I am 25 ebbing on the heavier side of it, and I tried watching Umrao Jaan. I could not keep up with the note-taking-and-watching-the-movie-act for more than 45 minutes. But simultaneously I am able to sit through re-runs of Mughal-e-Azam, Ganga Aor Jamuna, Aan and Mother India without even knowing that am seeing them for the umpteenth number of time.

Similarly, there are movies I watched as a rebel pixie in love five years back, and I can’t stand them now – (Pyaar Ka Punchnama, Love & Other Drugs). Then there is the unimitable Manorama Six Feet Under, there's Haasil and there is Firaaq – I borrowed them several times, I downloaded them on other occasions, and I sat with roommates to see them on other occasions. But I just couldn’t.

I pride myself for being my father’s daughter and for watching Mother India with him and crying therapeutically, clutching onto my mother’s wrist. I pride myself for being the 90s movie megalomaniac who would sit and just watch TV with the elder brother on weekdays and run to switch it off as soon as we heard the parents’ vehicle at the fag end of the bend of the road that led up to the house.