best qualities of the mentor and thrash the rest.

O' Henry:
When I first read The Last Leaf, and during my many subsequent re-readings (I can never have enough of O' Henry, sue me) I often fantasized about turning that story into a film. I had even sketched out a possible adaptation, in which the girls would be struggling actresses living in a cheap apartment in Andheri, and the old man would be an out of work painter of film hoardings. So pardon me for being a little biased, but great choice of story there!

The chase scene:
Am I the only one who thought the chase scene in the second half was somewhat inspired by the one in Anurag Kashyap's Black Friday? The way Ranveer gradually wears out, how that messes up his orientation, how the inspector calls out to him by name, the initial assurance that gets drained out as he finds himself cornered... do read Baradwaj Rangan's piece where he has beautifully captured this part.

***
So yeah, maybe watching a love story every once in a while may not be such a colossal waste of time. Now that Bollywood has some actual young people to act as young people, we might perhaps get more of these, and maybe, just maybe they won't turn into the assembly line products of the noughties too soon. Hopefully they won't be too much in the Hollywood template either (more on that later). Needless to say, Dr Horrible's Sing-Along Blog remains the greatest love story ever told.

Little Pink and the mountain of chocolate

Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose name nobody remembered. Some called her Little Pink Dupatta because of all the pink stuff she wore, while others called her Chocorella because she loved chocolate. But alas, she could not have chocolate more than once a day, lest she grow out of all her pretty pink outfits.
One day on her way back home from work, Little Pink chanced upon a pretty little chocolate shop. It was two hours to supper, so she went in and asked the kind old man at the counter for a cup of dark hot chocolate. "Do you want your chocolate in a cuddle cup," the old man asked. "Yes, please," replied Little Pink.
It was then that she saw a little sign behind the counter:
HOT PANCAKES, VANILLA OR CHOCOLATE, RS 99 ONLY!

That's wonderful, thought Little Pink, I can have a pancake here and won't have to make dinner. Aloud, she said, "I'll also have a pancake, please."
"Will that be Vanilla, or Chocolate?" asked the kind old man.
"Vanilla," replied Little Pink. I couldn't possibly have chocolate pancake with hot chocolate, she thought, because there is such a thing as too much chocolate, even for Chocorella.

Minutes later, as she was sipping the steaming hot dark chocolate out of a big white cuddle cup, the pancake arrived - and it was nothing like anything Little Pink had seen before.
The thin little vanilla pancake was doused in chocolate syrup, sprinkled with chocolate chips, and topped with a large scoop of chocolate ice cream. Little Pink almost shrieked at the thought of eating all that chocolate before the ice cream melted under the hot chocolate syrup. I couldn't possibly waste all that chocolate now, she thought as she got down to the task of eating that big mountain of chocolate in front of her, careful not to get any chocolate stains on her pretty pink dress, trying her best not to look like one of those disgusting Cadbury Dairy Milk Silk ads on TV.

An hour later, a weary little girl in pink got back to her little cabin in the woods, her little belly full of delicious hot chocolate and chocolate ice cream and vanilla pancake, and a look of tired satisfaction on her face. She went to bed early that evening, promising herself to stay away from chocolate for a while. And sure enough, she did not have another piece of chocolate for the next... 12 hours.

Moral of the story:
There is no such thing as too much chocolate.

P.S. At the time of this story, Chocorella was 30 years old, but she was still called Little Pink because she's... short.