Reading Karan Johar’s autobiography is like watching one of his movies: you remain riveted to it from beginning till end. It may be a world that’s quite different from the one you are used to. The grandeur is dreamlike. But the sorrows are more real and touching though not deeply enough. It’s entertaining as much as a steaming cup of coffee or occasionally a drink of Scotch on the rocks. And you know that a coffee or Scotch is not going to be much of a classic. The book begins with a self-deprecating account of the author’s childhood. We see Karan as a chubby boy who was teased for being a “pansy” or who could not survive in a boarding school beyond a couple of days or so. The young Karan was not very promising in any way so much so that his mother was alarmed enough to lament that he was just “ a mediocre student” who had no interest in anything particularly and one who could not even make friends. Karan entered Bollywood without much difficulty, thanks to his fa
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