To
The Jantar Mantar Bhook-Hartal Organising Committee,
Sansad Marg,
New Delhi

Dear Sirs and Madams,
I would first like to congratulate you for turning the 1724 observatory meant for tracking the sun, the moon and the nakshatras into a mighty watchtower for ghoos-khori.

Anna Hazareji’s unblinking stare has pierced the walls of Parliament at the other end of the street, and for this I smile, shed a tear, and salute you.
But dear Sirs and Madams, since Annaji is done rousing the moral conscience of the country and ensuring that our MPs, MLAs, their families and friends will be debugged and restored to their pristine form, could you please book his spot for me. For a bhook-hartal. The khadi poster behind my angry samadhi will read: “Bollywood ki Naari: Na abla, na bechari, bus directors ki mardangi issues ki maari”.
You see, dear Sirs and Madams, I have been planning this since our directors started devoting their films, especially comedies, to the fantasies of ball-scratching gents and creating threadbare plots and harebrained women.
In their worlds only two types of women exist: The wives and the bimbettes. The wife has no cleavage. She stays at home, goes out occasionally to meet other wives to obsess about who the husband is sleeping with now. The wife is suspicious all the time, yet remains devoted — serves hot meals, wears sexy nighties, keeps karva chauth and is keen to have lots of cute children.
The bimbette is mostly a free-floating white female or desi item girl. Her wardrobe consists of bikini tops and six-cm-long skirts/shorts. She will sleep to please, drink, gyrate and make no demands. She is always available — for a nightcap, a nooner, a weekend. She gravitates towards soft, flat surfaces and once perched will turn into a moaning, ravenous Playboy centre-spread.
The purpose of the directors of such films is clear: Let the men get their jollies by sampling various varieties of lollies. Then let the wives catch them red-handed, to be scolded, punished and tamed. Always, directors depart at this photo-op. Establishing the supremacy of the family and marital vows is enough. Watching a domesticated husband in action would be too scary. The bimbette? She vaporises.
Director Anees Bazmee is a repeat offender. He has made, amongst others, No Entry, Welcome and now, Thank You — films presumably inspired by doormats.
Here he takes us to Vancouver to meet three friends: All three are married and happy philanderers. Vikram (Irrfan Khan) is the commander of the group and treats his wife (Rimi Sen) like an annoying dimwit. She plays along, secretly wishing him ill. The group’s weakest link is Yogi (Suniel Shetty). He has already been caught by his wife (Celina Jaitley), so she treats him as her coolie-cum-slave. Raj (Bobby Deol) is the poster-boy of this cheaters club. His wife Sanjana (Sonam Kapoor) believes he is faithful.
But there is far too much carnal activity and soon Sanjana begins to have doubts. In walks Kishen (Akshay Kumar). Tall, handsome but lonely Kishen is on a mission. He is the pied piper who collects unhappy wives and delivers them to marital bliss.
The three wives find a soul mate in Kishen and he sets out to discredit the three husbands. This process is made slightly comical when the cheaters seek Kishen’s help to find out who is tattling on them. A nonsensical subplot involving a local don and his suspicious wife intervenes and delays the couples’ separation and reunion.
Dear Sirs and Madams, there are hints all along that Kishen’s heart flutters at the sight of Sanjana. But since she is married, the director ensures that she remains kosher. He doesn’t even give her a moment to pause and consider Kishen. But Kishen’s own macho credentials are nicely established before the end credits roll.
Yes, Irrfan Khan has toxic dialogue and superb delivery and Bobby Deol has dimples. But Akshay Kumar is in every frame, and Sonam Kapoor really doesn’t appear to possess a sound mind.
Agreed, the film has a few funny moments. But its stupidity and single-minded pandering to the wilting male libido is offensive. Ladies have libido, too, you know. Even in Bollywood.
But in Bazmee’s idiot world, where a situation pretends to be a story, where the music is bland and Mallika Sherawat dances as if she’s in a deep freeze, women are not allowed any fun.
Dear Sirs and Madams, don’t you agree that we need deliverance from more such tortures? Don’t you think my bhook-hartal is justified? Don’t you agree that women have reason to scream, “No, Thank You”.

Aapki,
Suparna Sharma