Biff, pow, bang. Have muscles, will bedazzle?

Boat seriously. On board a sea vessel, a set of 32 gutka-stained teeth is so upset that he resembles an overcooked omelette. Seems he operates a flesh trade, is suddenly consumed by dread, worried sick that half a dozen of his girls have vanished into thin air. Despair.

The heart has been in healthier shape during the first six months of 2011. Mumbai showtown’s cardiologists are actually smiling.

They may not be sanctifying their liaison right now. Better to be a steamy Saifeena twosome than to trot towards a nikaah, the saat pheras, or a civil marriage. Saif Ali Khan and Kareena Kapoor, despite alarming reports of an imminent break-up, are conjoined at the hips. Priyanka Chopra’s been yoked, unofficially, with every superstar or

I’ve never caught them red-handed, at least when it comes to reading a book. Exceptions apart, filmstars are as far away from the world of hardcovers and paperbacks as Kashmir is from Kanyakumari.

They’re not bathing for hours and hours anymore, muchos gracias to the cellphone culture. At least now, the dogged film producer, director, journo and even debt collector striving to contact a B-ville celebrity, doesn’t have to suffer the ignominy of being miffed on the landline telephone.

Khalid Mohamed

Aha, he’s as unpredictable as the monsoon showers which have been lashing Bollytown, moodily turning into a drizzle. In fact, the buzz is how could he? The epitome of sense and sensibility has downloaded the song, Bhaag DK Bose, which may be enshrined as the most vulgar and oral innuendo-packed line of lyric in Indian cinema history.

HIS LUST for life wasn’t contagious. It was humbling. The experience of walking on the wintry London streets with an indefatigable Maqbool Fida Husain, characteristically barefoot, belonged to the realm of the unbelievable.

Khalid Mohamed

So Ahana, the chirpy teenaged girl-next-door, doesn’t know who on earth Dilip Kumar is. “Who’s he?” the B-wood movie addict asked. “Some newcomer or what?”

Khalid Mohamed

Shudder. Once upon a time — not so long ago actually — I’d sagely suggested that a psycho-analyst could perhaps help in curing the topsy-turvy behaviour of Salman Khan. The avuncular advice, unsolicited, was offered in a newspaper column. Dad Salim Khan retaliated by snarling that it was I who needed a shrink (oh well).