My Life Is A Song

Walking out of my world which was turning dangerously bland,

I chanced upon a desert in a faraway land,

Where the velvet sand was kissed by the sun's amber rays so bright,

And for miles around, there was not a soul in sight.

Then, in a pleasant paradox to the arid heat,
Lay a large oasis at some hundred feet,
I strode a little closer, and couldn’t believe my eyes,
Sprawled across was a green paradise.

Surrounding a gentle brook that made music so fine,
Stood scores of trees, of fir and pine,
Around which little elves and fairies trotted along,
Humming “My smile is my sunshine, my life is a song”.

I went to them and asked if they were aware,
Of the loveliest place on earth that ever was there,
They motioned towards the mountain at the aft of the stream,

Said, the view from there was a surreal dream.

I scaled up to the peak where the earth met the sky,

Ecstatic, I prayed for wings so I could fly,

Sheets of white were spread all over,

And I wished to freeze, right there, forever!

A resounding thwack shook me up from my daze,

I turned to see the boss offer a petulant gaze,

He said, "Of daisies and damsels you dream all day,

But if you don't spruce up now, you'll jolly well have to pay!"

Ah, so for the money and the status, I'll reconcile,

I'll clear up my work that's gathered in a pile,

Won't fuss today that my life is a whole lot of crap,

For I saw the beauty of the world in a short little nap.

Sorbet On Ice

I woke in a cringe to a mangy little wail,
'Twas one of those guys trying a futile Sunday morning sale,
I peeped out of my window with bleary eyes
To find a little lad selling sorbet on ice.

Shorn of the smile that a child should wear,
He was frail as a leaf, ready to tear,
As he caught my eye, he pleaded in earnest
To buy his sorbet, so he could be blessed.

I curbed my wrath and shooed him away,
How I hate being bugged on so early a Sunday!
I walked to the park just round the neighbourhood,
Thought the morning's fresh gale would do me some good.

A trepid mind then began counting its woes,
Of finances and farces, of friends and foes,
And just then a sorry sight caught my gaze,
When a wiry old lady tripped and fell flat on her face.

I rushed to her and helped her to her feet,
Blood streamed through her nose, she looked forlorn and beat,
Her confounded look bespoke the saga of her life,
One of separation, sorrow, soliloquy and strife.

I asked her if I could be of some help to her,
She said, ‘Oh yes, you very much can, kind Sir,
I’m looking for my son who has deserted me since long,
Without telling me what I did so wrong.’
Of her limitless love with passion she spoke,
‘I need to see him,’ she said with a choke,
‘I’m bereft of love, and I have little time
To gain his love, and forgiveness for my crime.’

I slinked away, in shame and regret,
For being thankless for what each day I get,
For little trifles that seemingly affect my plight,
I forget that I at least have my loved ones in sight.

As I wound round the street, I saw the same little lad,
Cowering under a tree, hungry and sad.
I ambled upto him and asked for a sorbet on ice,
And my day was made, when I saw the glee in his eyes.

Monday Blues

There is an eerie sensation that grips me as I step into my cubicle on a Monday morning. My restive mind spurs a mélange of worries – be it facing the boss’s tirade for not having completed the previous week’s urgent deliverable, or be it planning how to duck the next deliverable likely to be handed to you (URGENT!!! Again!). I somehow escape the invectives in the morning call (why does it have to be 9 AM IST?) and scamper off for breakfast before an ominous sign pops up again. The nice, long walk to the cafeteria yields me a sumptuous idli sambhar (why are you giggling? I am serious when I say sumptuous, ain’t I?), and ah yes, also one cutting Bournvita. I try negotiating for a larger quantity, but I am rendered a disdainful look, and am made to understand that the price of milk has suddenly increased, albeit only on the premises of my office. Whatever!!
I walk back to my cubicle with my fingers crossed and a prayer in my heart. I unlock my computer and see what I fear most – half a dozen mails flagged URGENT! staring me in the face. I race with time to finish the deliverables by noon so that I can have a peaceful lunch, but time beats me fair and square. I walk down for some reprieve, hang out in the cafeteria with friends, and yes, I eat my lunch too (I’ll skip the description this time). We get into meaningless debate post lunch, the sole agenda of which is to dilly-dally that moment when we need to go back to our “work”stations. But we finally submit to the will of the boss. I walk back, this time not only with a heavy heart, but also a heavy belly. I “sleepwork” through the rest of my deliverables, seeking occasional respite from the ever lovable bulletin board. At 5 PM, I find ‘OMG, the deliverables are not complete yet!’, but pack my bag nonetheless, reconciling myself to the fact that this is an endless cycle and will repeat itself tomorrow, day after tomorrow, and the day after that, too.
As I prepare to leave, I pray for Adam Sandler’s ‘Click’ remote, that could take me fifteen years back in time, when I rather looked forward to going to school on a Monday morning, because I so loved everything about it. Or if that is too much of an ask, it could at least take me four days ahead in time, where I walk into office on an easy Friday in my Nike loafers and casual denim, feeling free, at last…

Champions turned Louts

For almost a decade, the Australians have stayed smug in a nebula of arrogance. Duly so. Despite valiant attempts and close scares given by many a team, they managed to retain their throne for pretty long, and their glory remained unscathed. And just when one might have begun to wonder how to show these vain dandies their place, someone just made our job easy. Guess who? They, themselves, of course.
With the sheer impudence displayed by the Australians in the Sydney test, they have, probably permanently, scarred their image in the cricketing world, and have deprived them of a lot of respect they could have otherwise earned for being arguably the best side in international cricket. And it is such a crying shame that the man bearing proudly this flag of ignominy is their own leader, Ricky Ponting. His brazen appeal, after he clearly floored a catch that deflected off Dhoni’s pad, shouts out loud the mentality of his team – that the spirit of a sportsman means nothing to victory addicts. Clarke’s adamancy at the crease after offering a sitter to the slips, Symond’s cheeky smile after getting a lifer from his umpire-turned-benefactor, and Ponting’s gesture after Ganguly’s dismissal – all bear testimony to the same truth. Little wonder, then, that Peter Roebuck called the team a pack of wild dogs yesterday who have brought “shame to their nation”.
But after all that has transpired, the only thing that really hurts is that it is being suggested that the tour now be called off. Should the agenda now not be to give a fitting reply to the cheats, and teach them a lesson in sportsmanship? It hardly matters now whether India wins or loses the series. What matters is putting up a fight that tells the Aussies what the spirit of Team India really is. With stalwarts like Tendulkar, Ganguly and Dravid on the team, who knows – India might just serve the Aussies their comeuppance.
I was in Melbourne during the India-Australia tour in India last October. It pinched to see the way the Australian media had ridiculed our players, naming individual players like Sreesanth and commenting that they were resorting to plain “monkey antics” on the field. Was that not racism? We should be asking Symonds how was that comment different from what he says Harbhajan called him. For their sake, the Aussies should stop behaving like cry-babies; they’d rather bask in the glory of their championship while it lasts.

As the ball soared up in the air, punched off the usually brutal blade of Rahul Dravid's bat, a million hearts held still. Five seconds of an endless wait to see what none of us wanted to see-the ball landing right in the hands of Muralitharan, who danced ecstatically even as a million hearts cried. The verdict was virtually out-India's out of the World Cup. For a country that has made cricket its religion, it was a tough reality to reconcile with. And the repercussions are very obvious.
Within minutes of India's ignominious defeat, in fact even before that, the media had begun splashing muck on the names of our cricketing heroes, blog posts had begun surfacing imploring all Indians to boycott the products endorsed by Team India, and what have you. Like any other Indian cricket buff, I too, was disappointed by the dismal performance. But as an afterthought, we might want to ask ourselves what authority we, the public, really are to hurl expletives on these players, who are just another eleven humans like us. In fact, if today we accuse them of taking their stardom for granted and of approaching the game too callously, we also have a role to play here. We are the ones who take them to a pedestal with a small spark of brilliance they show in the initial phase of their career, and we also are the ones who raze them to the ground so ruthlessly when they fall below expectations. A couple of blitzkreig knocks by a newcomer called MS Dhoni make us compare him to a cricketing God called Sachin Tendulkar. Can we, then, blame him if he starts focusing more on flaunting his locks and campaigning for hair gels rather than concentrating on his game?
It's worthwhile to understand that at the end of the day, it is but a game, and someone has got to be on the receiving side. Give them a life, they are no sinners. Stop baying for their blood. And yes, they do need to mend their ways. But they are veterans, and mature enough to understand on their own that if they do not, they are doomed, because for them, cricket is their primary mode of earning their bread. The secondary sources in the form of brand endorsements are anyway going to run dry for them because no advertiser is now going to sign up any of these players until they can show their worth again. So we need not bother to boycott the products. I, for one, am not willing to give up my Adidas sneakers just because someone is not scoring runs, for no fault of mine.
The best way to bring these players down to reality would probably be to ignore them. Waiting for them with handfuls of stones at the airport will only reiterate their belief that we still worship them and expect them to do better in the future.

Alvida For Good

As the curtains rise, you see the sun rise above the Manhattan skyscrapers, sweet harmony of the violin fill the air even as a mild gale sweeps the freshly fallen autumn leaves across Brooklyn Bridge, and you know you are in marshmallow candy land. The audience breaks into applause as the Dharma Productions symbol graces the screen. But Alas! The KJ magic fails to deliver- and the hit goes wide, wide off the target.
So whatever happened to the equation “Big banner + Big star cast + Chartbuster music = Blockbuster of the year”? Owe it all to one of the lousiest scripts written in recent times- lousy not only in its premise, but also in its description. Two bitter couples with constant differences of opinion and lifestyle just can’t get enough of sniping at each other. On one hand, you have this unsuccessful soccer player whose dreams and career come crashing down with a permanent cripple, who then remains permanently caustic because his career-minded wife races far ahead in achieving her ambition. On the other hand, you have a doting husband who adores his wife to the fullest, but she sulks 24/7 because she can’t seem to “find true love”. (What were you thinking of while tying the nuptial knot, Rani?)
So far, so good, however. The movie proceeds in a sensible method for the first hour, providing splendid cinematography, decent music, and the trademark KJ dance number in an unbelievably huge mansion with the Bachchan duo gyrating in the midst of twenty odd white sirens. If nothing much, it at least promises to keep some hope kindled in anticipation of something exciting ahead. And voila! Here comes the twist: SRK and Rani, after scores of tiffs with their respective spouses, discover in each other the love and amiability they have always longed for. How? Don’t ask- it’s Bollywood.
I think our poor director forgot while directing the first half that Indian movies have to stretch three hours and beyond. So in the first half, things move at whirlwind pace, as two embittered souls, almost strangers to each other, find panacea in each other over half a dozen cups of coffee on the streets of New York. And then on one gloomy night, they have an acerbic verbal duel with their better halves, walk out on them, meet at a station and rather impulsively declare their newfound love to each other.
Then in the second half, KJ finds that he has little left to tell us, and a lot of our time to kill. So he drags the film like crazy, repeatedly showing how the two lovebirds shamelessly continue their clandestine affairs under their loyal partners’ noses, till their conscience pinches so hard that they confess the truth. Deservedly, they are kicked out by Abhishek and Preity, out of their homes and out of their lives. At this point, had sense of logic and mercy on the poor audience prevailed, the director would have given the final cut right there. But hold on, we are far from having completed three hours! And more importantly, you need to have a happy ending. So we have another marathon session where the two lament over their mistakes for three long years. And after this is done, you find SRK on his knees in front of Rani, having defeated all pangs of guilt, suggesting to her that they should serve their comeuppance for their past mistakes together. How very convenient, ain’t it? Kudos to the new definition of morality. So listen out all ye unfaithful men in the world: you have nothing to fret about, because if your wife shows you the door, you can go look for another woman who is in the same boat, and all your woes shall be solved.
SRK provided hope in the first half of the film that he had learnt the art of emoting in moderation, but disappointed in the latter half. Rani carried a zombie-like expression throughout the movie as though she was coerced into doing the film. Preity was passable, but then there was nothing much for her in the film anyway. The music could be given some credit, but will be a fleeting fad at best. If there’s anything that might redeem the movie, it was the dynamism of the Bachchan duo. Amitabh is, as usual, splendid, be it in carrying the “Sexy Sam” image of a man who works his charm around every chick in town, or as the concerned father who prays that his son’s marriage be saved from wreckage. Abhishek, too, has come into his own, and once again shows immense acting prowess throughout the movie.
My thumbs down to the director, though. We would expect him to do much better than that. The humour he has tried to inject is nothing short of being crass. Double entendres and obscene gestures don’t always get the audience roaring, especially if the artistes enacting them are misfits. There are also some basic flaws in the movie, like SRK and Preity having from their five-year old marriage a son who looks no less than seven. Let’s not analyze that aspect, though, for this sensitive angle potentially provides an entirely new plot to KJ’s sequel to KANK, which, much to our dismay, might hit the screens in the near future. When you are competing with the likes of RDB and Omkara, merely presenting a mega star cast and good music will not suffice. I hope the director comes up with something better next time.