Rahman’s Best (2004-2009)

This is in no particular order.
1.Nenjam Ellam (Aiyitha Ezhuthu)
2.Sakkarai (New)
3.Ye Jo Des Hain Tera (Swades)
4. Ghoomparani (Bose)
5. Ekla Cholo (Bose)
6. Desh Ki Mitti (Bose)
7.Naina (Water)
8.Bhangri Mori (Water)
9.Aayo Re Sakhi (Water)
10.Mayelirahe (Ah Aah)
11.Khalbali (Rang De basanti)
12.Lukka Chuppi (Rang De Basanti)
13. Rang De Basanti (Rang De Basanti)
14.Athiradhee (Sivaji)
15.Madhuraikku Pogathadee (ATM)
16. Keelamal Kaiyile (ATM)
17. In Lamhon Ke Daaman Mein (Jodhaa Akbar)
18. Aditi (Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na)
19. Ada Hain (Ada)
20. Mehrbaan (Ada)
21.Elay nehram (Sakkarakatti)
22. Mastam mastam (Yuvvraaj)
23.Aye Bacchu (Ghajini)
24. Liquid Dance (Slumdog Millionaire)
25. Gangster Blues (Slumdog Millionaire)
26. Masakalli (Delhi-6)
27. Tu Bole (Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na)
28. Dekho Na (Swades)
29. Aye Hairathe (Guru)
30. Tere Bina (Guru)

 

The Best of the Best

 

1. Elay Nehram (Sakkarakatti): This is as good as Rahman can get. It is very different from the standard Rahman fare: its got a violin that, in the words of a friend, "cracks through the ear-phones", its got an accordion/mouth organ that is beautifully lost; a guitar that soothes and voices that astound. I can never tire of listening to it.
2. Aye Hairathe (Guru): Personal favourite for many reasons—Hariharan's best in recent times with Alka Yagnik providing apt support. Rahman does the "Dum dara" chorus brilliantly. It's got this magical charm about it that is indescribable; and an interlude to kill for .. Though some believe it wouldn't be on Rahman's 25 best all-time ever, I would certainly put it in there, in the first few positions.
3. Madhuraikku Pogathadee (Azhagiya Tamil Magan): Maybe Tamil music has a lot of such songs, maybe Vijay/Vikram fans see this as standard tamil folk, I don't know. I love it simply because of how refreshingly different it is. From the voices to the drums to the chorus to the lyrics (ah the lyrics!), they just fit in perfectly. Rahman's versatility is apparent here, especially with the guitar and the husky female coming in during the latter half.
4. Desh Ki Mitthi/ Ghoomparani (Bose): Listen to these tracks and let go. Incomparably melodious.

Goa

I went to see the Taj Mahal two Octobers ago. It was my third visit, the first in six years. By the time we were a couple of kilometers off Delhi, I had already made up my mind: the Taj Mahal was heavily overrated and like most overrated things, it stole the limelight and left many equally brilliant, if not better, wonders of the country in the shadows.
By the time I got back, twelve hours later, I kept wondering: what was I thinking?
Under-estimation had acquired a whole new dimension altogether.
Goa. I had seen it all, I thought. The Sun, sands and the beaches; the rivers, the greenery, the hills, the plateaus; the water-sports, the food, Old Goa, the churches and the carnival atmosphere: yes, I had ticked them all off my list of things to do/see in life. This is my fourth visit, I found myself telling a friend—the place in itself holds no excitement. And the greenery, the hills and the beaches? I grew up there, yessir, right amidst them. I am going there for my friends and because it's close to home.
What was I thinking?
Goa: where do I begin? We stayed at Calangute. A thriving tourist-town, south of Panjim, but nonetheless, more north-Goa than south. The beach at Calangute, like the one closest to it—Baga—is crowded in the daytime. It's still a wonderful beach: scenic, with hills on either side, waves that bounce up and down like a maniacal ping-pong ball; then there's the guiltless blue sky dotted with colourful parachutes; pale grey ships rest where the sky meets the sea; water-scooters race along the coast, with banana-boats and rocking circular thingies for company ..
The nights on the beaches are something else: the majestic roar of the sea and the relentless chilling thrashing of the waves contrast the easy softness of the sand; the sky is a blanket of black studded with twinkling diamonds; and, even at three in the morning, when most of India sleeps, the beach is alive: men, women, children even, dancing gaily, singing, drinking, lost, happy. One never tires of walking along the coast in the nighttime ..
We did what most people our age do: we rode through Goa, on Bikes of varying makes. The road-maps are precise, the roads perfect—the highways are large and spacious, the smaller ones are pot-hole free and beautiful. And every now and then you come across bridges, some so small and low that only the faint gurgling of the stream below is an indication of there being one and others so big and panoramic, that you can barely keep your eyes on the road: a ship on the horizon, an island with a solitary tree, a boatman makes his way silently across the river, a fisherman has his net spread out wide, a few bathers swim and near the banks, a colony of houses with typical sloped tiling roof ..
There are three things the Konkan coast has to offer in Goa which, though individually may still be found elsewhere, together is both unique and quite a heady mixture: escape, freedom and life. The fort of Chapora, for example, is atop a small hill. The climb up is through this rocky pathway that brought back memories of long ago, when Manipal wasn't all artificial green and prim and proper lawns. To get to the hill, we drove through thin roads, dotted with small shops, the odd petrol bunk, a string of tiled-roof houses, a couple of shops again, trees and farms. Once atop the hill, we were somewhere else. An escape in an escape. The fort is nothing much to look at, you don't feel the sense of history you feel in other historical sites. But, the fort has got something else—something indescribable, something I haven't felt before: I first ran like a school-kid from one end to the other, racing along with my friend and then fell into a deep reverie as I reached the opposite end of the fort and looked beyond. Maybe when I am a few hundred books older or when I take an entrance test that requires me to improve my vocabulary tremendously, I'll be able to do justice to the view from atop ..
And all the while the sea-breeze, that carried the faint trace of the scent of fish and salt, blew across—it gave me a distinct sense of floating, of going past the fort, beyond the hill that looks over the sea, clear of the tiny sleepy fishing village with its birds and rocks and waves and sands and above the infinite expanse of blue, below and above ..
And the picture of those white sea-birds, some settled happily on the stretch of land that inexplicably emerges a few hundred metres off the coast, some gliding above perfectly aimlessly was the one that symbolized Goa for me …
Pico Iyer once wrote this meandering, soporific, constrained novel called Abandon. It was only my respect for the man that prevented me from abandoning it half-way through. Maybe he should go to Goa someday …

 

 

The Joy is Gone

The joy is gone.
No more pumped fists. No more face bursting with pride. No more grimace if there's a misfield. No more diving stops of his own bowling.
No more ugly defensive prods. No more slightly less uglier cover-drives. No more royal slashes through points.

The joy is gone.
No more 'how many wickets did he get?' before 'whats the score?' . No more: please dont give five runs this over, or you'll finish with an economy rate over 2.5. No more: 'three for 83?' and a quick mental calculation of the average (27.66). No more disappointment when the batsman plays a copybook forward defence. No more crazy goosebumps during the over after he gets a wicket.

The joy is gone.
The Kumble before the shoulder injury taught me leg-spin. The Kumble after taught me cricket. The Kumble now taught me to cope with loss.

The joy is gone.
And I was there, at the Kotla, to see it fade away.

Blog-awards!

Avid blogger—it’s a term people use often to describe themselves. I am, perhaps, an avid reader; a lazy, but not very infrequent, writer; a pathetic blogger—my blog is updated once a month and I read the same few blogs over and over again. So, when I got an award (for which I sincerely thank Annappa), and was asked to name my seven favourites, I was, at first, a little afraid that seven was a little too much... And yet, surprisingly and after a whole of week of racking my brains, I came up with seven names: five alive, one dead and one gone.
1. Swaroop: The first place I go to when I go online, the sheer breadth of the writing more than anything else (more than the brilliant wit, the fantastically innovative style of writing) leaves me wondering whether the rasam he’s making for himself nowadays has something more to it than just the standard ingredients ...

2. Prabhakka: There’s SO MUCH happening there. And so much fun too ...
3. Soumithri : Some of the science fiction is mind-blogging. Some of the random theories are very interesting.
4. Sita: I like the blog, and I visit it almost as often as I visit Swaroop’s. I cant quite put my finger on why I like it so much though ...
5. Anil: More than what he writes, its how he writes what he does thats extra-ordinary. And that's taking nothing away from what he writes, just emphasises how well he writes ...
6. Raikamal: Sublime. It’s a little sad that there’s not been a post since June last year.
7. Anand Anna: It was actually the best blog I’ve ever visited (perhaps Swaroop’s blog now is very very stiff competition). And it’s gone.
So, that’s my list.
(the un-linked blogs are already on the 'links' section on the blog)
Oh, and before I forget-- the fine prinit:
1. Award seven other people. (This way, there will be no unawarded blog left in the world!)
2. Write a post about this award, and link to our blog in that post. (The second half is optional.)
3. Be eternally grateful to us for the award. (This is compulsory.)
4. Tell their awardees that they've won awards. (This is just common-sense.)

Genius?

I’ve often been fascinated by the way economists work—how their theories are formed; how, in the complicated world that we live in, with nothing certain and true, they manage to still come out with theories that substantiate empirical data. Even more fascinating is how, when confronted by conflicting data, economists with completely contradicting theories can win Nobel prizes. At some level, I think it has a lot to do with assumptions they make: some realistic, some based on popular consensus, some iffy, some downright hilarious; but mostly contrived, to justify some ends and backed by, they all claim, “sound logic”. So, I thought, I’d try my luck at an analysis, pick up a question, a puzzle, a debate and see if I could make sense of it.
Most questions in my life stem from the world of cricket. Even the most existential ones: Who am I? (A dispassionate cricket-lover or an India fan?); what am I doing here? (And not someplace where there's a TV so I can watch my Test Match in peace?), Where do my roots lie? (Why do I support Hyderabad? Would I choose Hyderabad over even Bangalore?) But, I am beating about the bush. In essence, this is a piece on genius. Who qualifies as one? Most importantly, is Laxman one?
In order to justify that inexcusably long first paragraph, I begin by paying obeisance to my economic roots and making a few assumption/statements (none too far-fetched in my opinion): a genius is someone who is special; who, if in an academic field, thinks and acts and theorises at a level that the normal man can only dream of; who, if an artist/sportsman, is someone blessed with infinite amounts of “creative power or natural ability” (OD); who, therefore, is a pioneer of sorts; who is far ahead of his times—innovative, inventive and different.
Laxman’s a man who’s hard to catch or just isn’t flashy enough to be under constant media glare. Interviews come at a trickle. And in the precious few, he’s never verbose, not even close. But, he’s not as soft or as silent as the media portrays him to be: he does say what he wants to say, perhaps more politely than most of the younger lot. What interests and appeals to the cricket-lover in me is his take on any cricket-issue—his comments on the state of the game, the pitch, batting, slip-catching—they are mature, intelligent and incisive, indicative of a man who is a sound cricketing brain. Cricket-wise he is an extremely good strategist—Azharuddin, one of India’s best captains ever, still believes he should be made captain and it really is a pity that we haven’t seen enough of Laxman the Captain. But, based on what little we have seen and know, it would far-fetched to term Laxman a genius, purely on academic terms—as someone who has the ‘vision’, who sees the game from a level above the modern-day thinking cricketer.
“Creative power or natural ability”: both interesting terms. Laxman has wrists of God—his flicks and clips of, not merely his pads but deliveries a good two stumps away from his off-stump are special and unparalleled (no, even Azhar couldn’t produce the shots he does). Blessed with tremendous amounts of natural ability, he’s managed to “create” his own range of strokes: different, silky and very, very special. Every batsman has his own style and in a way, it may be argued that every batsman “creates” his own style based on what comes naturally to him. But, what makes VVS stand apart is how different his predominantly wristy style is: the scale of the deviation from the batting manual is immense, far too much to be in the “permissible” range; and yet, unorthodox as it is, it is still extremely effective. It is a manner that is new comprising of shots that are outrageously distinctive—testimony to his creative powers that can only be derived from his phenomenal natural ability. He definitely will not be a pioneer, simply because his batting is impossible to replicate. And he is different, though not a man ahead of his times (in fact, some may argue that he is slightly behind given the difference in his test and one-day records).
If being innovative is bringing to the game something that it has never seen before, then Laxman, perhaps, just fits the bill. His stroke-play is unique, “ground-breaking” even( a cruel adjective for such a soft batsman). But, in a broader sense, innovation might also imply a continuous tendency to adapt, to learn, to change. And though, even after so many years of watching him bat, some strokes still leave me awe-struck, I can safely say that it is pretty rare that they’ll shock me. The fact that he continues to retain his place in a line-up so star-studded shows that he’s made adjustments—some technical, some mental—to the way he approaches his batting; the fact that he will always remain, in many eyes, someone of unfulfilled potential probably indicates that he hasn’t done enough (or couldn’t do enough) to continuously adapt to bowlers who began to see more of him. He’s still managed to stay a couple of steps ahead, but it probably isn’t quite enough to catapult him into Genius Inc.
Purely on natural ability, Laxman would make the cut. But, otherwise, taking all other grounds of qualifying into account, he’d probably classify as a “limited genius”: who probably requires a whole set of pre-requisites to actually come into his own. Most important, amongst those, is an opposition who is unashamedly attacking, a fielding captain who is not too familiar with his game and Laxman in a mood to be instinctive, to bat with abandon. There are few occasions where this happens: the most recent being that brilliant 109 at Australia, but otherwise, by and large, bowlers have learnt not to feed his strengths. Laxman’s response has been to mellow down, to solidify his defence, to let his instincts be guarded—in a strange way, in a quest to maintain his place in the side, he has limited his genius: it has proved productive, his innings are still punctuated by those magic flicks, but whole innings of magic are few and far in between. He’s realised that the costs of continuing to try and live by the sword greatly outweigh the benefits of curbing his natural instincts. You won’t see those beautiful but frustrating twenty-eights anymore— it’s the gritty seventy-two that’s become his trademark, valuable contributions, running around with the tail.
There’s a lot to VVS’ batting that’s brilliant: his timing, his much-praised hand-eye co-ordination and when in full flow, his invincibility against even the greatest of spin-bowling. It’s not just his wrists that have got him to where he is. But, those very wrists have made him special--that have separated him from other greater mortals; that have flummoxed, with their snapping bite or their yummy roll, the best of bowlers; that have taken him to the brink of genius. He’s there. Almost. And that’s how it should be.

My Favourite Superhero

RADHEYA(KARNA)
I held the" Mahabharatha" in my hand--it felt unnaturally light. It had been ages since I had seen the book. There was a time when I had to stand on the one-foot wall beside the wash-basin to peer into the mirror above and brush my teeth; a time when the book required two hands to be carried around on my head--not unlike coolies carrying heavy suitcases; a time when I would read it on a daily basis--picking out random pages and savouring every word of the master-epic. But, that day, I knew I wouldn’t open the book and start from just any page--I turned to page 649, to a chapter called "Radheya was my son". Every time I read that chapter, I would almost cry, my throat would cringe and my mind would feel exhausted. It was my favourite chapter--a beautiful but most painful one.

The Mahabharatha, for me, had only one hero. He was the only reason that, as a kid, I was heavily critical of the televised series of the epic. The first time I saw him come on screen, I was aghast. Firstly, there was the background music which made you wonder if he would say, "Mugambo Khush hua". And when he walked and patted his dear friend Duryodhana on his back, they both faced the camera and broke into wicked grins that broke my heart. My Radheya, the one that had been in my head ever since I had read the book, even when at his most displeasing, never had a face so contorted and cruel-looking as this. I ran away from the room, returning only after making sure that it was at least a good 15 minutes after the show.

If someone asked me to represent Radheya's life on piece a of paper, I would probably give sheet to a three-year-old and ask him to scribble--for that's how messy it is. The uncomfortable circumstances of his birth lay a somewhat shaky platform for a very painful life--his seemingly absurd craving to take up archery as a boy of sixteen, when everyone(including himself) thinks he is a sutaputra--a lower caste.; the shattering disappointment, the first of many, over the fact that he finds no willing teacher to teach him, a son of a charioteer--And when he does find one, the great Bhagawan Bhargava, he not only defeats him in battle(a feat that no one other than Bhishma had achieved before), but gets cursed--a curse that eventually leads to his death in battlefield. Such is his life, where brief periods of sunshine are overshadowed by massive grey clouds that eventually suck all the light out of his life like weeds sucking out the very existence of a flower-bed.

But, Radheya was a fighter--a true Kshatriya. A man, for whom adversity, as the cliché rides, was only a stepping stone to success--a path to making name, fame and earning respect. But, what appeals most to a reader is his love for giving; a trait that was exploited by Indra. When he gave his Kavacha and Kundala, knowing very well who the beggar in disguise was, he knew he had given away a part of himself. Here was a trade-off wherein he stood to loose and yet he took part with a smile on his face as blood dripped of his chest and shoulders. All that came naturally to him--just as his artistry with the bow punctuated with grace, flamboyance and characteristic poise; just as his unwavering loyalty to his king, Duryodhana, who had stolen his heart away for life with one act of supreme generosity; just as his love for his adopted mother in whose honour he had refused to be called by any other name, irrespective of the amount of insult it brought to him; just as his promise to Kunti, which heavily influenced the outcome of war.

No doubt, his character is stained. There is an obvious question-mark on his actions--the humiliation of Draupadi is a case in point. But, you cant expect a man to lead a blemish free life if he were to be put through such turmoil and controversy. In fact, his life could have been far worse--that he lived the way he did is nothing short of a miracle--something that speakes volumes of his ability and strong character. Long before the war commenced, he had realised he was on the wrong side, fighting a losing battle. But, he wasn't a man who would go back on his word--his unconditional love for his master and King called for him to be by his side until death drew them apart. For Duryodhana gave him what he always wanted--trust, fame and respect.

And as I read, slowly, every word of the chapter, I felt the old surge of mixed emotions flowing back--the shot of pride when Kunti tells Yudhishtra that Radheya was not a suta and asks him to perform his funeral rites, the excitement when the Pandavas exclaim "Not a suta!" and she relates the tale of his birth, the bitter pleasure when the Pandavas sit shocked, hand on heads, failing to come to terms with reality(Arjuna goes, "I killed my own brother") and finally, the immense agony when Bhima remembers the words of Duryodhana who had uttered, on that fateful day in the tournament, " Cant you see he is a Kshatriya. Dont you realise a deer can never have the imperial gait of a lion?"--those lines, for me, make the Mahabharatha truly magnificent--for even the greatest and the most humble of men,Yudhistra, couldn’t see what the scheming, jealous teenager could in a suta with a bow--A master and a hero. And fate's least favourite child.

Bliss

"Come over to the edge" he called.

"No, we cant; We'll fall" they cried.

"Come over to the edge" he called.

"No, we cant;We'll fall" they cried.

"Come over to the edge" he called.

And they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.

Swades--a masterpiece

It was way past 11 in the night. All was silent, still except for the TV in the living room that Amma was watching. I was working on my maths. My eyes were growing groggier with every passing second and my head was sinking. And then I heard this tune-- a tune that, for me, was more than just a tune--an anthem, a prayer. My head gave a sudden jerk and popped up, my limbs felt a new flush of energy flowing through, my tired eyes shone like the Buddha's after enlightenment, and my ears went upright. I ran to the living room, looked for hardly a second at the TV screen, and then asked a question that I had already known the answer to, "Swadesaa?"

I am, by nature, a person of stunningly strong likes. As a child of 10, I read Kamala Subramaniam's humungous Mahabharatha and immediately fell in love with Radheya (Karna). He wasnt the most perfect of charachters, Hell, he wasn’t even on the good side. And yet I adored him. Notwithstanding the fact that he was a mortal, I said my prayers to him daily before I slept.I have a fanatic's liking for VVS Laxman, who again, is not the most fancied of players in the Indian team. I love Kumble, for his unorthodox style of bowling and I love this lovely little book written by Ruskin Bond called "Scenes from a writer's life" that contains writings by him when he was young and raw at 16. And I love Swades, for its simple flow which is akin to Bond's style of writing or Laxman's batting.

Swades is my favourite movie. The storyline is amazing, the cast is brilliant and the director is one of the best in the industry. And yet, what draws me towards the movie like insects to light are the scenes. The scenes revel in highlighting the simple pleasures of life. Every scene is an experience; a piece of masterly craftmanship on the part of the director.And some of the them are so special and extraordinaly simple(yet happy) that one just cannot help smiling. The indescribable feeling of superlative elation after watching some of the scenes is something that I never have been able to draw from other movies, Indian or otherwise.
Mohan Bhargav,the main protagonist(played brilliantly by SRK), is not a person blessed with extraordinary brainpower or masculine abilities, but is a very real NRI. The characters, which are portrayed flawlessly, are genuine and exactly the type of people one would come across in such situations.

The movie also brings out the best in A.R.Rahman, another wizard. The maestro is at his best when composing from his heart and this movie has so much soul in it that he really brings up tunes that will stay for a long, long time. Swades has songs that are truly Indian and extremely authentic--vintage ARR. But, really, what is so truly marvellous about the music is not the songs, but the tunes that pop up when the scenes are in progress--the background music-- reflect every single emotion felt by the characters and enhance the effectiveness of the scenes.

Swades, however, is not the most perfect of movies. It has its drawbacks. The movie is stretched on both sides and, sometimes, the story seems to stay still. It sometimes reminds me of the Suvarna river, here in Manipal, in mid-summer, extremely picturesque but unmoving. Gayathri Joshi as Sita in "Pal Pal..." could have been avoided. And yes, the movie does, every so often, seem like Ashutosh Gowariker hasn’t managed to get over the Lagaan hangover.But,really, all this bothers me as much as Andy Roddick bothers Roger Federer. Shah Rukh Khan plays his most meaningful character in a career spanning a decade-and-a half, Gayathri Joshi makes a more than impressive debut, and Ashutosh Gowariker bears bravely the weight of the movie on his shoulders.

There is a beauty in imperfection, a beauty in the flawed. And this movie, though not the most seamless of ones is unique. It has captured my heart like few others have done(and sends flutters down every part of my body) and I cant help but applaud a director who explores un-trodden pathways in Indian cinema. A movie that is truly Indian. Simple, soothing and soulful.