Among all the brouhaha of the cricket world cup , one goes through a lot of analysis , comments , write-ups and columns regarding the strengths and weaknesses of teams . You will find sundry cricket experts pontificating on the various merits and demerits of teams playing. The funny part is that these same qualtities or the lack of thereof are known to everybody who follows cricket , however the diktats of commerce has ensured that you are force fed the same banal tones time and again.
One comment which however sounded somewhat true and also gave rise to many sour memories is Harsha Bhogle's description of Indian fast bowlers dropping pace as a fashion. Now you can count on the fact that Bhogle always writes and speaks his mind even if he has to taper it down sometimes maybe due to commercial obligations of channels or portals.
The reason why I wanted to bring up this issue was the unrelenting mass orgasmic frenzy of our channels in projecting a quite ordinary Indian side as favourites even before the world cup began. Yes! we are number 1 in test cricket and probably second in ODI's , however one look at the squad selected for the world cup should have told all the pundits enough about the capability of this team to progress further.
And No! there was no need of an ecstatic Krishnamachari Srikanth making the prediction about the best team being picked and all that for people to believe otherwise.(Should have put suspicions in the minds of fans already).
Why that great fast bowler Praveen kumar was picked was beyond my understanding? In fact the 'legend' has been continued in the team for the past two years on basis of two or three mediocre performances and 'Baba Dhoni's' umpteen blessings on anybody from Maya's territory. It obviously escaped our selectors minds that the man cannot surpass 125 kmph in his dreams and would have been cannon fodder on Indian wickets.
The other pick was our perennial old man with a stoop "Ashish Nehra" , I am sure we will be blessed with a Tushar Kapoor hit before Nehra achieves full fitness. I am not going to talk about Harbhajan for this is a post about fast bowlers and the man obviously wants to ditch spin since he darts his deliveries at batsman foregoing the art of spin when the collar gets hot. (A seperate post therefore should come on the most overrated player of our generation)
Now the crux of the matter is pace , show me an Indian who says he doesn't care about an Indian tearaway bowling at 150 kmph consistently and I will show you an impostor. Do we have such bowlers the problem is yes we had! What happened to Ishant Sharma when he was bowling above 150 in Australia in 2008? if he dropped pace was there a system which took him under control? Our captain obviously has 'Alti-Plati De Ghumiake ' on his mind so you always find him rooting for great talents like Chawla and Praveen.
It is another ingenuity of our system that we call a gambling captain a brave captain , see! it keeps the money tickling in.I don't think Ishant ever found any support from the captain or the team management and we have squandered a golden opportunity of breeding a thoroughbred.What do you expect from a person who publicly criticised Sreesanth for his agression and made his displeasure clear. This treatment was meted out to a bowler who was outstanding in South africa.
There is obviously a rotten stink of parochialism in our selection as the above selections would point out. The end result was that Sreesanth came under tremendous pressure to perform in the first match and got hammered. Our great saviour and leader needs to purge his cricket brain of all cobwebs and learn about effective leadership and for heaven's sake chide a player behind closed doors and not in front of everybody. The behaviour is all the more surprising considering his affection for a certain Chawla again from 'Maya's territory'.
Obviously the captain sees more to Chawla then even his state teammates see in the legspinner who makes Narendra Hirwani look like Shane Warne.
What was the harm in trying a partnership of Ishant and Sreesanth along with Zaheer for the world cup , the theory is at least we had three bowling spearheads and not 'put the ball there' kind of bowlers like Munaf whose grunt is more effective than his bowling.
Yes! dropping pace has become a fashion but when you ground your thoroughbreds to dust you don't expect them to have the same thump in their hooves. A case here over the IPL overkill and too much unnecessary cricket.
This is a long post with a second part.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Celebrity bloggers and Vanity: Anil Wilson
Any intelligent observer would be able to judge the wheat from the chaff. In case of the blogosphere there seems to be an epidemic of bloggers trying to bask in some glory that their professions have bestowed on them. If there is an Amitabh Bachchan writing his generally pompous and somewhat pontificating blog there is no dearth of some people in 'Traditionally Respectable' professions indulging in the mundane.
One such blog I recently came across was of Mr Anil Wilson , erstwhile principal of St. Stephens and also Vice Chancellor of H.P University at one point of time. If academicians are considered a breed of knowledge bestowers than somehow the writings have to reflect that. In the case of Mr. Wilson sadly this is far from the truth.The recent post has been "To Chemo or not" a poem depicting a dying man's dilemma to undergo chemotherapy . The verse couldn't have been more puerile , the whole attempt has been to pass off mediocrity as something noble, exemplified by the note at the end(Hope this does not turn Shakespeare in his Grave.)One certainly expects better from somebody with a doctorate in Literature , considering the fact that the man also headed an institution which produced some of modern India's brightest and enlightened minds.
The rest of the blog is also pathetically rudderless with a lot of self praising entries depicting a callow nature fed on some grandiloquent flattery. There is an entry where Wilson describes an encounter with Amitabh Bachchan in Shimla , again the post reeks of a mind filled with preconceived notions and fallacies. The whole blog points towards a mind which has got undue attention due to heading a prestigious institution. Institutions should be ranked as per the calibre of their academicians , seeing Mr. Wilson's pop academic theory and carelessly written entries, one wonders on the procedure and rigour applied to choose people heading our elite institutions.
One such blog I recently came across was of Mr Anil Wilson , erstwhile principal of St. Stephens and also Vice Chancellor of H.P University at one point of time. If academicians are considered a breed of knowledge bestowers than somehow the writings have to reflect that. In the case of Mr. Wilson sadly this is far from the truth.The recent post has been "To Chemo or not" a poem depicting a dying man's dilemma to undergo chemotherapy . The verse couldn't have been more puerile , the whole attempt has been to pass off mediocrity as something noble, exemplified by the note at the end(Hope this does not turn Shakespeare in his Grave.)One certainly expects better from somebody with a doctorate in Literature , considering the fact that the man also headed an institution which produced some of modern India's brightest and enlightened minds.
The rest of the blog is also pathetically rudderless with a lot of self praising entries depicting a callow nature fed on some grandiloquent flattery. There is an entry where Wilson describes an encounter with Amitabh Bachchan in Shimla , again the post reeks of a mind filled with preconceived notions and fallacies. The whole blog points towards a mind which has got undue attention due to heading a prestigious institution. Institutions should be ranked as per the calibre of their academicians , seeing Mr. Wilson's pop academic theory and carelessly written entries, one wonders on the procedure and rigour applied to choose people heading our elite institutions.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Slumdog Millionaire : Review and musings.
Cinema is a medium where a lot of life's happenings like misery, happiness ,sorrow are captured in their various hues. Literature does not have any obligation on society to act as a medium of change. It can depict society as it is, without a coloured view on right and wrong. Literature and cinema are alike in their ability to tell a story , however enchanting or dull depending on the whims and the talent of their respective creator.
I had heard a lot about this movie before I finally got a chance to see it , agreed there were a couple of scenes which were disturbing however, the essence of the movie did not diminish. I also failed to understand critics of the movie for their consistent nitpicking on its alleged catering to western stereotypes. One of its celebrated critics who later withdrew from his comments,being India's new favourite blogger who uses his blog to shed light on his day to day activities and has found a new pastime in celebrating certain movies and downgrading others, however i do not intend to delve into that area as of now , this movie is good and their are reasons which should have been obvious for any cinema lover.
First of all Slumdog Millionaire is a superb story of a downtrodden youth and his journey through the first half of his life. There is a touch of Magic Realism in the movie which many Indian Filmakers , actors and critics failed to pick up due to their fixation with the message theme. Danny Boyle is a filmaker and it is his right to show the movie as he wants without carrying any burden of moral education. Jamaal wallowing in shit for an autograph is not depiction of a slum dwellers hard life as a Metaphor of a child's fascination with his childhood hero. Similarly the depiction of violence and shifts from one situation to the other is a journey of a protagnist struggling for his identity . This treatment of the extraordinary circumstances of an ordinary child is a beautiful mix of cinematic and literary traditions of magical realism. Danny Boyle's 'Trainspotting' was again a brilliant film and for people to understand Slumdog Millionaire , one has to look into his earlier work to understand this filmmakers craft.
This movie does not bother with explanation centric cinema of bollywood. It allows us to use our own intelligence to interpret its happenings.It does not go into a long paen where Irfan Khan has a guilt of conscience and he releases Jamaal to take part in the show , It does not go into overt messages on right and wrong , it is a mystical journey of a weather beaten , callow but hardened youth and needs to be looked at in the same fashion. I was actually not surprised when 'Aamir Khan' said that the film did not work for him . For all Aamir's sincerity and hardwork , subtlety has never been a part of the actor's cinema and acting. He is not a natural actor and potrays emotions in the typical bollywood syle of grimacing and lighting up for sad and happy scenes. His movies tend to be message heavy including the revered 'Taare Zameen Par' I always wondered on why could that movie not be more subtle. Ishaan's dilemma had to be explained time and again , the explanation part should have stopped after the discovery of the Kid being a Dyslexic. Unfortunately the fimmaker kept on piling us with tears and more tears to bring home his point and ultimately had to make the child a winner in the end for popularity.
Slumdog too has the phenomena of ending as a feel good movie however the craft is at another level altogether. Yes it suffers from some typical caricatures and is not Danny boyle's best work , yet the movie is brilliant disregarding some of these flaws. This is cinema working on the platform of magical reality much like Pan's Labyrinth and should be appreciated for that. Viewing 'Slumdog Millionare' is a visual treat and is food for an appreciative intelligent viewer,as for the Amitabh's and Aamir's of bollywood , let them bask in their message theme glory. Bollywood's actions and its actors have never basked in subtle colours.
I had heard a lot about this movie before I finally got a chance to see it , agreed there were a couple of scenes which were disturbing however, the essence of the movie did not diminish. I also failed to understand critics of the movie for their consistent nitpicking on its alleged catering to western stereotypes. One of its celebrated critics who later withdrew from his comments,being India's new favourite blogger who uses his blog to shed light on his day to day activities and has found a new pastime in celebrating certain movies and downgrading others, however i do not intend to delve into that area as of now , this movie is good and their are reasons which should have been obvious for any cinema lover.
First of all Slumdog Millionaire is a superb story of a downtrodden youth and his journey through the first half of his life. There is a touch of Magic Realism in the movie which many Indian Filmakers , actors and critics failed to pick up due to their fixation with the message theme. Danny Boyle is a filmaker and it is his right to show the movie as he wants without carrying any burden of moral education. Jamaal wallowing in shit for an autograph is not depiction of a slum dwellers hard life as a Metaphor of a child's fascination with his childhood hero. Similarly the depiction of violence and shifts from one situation to the other is a journey of a protagnist struggling for his identity . This treatment of the extraordinary circumstances of an ordinary child is a beautiful mix of cinematic and literary traditions of magical realism. Danny Boyle's 'Trainspotting' was again a brilliant film and for people to understand Slumdog Millionaire , one has to look into his earlier work to understand this filmmakers craft.
This movie does not bother with explanation centric cinema of bollywood. It allows us to use our own intelligence to interpret its happenings.It does not go into a long paen where Irfan Khan has a guilt of conscience and he releases Jamaal to take part in the show , It does not go into overt messages on right and wrong , it is a mystical journey of a weather beaten , callow but hardened youth and needs to be looked at in the same fashion. I was actually not surprised when 'Aamir Khan' said that the film did not work for him . For all Aamir's sincerity and hardwork , subtlety has never been a part of the actor's cinema and acting. He is not a natural actor and potrays emotions in the typical bollywood syle of grimacing and lighting up for sad and happy scenes. His movies tend to be message heavy including the revered 'Taare Zameen Par' I always wondered on why could that movie not be more subtle. Ishaan's dilemma had to be explained time and again , the explanation part should have stopped after the discovery of the Kid being a Dyslexic. Unfortunately the fimmaker kept on piling us with tears and more tears to bring home his point and ultimately had to make the child a winner in the end for popularity.
Slumdog too has the phenomena of ending as a feel good movie however the craft is at another level altogether. Yes it suffers from some typical caricatures and is not Danny boyle's best work , yet the movie is brilliant disregarding some of these flaws. This is cinema working on the platform of magical reality much like Pan's Labyrinth and should be appreciated for that. Viewing 'Slumdog Millionare' is a visual treat and is food for an appreciative intelligent viewer,as for the Amitabh's and Aamir's of bollywood , let them bask in their message theme glory. Bollywood's actions and its actors have never basked in subtle colours.
Friday, September 19, 2008
'Yeh Dil Yeh Pagal Dil and Awargi'
I have always had the highest respect for Ghulam Ali as a Ghazal singer. Part of this lies in my affinity towards this form of music.Ghulam Ali is one of the finest artists in this genre of music and I can never tire listening to his Ghazals. Whether at home or while driving these Ghazals provide me with solace from the maddening Delhi traffic.My favourite among all his Ghazals is 'Yeh Dil Yeh pagal Dil mera', it is a beautiful Ghazal with wonderful classical overtones sung by a master at his peak. It evokes sheer poetry with metaphors like 'Kal Shab mujhe Beshakl si Awaaz ne Chaunkan diya'(I was surprised by a faceless voice yesterday). Now the translation is a bit ordinary and anyway no use in translating beautiful Urdu poetry into mundane English.I would daresay people like Ramgopal Varma and his ilk can even find some movie title out of this (in the horror genre).
The point is about how langour and leisure are beautifully captured in the Ghazal with comparisons of a Dasht(desert) and an imaginary town.This Ghazal is a rendition of the human soul troubled by constant changes and the necessity to adapt to them.When Ali sings 'Sehra ki tapti ret par maine likha Awargi' you revel not only in the poetry but also the rendition by a maestro singing about loneliness being fought and at times accompanied by blissful leisure.
The verses of the Ghazal show the various moods of a man on the path of identification of his soul and aim in life ; so a Dasht(desert) is a desolate path in his heart which is parched. The 'Awargi' theme is the balm with which this man consoles himself. Poignant the Ghazal is , but is not without tenderness and joy.
Ghulam Ali's mastery over the form and his rendition embraces you and also provides joy . You are secure in the knowledge that you are listening to the sonorous and yet playful tones of a secure 'master'.
The point is about how langour and leisure are beautifully captured in the Ghazal with comparisons of a Dasht(desert) and an imaginary town.This Ghazal is a rendition of the human soul troubled by constant changes and the necessity to adapt to them.When Ali sings 'Sehra ki tapti ret par maine likha Awargi' you revel not only in the poetry but also the rendition by a maestro singing about loneliness being fought and at times accompanied by blissful leisure.
The verses of the Ghazal show the various moods of a man on the path of identification of his soul and aim in life ; so a Dasht(desert) is a desolate path in his heart which is parched. The 'Awargi' theme is the balm with which this man consoles himself. Poignant the Ghazal is , but is not without tenderness and joy.
Ghulam Ali's mastery over the form and his rendition embraces you and also provides joy . You are secure in the knowledge that you are listening to the sonorous and yet playful tones of a secure 'master'.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Family Confessions
There are certain aspects of a person's life ,which forever remain buried under the veneer of daily chores. I have never expressed a lot of my emotions in public as it gets tedious on the listener, who might himself feel embarrassed by the display.
Last year was the hardest year of my life so far. The reason for it being tough were manifold , if a person really believes that bad luck can be a consistent phenomenon than it really wrenched its maximum out of me in 2006. I lost my father in December 06 , that in itself was grief that I have not fully reconciled to even now.
What hurt me most was that a proper healthy man got suddenly paralysed with an unexplainable illness , he had to immediately be shifted to Delhi for Medical treatment. The treatment in itself took a toll on his body and perhaps weakened by it he passed away in December last year. It is not perhaps a one in a million case but what about the apathy that the fellow blood relatives can show on an emotional and sensitive man ?
I would not like to go into details but some of my fathers closest kith and kin showed 'exemplary arrogance' when all he required was their emotional support.People forgot how my father risked his own health so that one of his nephews could be married off in great style when his father was languishing in a hospital ICU. I only expect people who are intellectually and emotionally bankrupt to indulge in this kind of apathy when their own Kin lies on his deathbed.
A few exceptions notwithstanding ---and they being very few indeed, both my parents faced this calamity on their own. My brother and I had to go through intense emotional distress seeing our father in physical and mental pain. Why did this happen to a selfless man who cared much for his relatives and even for people who looked up to him as an elder guide ?
The answer is not shrouded in some metaphysical explanation , it is brutually and obscenely obvious to the casual observer. 'Convenience' , yes! that most benign of all words is behind this emotional bankruptcy. Most of our relatives were firmly ensconed in their convenient lifestyles and would always want to stay away from the cauldron of trouble that was brewing in our home. Nobody has the time to be the soothing balm on my family's tormented heart. I do not grudge these people , they do not want to get themselves embroiled in such 'Mundane' matters. They are people for whom an honest day's work is an anomaly. They are people who begrudge anybody's growth . So the point emerges, run away in distress but be present in joy.
I on my part have become immune to the sorrows of certain people today. I can't be an emotionless mannequin for I have my father's noble blood in my veins. However I also know that hatred and vengeance are a human trait and much as I can't go into the medieval times and obliterate my foes. I can still show cold blooded indifference to the plight of some of my relatives.
I ask myself a pertinent question, has something in me died with my father? Yes! for I am no longer the same carefree youth. I now belive in fighting for one's rights and fight I will with anybody who gets in my family's rights. I will not tolerate any nonsensical interference in my family matters and would happily go into a war for my parents rights.
This post is not a guide in revenge and hatred. It is a guide to the putrescent--decadent mask that our relationships have come up to.
Last year was the hardest year of my life so far. The reason for it being tough were manifold , if a person really believes that bad luck can be a consistent phenomenon than it really wrenched its maximum out of me in 2006. I lost my father in December 06 , that in itself was grief that I have not fully reconciled to even now.
What hurt me most was that a proper healthy man got suddenly paralysed with an unexplainable illness , he had to immediately be shifted to Delhi for Medical treatment. The treatment in itself took a toll on his body and perhaps weakened by it he passed away in December last year. It is not perhaps a one in a million case but what about the apathy that the fellow blood relatives can show on an emotional and sensitive man ?
I would not like to go into details but some of my fathers closest kith and kin showed 'exemplary arrogance' when all he required was their emotional support.People forgot how my father risked his own health so that one of his nephews could be married off in great style when his father was languishing in a hospital ICU. I only expect people who are intellectually and emotionally bankrupt to indulge in this kind of apathy when their own Kin lies on his deathbed.
A few exceptions notwithstanding ---and they being very few indeed, both my parents faced this calamity on their own. My brother and I had to go through intense emotional distress seeing our father in physical and mental pain. Why did this happen to a selfless man who cared much for his relatives and even for people who looked up to him as an elder guide ?
The answer is not shrouded in some metaphysical explanation , it is brutually and obscenely obvious to the casual observer. 'Convenience' , yes! that most benign of all words is behind this emotional bankruptcy. Most of our relatives were firmly ensconed in their convenient lifestyles and would always want to stay away from the cauldron of trouble that was brewing in our home. Nobody has the time to be the soothing balm on my family's tormented heart. I do not grudge these people , they do not want to get themselves embroiled in such 'Mundane' matters. They are people for whom an honest day's work is an anomaly. They are people who begrudge anybody's growth . So the point emerges, run away in distress but be present in joy.
I on my part have become immune to the sorrows of certain people today. I can't be an emotionless mannequin for I have my father's noble blood in my veins. However I also know that hatred and vengeance are a human trait and much as I can't go into the medieval times and obliterate my foes. I can still show cold blooded indifference to the plight of some of my relatives.
I ask myself a pertinent question, has something in me died with my father? Yes! for I am no longer the same carefree youth. I now belive in fighting for one's rights and fight I will with anybody who gets in my family's rights. I will not tolerate any nonsensical interference in my family matters and would happily go into a war for my parents rights.
This post is not a guide in revenge and hatred. It is a guide to the putrescent--decadent mask that our relationships have come up to.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Star Kids and Nepotism
If one brouses through film channels , all you get to see are the promos of new 'big releases like Saawariya and Om Shanti Om showing . Even channels like NDTV are not immune to this malaise by showing an increasingly emaciated SRK and an obnoxious Farah Khan extolling the virtues of their Magnum Opus. I do not have a problem with movies and national news existing side by side but there has to be a line drawn somewhere.
One aspect which shouts glaringly is,why we in India are subject to intense media hype about the next big film debut. Are we as a country and society so decrepit,so devoid of talent that we have to face the ignominy of one 'Great ' star kid launch or the other. When you listen to the interviews of one Mr. Bhansali about his great desire to work with newcomers , why are the newcomers----offsprings of filmstars?
I have nothing against children of filmstars trying to become stars , however this meansthat the 'Acting Gene' is automatically passed on by the parents to their kids.
It means that rest of the people struggling in the industry belong to a lesser God !
It means that Indians should not really crib about 'nepotism' for it exists in its most sycophantic and decadent way in its greatest entertainment medium.
Who am I to crib about this?when our 'great' filmmakers know what they are doing . Why should I crib when the great Mr. Bhansali knows what is right for the classes and the masses.Well! you can't expect more from a man who makes a 'Farcical Melodrama ' like Black and gets labelled as the next 'David Lean ' of Indian Cinema.
A Man who made a caricature of Amitabh and made him act over dramatically. Anyway I don't think that Mr. Bhansali is a bad filmmaker but he is certainly a melodramatic and overrated one.Coming back to Star Kids , I have not seen sons or daughters of great actors in the west becoming sensations overnight. A Michael Douglas or a Nicholas cage are exceptions but nobody would doubt their credentials as actors of merit.
Now whom do we have in India , I would not like to take names but most of the breed is mediocre while some are downright appalling.An Abhishek Bacchan is lionised for his performance in 'Guru' while a KK menon or Pankaj Kapur just get a passing mention.(In Black Friday and Dharm respectively).Why so these rich kids have to make a foray into films to prove their worth, I believe the answer itself lies in riches,these people are used to a certain standard of living and after 'Dad' retires or reaches the twilight of his career , this "precociusly" talented breed knows that they must find a similarly high paying job to maintain themselves.
Is this breed really as talented as their illustrious parents? if you look at our film industry than it means any actor's child is a born genius in the league of his own. If this adage is true than take its parrallel in this country's other opium 'Cricket'. 'Sunny Gavaskar's ' son should have been as talented as his father, this also means that Sachin's son would also be a great batsman simply due to his fathers genes.
'Sadly' in life such an occurence is rare and rather fanciful.I have no grudge against people earning money due to their lineage but life is cruel and the spirit of competition should be encouraged and fostered. Our public is as much to blame for making mediocrity shine in India , for the masses encumbered and crushed by life's hardships find solace in three hours of banality propagated by somebody born with a proverbial silver spoon. Clearly irony can't have a more sordid face.
I as a middle class Indian have no rights to speak against banality , however surely something in our collective conscience should point out towards reality and not myth.
One aspect which shouts glaringly is,why we in India are subject to intense media hype about the next big film debut. Are we as a country and society so decrepit,so devoid of talent that we have to face the ignominy of one 'Great ' star kid launch or the other. When you listen to the interviews of one Mr. Bhansali about his great desire to work with newcomers , why are the newcomers----offsprings of filmstars?
I have nothing against children of filmstars trying to become stars , however this meansthat the 'Acting Gene' is automatically passed on by the parents to their kids.
It means that rest of the people struggling in the industry belong to a lesser God !
It means that Indians should not really crib about 'nepotism' for it exists in its most sycophantic and decadent way in its greatest entertainment medium.
Who am I to crib about this?when our 'great' filmmakers know what they are doing . Why should I crib when the great Mr. Bhansali knows what is right for the classes and the masses.Well! you can't expect more from a man who makes a 'Farcical Melodrama ' like Black and gets labelled as the next 'David Lean ' of Indian Cinema.
A Man who made a caricature of Amitabh and made him act over dramatically. Anyway I don't think that Mr. Bhansali is a bad filmmaker but he is certainly a melodramatic and overrated one.Coming back to Star Kids , I have not seen sons or daughters of great actors in the west becoming sensations overnight. A Michael Douglas or a Nicholas cage are exceptions but nobody would doubt their credentials as actors of merit.
Now whom do we have in India , I would not like to take names but most of the breed is mediocre while some are downright appalling.An Abhishek Bacchan is lionised for his performance in 'Guru' while a KK menon or Pankaj Kapur just get a passing mention.(In Black Friday and Dharm respectively).Why so these rich kids have to make a foray into films to prove their worth, I believe the answer itself lies in riches,these people are used to a certain standard of living and after 'Dad' retires or reaches the twilight of his career , this "precociusly" talented breed knows that they must find a similarly high paying job to maintain themselves.
Is this breed really as talented as their illustrious parents? if you look at our film industry than it means any actor's child is a born genius in the league of his own. If this adage is true than take its parrallel in this country's other opium 'Cricket'. 'Sunny Gavaskar's ' son should have been as talented as his father, this also means that Sachin's son would also be a great batsman simply due to his fathers genes.
'Sadly' in life such an occurence is rare and rather fanciful.I have no grudge against people earning money due to their lineage but life is cruel and the spirit of competition should be encouraged and fostered. Our public is as much to blame for making mediocrity shine in India , for the masses encumbered and crushed by life's hardships find solace in three hours of banality propagated by somebody born with a proverbial silver spoon. Clearly irony can't have a more sordid face.
I as a middle class Indian have no rights to speak against banality , however surely something in our collective conscience should point out towards reality and not myth.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Poetic confessions
Was thinking about this post for some time now, wanted to post some of the poems I have composed over a period of time. The range shifts from the Banal to the thoughtful , I have not been able to arrange the stanzas and paragraphs in this blog. To check all my poems you can access the website www.poemhunter.com.
Lore of Sufism
The almighty that sprinkles the earth with a thousand flowers benignMay the calm of a thousand mountains don the visage of your restless soul? The beauty of a river singing and meandering in search of that peaceWhich follows when the arms of the ocean engulf it, exemplifying existence The Ocean roars and says all permanence too has an ending.These chants of ages gone, this lore which brings a joyful melancholy.Instill nostalgia for this era passed long byWho were these seers, were they crusaders of the divinity in manThey for sure were romantics for romantics nurture belief like no otherThe tradition of worship found a new beliefIt was not heresy but the faith of a few TitansFighting the time, fighting tyrants, fighting savageryRealm saw a new dawn on a politic stained by crimsonMan became God, God became Man.Yes! The Mystic sang all this the song of love, of devotionOf a beloved waiting, of an anguish in the hearts of mortalsThe flowing sensuality of the praises of the almighty Matched the longing of a forlorn lover.The yearning for salvation was but what salvation itselfThe mystique of the mystic is a legend less understood, for Less understood are the voices of the chosen few yet Love is surely divine and divinity equals love Nature is the form of God and the love for nature is ElysianThis was an era when Humanity reveled, sanity was revered and solitude elevatedThis is what the Sufi sang for this is what the lore says.
A Smile Unknown
I saw that smile glowing under the rays of a nascent sun.As I saw a veil of darkness engulf the shadows of duskI stand on the perch of my house seeing the window afarThe dark eyes with shining brightness light the gloomy interiors of my heartThe lady looks at me with a curious expression, I furtively hide behind the window watching still. She flashes her dark tresses in a caress befitting the glowing radiance of the pallid sun.I see life through this woman of my dreams. She flirts with sanity, evokes a desire unknown. Yet she is life, she is joy, the heart glows in the flowing timbre of her laughter.Is She a dream? Yes! She is for my heart yearns for love yet it is elusive a dream.
A Marauder Came
A Marauder came, crumbling the temples of belief, plundering the souls of a few people.He came and he conquered the peaceful folk of a primeval land.He called them Pagans, Barbarians, miserable folk believers in an obscure religion.He called his faith a glorious revolution set upon this land to cure its miseries.He plundered, he looted, he swindled the wealth, the dignity of the land.He Imposed taxes on non believers believing in his God’s benevolence.Who was this plunderer from the sands proclaiming himself as the savior of mankind.What was mankind according to him. What was faith according to him. How did he perceive the vagaries of life.He did not possess the imagination for he was a believer in lust and greed.What did his faith tell him to loot, plunder spread all over on a tide of blood.What faith is this which chains humans, throttles and slashes toddlers in their crib.A faith which teaches impatience, hatred and bloodlust. A faith which suppresses beauty, kills expression, strangles creativity.It calls others non believers, is it the faith or the man who does it.A faith which is no faith, yet is present. A belief which gave mankind the message of Karma.A revolution which teaches God to be man and Man to be God. A circle which is round yet not round. A knowledge that no one is pure yet everybody is impure. A belief spurring the progress of mind more than the decadent body.Why did the marauder blame this faith for the misery. Perhaps he was the son of ignorance. His roots were ignorance, it was misery, it again took the marauder back to his roots.Roots which always wallowed in savagery, roots of philistine thinking and closed eyes.Roots which still can’t look a woman in the eye.
Mist
Happy seems the mist in the months of cold.My eyes see its blanket reminding me things of yoreSomewhere down the valley the mist calls Asks a question where are you these daysI tell the mist I am in a jungle burdened with concreteFar lies the Jungle from these tranquil environs The jungle has beasts all over roaring in unison at the crack of dawn.The Mist says you like the jungle, my reply gets drowned among falling raindropsThe voice of Mist rises and says- my question is unanswered. I reply, bother not you bride of winter. The answer is not required. The Mist is silent; deepening its smoky wings over the pines it rushes and gives a cold embrace.As I shiver I delve on the beauty of the mist and marvel its amour.Tickling the trees and flirting with the mountains it covers a whole town.The town goes to sleep, I remain with the mist with its cold embraces and boundless questionsQuestions I have no answers to questions of centuries and questions, which only the old pines could answer.Why do the mountains throw my advances back, and why do men find me depressingI reply mountains are like concrete jungles, while men are its inhabitants.
My Guardian Angel
All along the time I grew, I watched a tree cast a shadow on me.Yes! It was my guardian through times thick and thin. Times whenAll alone trying to understand the roots and algebra, I wondered whether thisIs the ultimate exploration of mind? I saw nature and it’s bounties smiling at my childish Query.I smelled the raindrops falling from my tree, quenching my pristine thirst.Making my courtyard smell like a thousand pure dreams. I wondered whyMy friend is so quiet, aloof from the vagaries of life. Why the quiet demeanourThe exciting solitude. My callow spirit found no answer. I saw the onset of spring, the tree glowing in a fresh coating of eloquent verdure.Winged herons, plumed robins basking in the lush beauty of countryside.My mind again wondered afar, thinking about beauty and nature.I found Wordsworth more profound than Pythagoras, was I wrong? The teacher laughed at the crazed query of a freckled teenager The father frowned at his impetuous reasoning. Perhaps they were rightMy tree smiled as if signifying an ocean of calm, urging me to be observantI saw the birds chirping on it feeding their young chatting with their kin.I saw the leaves falling from my friend’s branches, he said yes; I lose something everydaystill I do not complain, for life is an exploration at each curve.My flowers will again fall, but will bloom again you too my friend do not despairFor you too would bloom in your heart and in your soul.
Lore of Sufism
The almighty that sprinkles the earth with a thousand flowers benignMay the calm of a thousand mountains don the visage of your restless soul? The beauty of a river singing and meandering in search of that peaceWhich follows when the arms of the ocean engulf it, exemplifying existence The Ocean roars and says all permanence too has an ending.These chants of ages gone, this lore which brings a joyful melancholy.Instill nostalgia for this era passed long byWho were these seers, were they crusaders of the divinity in manThey for sure were romantics for romantics nurture belief like no otherThe tradition of worship found a new beliefIt was not heresy but the faith of a few TitansFighting the time, fighting tyrants, fighting savageryRealm saw a new dawn on a politic stained by crimsonMan became God, God became Man.Yes! The Mystic sang all this the song of love, of devotionOf a beloved waiting, of an anguish in the hearts of mortalsThe flowing sensuality of the praises of the almighty Matched the longing of a forlorn lover.The yearning for salvation was but what salvation itselfThe mystique of the mystic is a legend less understood, for Less understood are the voices of the chosen few yet Love is surely divine and divinity equals love Nature is the form of God and the love for nature is ElysianThis was an era when Humanity reveled, sanity was revered and solitude elevatedThis is what the Sufi sang for this is what the lore says.
A Smile Unknown
I saw that smile glowing under the rays of a nascent sun.As I saw a veil of darkness engulf the shadows of duskI stand on the perch of my house seeing the window afarThe dark eyes with shining brightness light the gloomy interiors of my heartThe lady looks at me with a curious expression, I furtively hide behind the window watching still. She flashes her dark tresses in a caress befitting the glowing radiance of the pallid sun.I see life through this woman of my dreams. She flirts with sanity, evokes a desire unknown. Yet she is life, she is joy, the heart glows in the flowing timbre of her laughter.Is She a dream? Yes! She is for my heart yearns for love yet it is elusive a dream.
A Marauder Came
A Marauder came, crumbling the temples of belief, plundering the souls of a few people.He came and he conquered the peaceful folk of a primeval land.He called them Pagans, Barbarians, miserable folk believers in an obscure religion.He called his faith a glorious revolution set upon this land to cure its miseries.He plundered, he looted, he swindled the wealth, the dignity of the land.He Imposed taxes on non believers believing in his God’s benevolence.Who was this plunderer from the sands proclaiming himself as the savior of mankind.What was mankind according to him. What was faith according to him. How did he perceive the vagaries of life.He did not possess the imagination for he was a believer in lust and greed.What did his faith tell him to loot, plunder spread all over on a tide of blood.What faith is this which chains humans, throttles and slashes toddlers in their crib.A faith which teaches impatience, hatred and bloodlust. A faith which suppresses beauty, kills expression, strangles creativity.It calls others non believers, is it the faith or the man who does it.A faith which is no faith, yet is present. A belief which gave mankind the message of Karma.A revolution which teaches God to be man and Man to be God. A circle which is round yet not round. A knowledge that no one is pure yet everybody is impure. A belief spurring the progress of mind more than the decadent body.Why did the marauder blame this faith for the misery. Perhaps he was the son of ignorance. His roots were ignorance, it was misery, it again took the marauder back to his roots.Roots which always wallowed in savagery, roots of philistine thinking and closed eyes.Roots which still can’t look a woman in the eye.
Mist
Happy seems the mist in the months of cold.My eyes see its blanket reminding me things of yoreSomewhere down the valley the mist calls Asks a question where are you these daysI tell the mist I am in a jungle burdened with concreteFar lies the Jungle from these tranquil environs The jungle has beasts all over roaring in unison at the crack of dawn.The Mist says you like the jungle, my reply gets drowned among falling raindropsThe voice of Mist rises and says- my question is unanswered. I reply, bother not you bride of winter. The answer is not required. The Mist is silent; deepening its smoky wings over the pines it rushes and gives a cold embrace.As I shiver I delve on the beauty of the mist and marvel its amour.Tickling the trees and flirting with the mountains it covers a whole town.The town goes to sleep, I remain with the mist with its cold embraces and boundless questionsQuestions I have no answers to questions of centuries and questions, which only the old pines could answer.Why do the mountains throw my advances back, and why do men find me depressingI reply mountains are like concrete jungles, while men are its inhabitants.
My Guardian Angel
All along the time I grew, I watched a tree cast a shadow on me.Yes! It was my guardian through times thick and thin. Times whenAll alone trying to understand the roots and algebra, I wondered whether thisIs the ultimate exploration of mind? I saw nature and it’s bounties smiling at my childish Query.I smelled the raindrops falling from my tree, quenching my pristine thirst.Making my courtyard smell like a thousand pure dreams. I wondered whyMy friend is so quiet, aloof from the vagaries of life. Why the quiet demeanourThe exciting solitude. My callow spirit found no answer. I saw the onset of spring, the tree glowing in a fresh coating of eloquent verdure.Winged herons, plumed robins basking in the lush beauty of countryside.My mind again wondered afar, thinking about beauty and nature.I found Wordsworth more profound than Pythagoras, was I wrong? The teacher laughed at the crazed query of a freckled teenager The father frowned at his impetuous reasoning. Perhaps they were rightMy tree smiled as if signifying an ocean of calm, urging me to be observantI saw the birds chirping on it feeding their young chatting with their kin.I saw the leaves falling from my friend’s branches, he said yes; I lose something everydaystill I do not complain, for life is an exploration at each curve.My flowers will again fall, but will bloom again you too my friend do not despairFor you too would bloom in your heart and in your soul.
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