End of Saurav Dynasty
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. Who would know this better than our adored prince, the Prince of Kolkatta.
If he has courted someone outside his much publicized marriage, it would be the ‘controversy’ herself. From the said marriage to Gilchrist’s recent publicity stunt for his book, Dada has been in the eye of the storm. Love him, hate him, there is no way you can ignore him.
Since he first waltzed down to the cricketing ground, the southpaw has changed the Indian cricket forever. Indian teams cowered against bullying of ill-mannered aggression of other teams. Saurav responded to this in kind and paid back with interest. Dada brought in the killer instinct that everyone lamented India lacked.
Saurav the player was paled in comparison with Saurav the captain. He was the motivating force behind India’s some of the most unbelievable wins. He backed the players he believed in. As a captain, he nurtured talents of likes of Sehwag, Yuvraj and Bhajji.
He played only offside once. He conquers onside later. Those wonderful offside strokes become his Achilles’ heel. He conquers the offside again. He can’t handle swings. But he partners with Sachin to give India an opening pair that would break all the records. When Indian lineup crumbles like nine-pins during formidable second innings chases, time and again Dada stands tall and defies opposition bowling attack. “Waltzing down the track” term was coined in cricket commentary only to celebrate Dada’s exploits on the pitch.
If Saurav went to Hogwarts the sorting hat wouldn’t have to wait a minute before deciding. No options to be given. He would be a true-blue Gryffindor. Heart on sleeve, courage touching skies in worst of the times.
Aggressive to the core. Blood never ran in his veins, it raged. Dada swinging his t-shirt at winning the NatWest series is a scene Indian fans will never forget.
His cricketing career was once burnt down by a poor form and BCCI politics. But the Saurav ‘Phoenix’ Ganguly that rose out of those ashes was all the more formidable, more consistent and more of himself.
Now it’s the time for curtains to fall. The prince bowing out one last time from the stage of international cricket. The stage will never be the same again.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
For the love of the Game
How fascinating it would be to peek in to a diary of a young girl? How painful it would be if the said diary happened to be written during the time of Second World War? And oh, by the way the girl is not a Jew. And to top it all up, the narrator is a presence that has haunted all the life-forms ever since the life started – the Death. All stories about WW2 are stories of death, but this one is narrated by the Death himself (now I don’t suppose feminists would insist that here also I add “or herself”).
Too much beating around the bush (or should I say Obama now?). The title is “The Book thief”.
And what a book it is. A painting of vibrant colors of innocence and adolescence on dark background full of hatred, bigotry and violence. The novel is definitely not first of its kind nor it is singular in terms of the emotions it conveys. But I somehow am able to identify with the protagonist because I also steal for my love of words and books. Though I have as yet not resorted to stealing books, I steal time. And I understand that unyielding force that makes you resort to stealing, though the motivations of the protagonists might not have been the same thorughout the book.
The book captures the humour in death and tragedy of life. It portrays thieves who love and rulers who hate. It has mud-splattered atletes and broken musical instruments.
The book reeks of death, smells of life and talks about a girl that has survived both.
Read it. It's worth it.
How fascinating it would be to peek in to a diary of a young girl? How painful it would be if the said diary happened to be written during the time of Second World War? And oh, by the way the girl is not a Jew. And to top it all up, the narrator is a presence that has haunted all the life-forms ever since the life started – the Death. All stories about WW2 are stories of death, but this one is narrated by the Death himself (now I don’t suppose feminists would insist that here also I add “or herself”).
Too much beating around the bush (or should I say Obama now?). The title is “The Book thief”.
And what a book it is. A painting of vibrant colors of innocence and adolescence on dark background full of hatred, bigotry and violence. The novel is definitely not first of its kind nor it is singular in terms of the emotions it conveys. But I somehow am able to identify with the protagonist because I also steal for my love of words and books. Though I have as yet not resorted to stealing books, I steal time. And I understand that unyielding force that makes you resort to stealing, though the motivations of the protagonists might not have been the same thorughout the book.
The book captures the humour in death and tragedy of life. It portrays thieves who love and rulers who hate. It has mud-splattered atletes and broken musical instruments.
The book reeks of death, smells of life and talks about a girl that has survived both.
Read it. It's worth it.
Real Virtuality
Incident dates back to some 7-8 years. I am lying in the bed so thirsty it hurts my throat. I try to summon the will to stand up, but the legs that aren’t there are not going to follow your wish. I curse myself for forgetting where I have kept my crutches. I am on the verge of calling out to the roomie to bring me a glass of water when the sudden shock strikes me. I remember that I can walk. It was the protagonist of the novel I just finished who couldn’t.
Even after such a long time reminder of that incident gives me goose-bumps. Was it the skill of the novelist? Was it my involvement in the book? Or does it have something to do with my misplaced priorities in life?
If I look in the rear view mirror, my life has been like a long series of case studies of fictitious characters rather than an experiment in itself. It is a hard confession to put on paper and I am fighting a strong urge to delete last some sentences. It basically challenges my way of life.
I think that most people treat life like it’s a racing track. Most thinkers talk about achieving something (spiritual, material, emotional whatever that something maybe) at the end of the life. As if life in itself is just a mean to achieve that end. I believe the life is the end in itself. To me, it’s not about reaching any end, winning the 1st or 4,558,495th prize. It’s about enjoying the morning breeze, relishing the punishing sun of the afternoon and welcoming the dusk with one favorite song or five.
There might not be much coherence to whatever I have said till now, but I promise it sounded so coherent in my mind.
Now that the traffic jam is over and the car is moving, I will stop. There’s a wonderful song being played on the radio and that needs more attention than my analysis of life.
Incident dates back to some 7-8 years. I am lying in the bed so thirsty it hurts my throat. I try to summon the will to stand up, but the legs that aren’t there are not going to follow your wish. I curse myself for forgetting where I have kept my crutches. I am on the verge of calling out to the roomie to bring me a glass of water when the sudden shock strikes me. I remember that I can walk. It was the protagonist of the novel I just finished who couldn’t.
Even after such a long time reminder of that incident gives me goose-bumps. Was it the skill of the novelist? Was it my involvement in the book? Or does it have something to do with my misplaced priorities in life?
If I look in the rear view mirror, my life has been like a long series of case studies of fictitious characters rather than an experiment in itself. It is a hard confession to put on paper and I am fighting a strong urge to delete last some sentences. It basically challenges my way of life.
I think that most people treat life like it’s a racing track. Most thinkers talk about achieving something (spiritual, material, emotional whatever that something maybe) at the end of the life. As if life in itself is just a mean to achieve that end. I believe the life is the end in itself. To me, it’s not about reaching any end, winning the 1st or 4,558,495th prize. It’s about enjoying the morning breeze, relishing the punishing sun of the afternoon and welcoming the dusk with one favorite song or five.
There might not be much coherence to whatever I have said till now, but I promise it sounded so coherent in my mind.
Now that the traffic jam is over and the car is moving, I will stop. There’s a wonderful song being played on the radio and that needs more attention than my analysis of life.
Preface for the next three posts
I am nothing if not a procrastinator. Some of the posts have been lying dormant for ages now in my word processor (MS Word of course).
Putting them up one by one now. The one about Saurav Ganguly's departure from the international cricket was written during his last test. For other posts, timing really does not matter.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Remakes, memories and disappointments
One senseless killer. One senseless villain. Two sexy girls. Voila! you have all box-office records broken.
Truth be told. "Ghajini" need not be compared with any Hollywood movie. As a stand alone movie, it is a wonderful run-of-the-mill masala movie with a new idea.
A bit of South flavor (which is to be expected) in limitless incomprehensible futile violence. A hero that can fight with aplomb after being stabbed in chest. And of-course whatz-her-face Asin.
But the problem is that you have already seen "Memento"! And unlike the protagonists in both the movies, you do remember beyond 15 min. BTW this 15 min is more of an indicative figure and treates as such in Memento whereas in Ghajini, the villain keeps emphasizing on 15 min only memory, lest audience might forget that he mentioned it some half an hour before.
In one-on-one comparison Memento is a classic, Ghajini is a superhit; Memento is about forgetting Ghajini is about remembering; Memento is a thrilling chase, Ghajini is a forgone conclusion; Memento shocks with the end, Ghajini shocks by breaking all the box office records. Memento is subtle in its depiction of protagonist's love and agony, Ghajini needless to say is over loud on that front; in Memento the protagonists is incorrigible, in Ghajini the protagonist is infallible.
In short, Ghajini is an out-an-out Bollywood recipe masala flick whereas Memento is a master-piece.
Though humour, Amir and Asin make the movie watchable, we could have so done without the Villain. Go watch it if you don't have a life, the movie is for you.
My rating - 2/10
A bit of South flavor (which is to be expected) in limitless incomprehensible futile violence. A hero that can fight with aplomb after being stabbed in chest. And of-course whatz-her-face Asin.
But the problem is that you have already seen "Memento"! And unlike the protagonists in both the movies, you do remember beyond 15 min. BTW this 15 min is more of an indicative figure and treates as such in Memento whereas in Ghajini, the villain keeps emphasizing on 15 min only memory, lest audience might forget that he mentioned it some half an hour before.
In one-on-one comparison Memento is a classic, Ghajini is a superhit; Memento is about forgetting Ghajini is about remembering; Memento is a thrilling chase, Ghajini is a forgone conclusion; Memento shocks with the end, Ghajini shocks by breaking all the box office records. Memento is subtle in its depiction of protagonist's love and agony, Ghajini needless to say is over loud on that front; in Memento the protagonists is incorrigible, in Ghajini the protagonist is infallible.
In short, Ghajini is an out-an-out Bollywood recipe masala flick whereas Memento is a master-piece.
Though humour, Amir and Asin make the movie watchable, we could have so done without the Villain. Go watch it if you don't have a life, the movie is for you.
My rating - 2/10
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