Happy International Women's Years Ahead!

Humankind recently celebrated International Women’s Day. Nothing unusual happened, as usual. It too had the nondescript 24 hours of misery but it symbolizes femininity and the beauty associated with it. So, net-net, it ought to be an important event on the calendar. Also, I too wanted to post something on that very day but procrastination has its way with me. Anyway, better late and now than later and never.

Let me remind you what you already know -- the true legend of fairer sex’s struggle for equality and gender prejudices prevalent in our quasi-modern society. Rural regions are even worse off than ours. Crime and age-old prejudices against women are never out of fashion. And the worst part is we are getting used to it. We shake our heads in premeditated disbelief whenever we read about untoward actions meted out against women, be it in any part of the world. But that’s that.

If you ask me (which you won’t!), I’d state that the sole objective of having an Int'l Women's Day is to check whether we, as human beings, can stay unsexist at least for a day or not. Sad as it is, we have designed a men-friendly world and one can only ponder if such a calamity was possible without women’s active participation. Think of the support and care one receives in the form of mother, grandmother, sister, wife, aunt and female friends. It’s an amazing case of working for your enemy’s interest. I know this might sound oh-so-feministic but things are bleak as always and whatever light we witness is hardly enough to dispel reality.

In an ideal world, we could have done without religion. Or at least, we would have dismantled the nexus of book-based faith. But that isn’t so. I find religion contemptuous because it has generally acted against womenfolk. If religion is genuine, then the possibility of God being misogynist must be true, too. Just look around yourself. Religious bodies want the womenfolk banished to the claustrophobic kitchen lest they rebel to demand what is rightfully theirs. Such societies fulfill their ulterior motives by denying them education. Illiteracy is rampant among girls in almost all listless countries and it’s quite easy to connect the hapless dots. Again, I must be sounding vain and pompous but then I’ve got a reputation to maintain and a futile argument to sustain.

Digressing over to the positive side, there are women who have made a place for themselves on this sexist planet mainly on the strength of their merit. It’s a healthy encouragement to see them on the pedestal of their respective fields. They are not only successful but also creating avenues for others. Fortunately, these are the women who inspire millions of little girls and fellow women to aspire to do something worthwhile with their life.

Closer home, we’ve got our mothers and grandmothers and sisters and all who by their selfless love and hardship keep us buoyant. We know we can’t thank them enough. Maybe that’s why we never thank them enough.

Cricket, Cup and Countries

Cricket sucks. I could have started this piece in a milder tone but I’ve got to warn the cricket-lovers before I sound nastier than I intend to. We all know it's just a lazy sport involving a lot of furniture. Wooden bats, stumps, bails. You get the idea. I must add cricket is a lovely sport as long as you’re not interested in it. Once you become a fan, it’s a frigging downhill thereafter. You get absorbed into this tedious circus of run-bowl-bat-field routine. No wonder this sport is played in less a dozen countries. Nonetheless, they have something called “Cricket World Cup” (CWC) going on as I type this polemic. It’s beyond humour that an event comprising of only 14 nations uses the word ‘World’ matter-of-factly. Unlike Football World Cup, you don’t witness cut-throat competition to qualify for CWC. On the contrary, non-cricketing nations like Ireland, Canada and Holland are invited to fill in spots against established cricketing biggies like India and Australia. There is nothing wrong with setting minnows against Goliaths but it just illustrates the helplessness of a sport in popularizing itself globally at the grassroot level.

One thing that well nigh sets CWC apart from other sports’ World Cups is the fact that it has the distinction of being hosted in all inhabited continents, something even football and hockey is yet to achieve. I know you must be wondering when did South America which might confuse cricket for an insect held the CWC. For the record, it happened in 2007 CWC when Guyana hosted a match and Guyana is a part of South America.

Cricket is a colonial vestige, at least in India. We were matchless in hockey during the time of our independence from British Raj. So naturally, hockey was chosen to be our national sport. As of now, if you look around, you can clearly point out the discrepancy in our attitude towards hockey. For the first time in 80 years, Indian hockey team couldn’t even quality for Olympics held at Beijing. It sounds like a death knell to something that put India on the global sporting map long before we could even call ourselves a free country

Cricket flourished in the subcontinent under the pretext of being the gentlemen’s game. It was called so not because all cricketers were certified gentlemen. They were not. It was just the nature of the sport. To begin with, it’s a non-contact sport, unlike football or hockey where players physically clash with each other. Cricket, on the contrary, is a collective display of individual space. The bowler has his predetermined run-up. The batsman has the 22-yard limited sprinting arena. The wicket-keeper stays put at his spot. The fielders have their designated area of concern. Even the umpires hardly move. The only thing that really helps this otherwise stationary act is the ball that can be shot in any direction by the batsman and occasional castling of stumps by bowlers. That keeps the momentum and excitement alive among the hapless fans.

And talking of ‘gentlemen’s game’, cricket is quite free from hooliganism that is prevalent in football and other popular sports. But then that is discounted passion. In cricket, the “gentlemen” do something worse. They are known to manipulate match results through match-fixing, spot-fixing, slow-overs and whatnot. It’s pathetic, to say the least. Moreover, cricketing body is known for its leniency towards drug abuse which is conspicuous in its reluctance to work with World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA). The recent sacking of three Pakistani players on doping charges is just a start.

Take a look at our cricketers; you just can’t miss their paunch. It just demonstrates the level of fitness a “sport” like cricket entails. Or at least our cricketers believe it entails. Besides, even on newspaper, cricketers are mostly shown practising all other sports except cricket to “stay fit”. It’s like a colossal joke that has been tolerated for too long.

As you can guess by now, I’m not a cricket fan. But it doesn’t diminish my Indianness. Of course, I’d love to see India win CWC coz the last time we did, it was more of a miracle and less of everything else. I can’t deny cricket is the only thing that actually binds our diverse country north to south, east to west. Nothing else comes even close to cricket in fulfilling this arduous task. Not even Bollywood. And then there is Sachin-factor too. I want him to retire with that one laurel missing on his legendary mantelpiece.

Lastly, this drivel won’t bring a revolution of sort and there must be millions of people who won’t agree with me but it doesn’t change the home truth that we nearly don’t exist in other sports despite having 1.2 billion people under one flag. Cricket’s unprecedented (read: commercial) success has a lot to do with this dismal scenario. It’s a shame but in ways more than one, cricket alone is not to blame. There are lots of other factors that goes in to play and when I say play, I don’t mean sports.

And the Oscars goes to the dogs!

Some things are better watched live and some things, alive. You have to give it to Oscars for being the most articulated celebrity circus in showbiz. Well, this year’s Oscars fell somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t an epic disaster, so to speak, but still it lacked its quintessential spark. For starters, it lacked jokes. I don’t know about others but I don’t watch Oscars for fashion policing. I watch it for hilarity – the innocuous digs that the host takes at the A-list actors who in turn are left with no option but to join the laugh parade. This year’s Oscars was not only bereft of such could-have-been jocular moments but also the guy (read: TV show hosts/comedians) who usually carry out the deed.

At the risk of sounding ruthless, the emceeing wasn’t up-to-mark. But James Franco was as high as sky. The poor guy was stoned and on top of that, he had to act sober but failed miserably. He was way too busy smirking, giggling and forgetting his lines. His co-host, Anne Hathaway had to overcompensate for his lack of participation. Out of the two, Anne obviously did a better job. Her charming personality coupled with her singing and rapid wardrobe changing skills made her screen-time worthwhile. Yet it wasn’t enough.

There were some spectacular moments too. Thankfully. Like Kirk Douglas’ appearance on stage to present the Best Supporting Actress Award. At 94, with heavy breathy voice, he still remembers the art of entertainment. He cracked jokes on Australians, Colin Firth and even flirted with Melissa Leo before handing out the bald statuette. For the minutes he spent on stage, you couldn’t help thinking: Yes, Oscars is the country for old men. After all, the Academy ensures legends and the not-so-legendary oldies are paid their due respect.

This time around, they had Billy Crystal (who tickled the starry audience pink within seconds of entering) reminiscing an *encounter* with his idol Bob Hope on the very jocular stage he was standing, years ago. Then there were Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law who shared the stage and effortlessly created laughs. Randy Newman’s acceptance speech for Best Song crafted some genuine yet laughy instants.

Acceptance speeches are rarely pleasing to ears, let alone audacious or inspiring. This year was no different. But I liked the Best Documentary 'Inside Job' director Charles Ferguson’s assertive stand about the absence of recession-tainted corporate executives in jail. I remember Sean Penn doing something similar for gays’ rights when he won Best Actor in 2009. Then there was Tom Hopper who won Best Director for ‘The King’s Speech’ advising everyone to listen to their mothers for he did the same and was going home with the golden statue.

Needless to say, like millions of fellow Indians, I too dream of Oscars and revel in its unsubstantiated glory. This year had some Indians (Bollywoodians, to be precise) on the red carpet including Abhi-Ash and Ashutosh Gowariker. AR Rahman performed “If I Rise” on stage. Moreover, the musical engineer had two nominations for Danny Boyle’s ‘127 Hours’ which he didn’t win. Boyle who struck gold two years ago with ‘Slumdog Millionaire’, was the biggest loser this year as his movie couldn’t pick up a single win out of six nods.

And yes, there was Tariq Anwar who failed to grab the award for Best Editing in ‘The King’s Speech’. This was his second nomination after ‘American Beauty’. Had he won, he could have become the first post-Slumdog Indian to grab an Oscar. Sigh.

Christian Bale won the Best Supporting Actor for his skinny role in ‘The Fighter’. Natalie Portman bagged Best Actress for her irritating but awesome portrayal of a ballerina in ‘Black Swan’. Colin Firth was anyway the sole man in Best Actor’s race with his stammering in TKS so there were no surprises there. TKS also won the Best Picture award. Deservedly so, I must add.

When I say Oscars has gone to the dogs, I’ve got undeniable reasons. Christopher Nolan was snubbed as usual. He wasn’t even nominated for direction. Just imagine ‘Inception’ without Nolan’s imagination. Difficult, isn’t it? For all we know, the Academy has issues with geniuses like him. Darren Aronofsky and Roger Deakins (and many more) also belong to this helpless club. Formidable movies like 'True Grit' and 'Winter’s Bone' went home empty-handed. Well, '127 Hours' wasn't the favorite in the first place.

In some way, watching Oscars, having no inkling what the Academy is all about, I mean, who are these people who get to vote, helps a lot. Perhaps, for all its annual exaggerations, Oscars deserves a lifetime achievement award as well as retirement.

Whatever.

No matter how dull it was on television, we, on Twitter, successfully snubbed Monday morning blues thanks to Oscars. Yup. So that’s a brownie point there. Meanwhile, I learned a trick or two for my celebrated “career”. You see, I’m thinking of doing a James Franco in my office some night. I’ll let you know once I do it. Or maybe after I undo it.

A weekend to remember

Here I am. Bryan Adams was here, too. I mean, in the city. For a concert. There were thousands of bulbs (fans is a depreciating word). I was there, too.

It was one heck of an event. Being someone who literally grew up listening to his songs, I'm glad I attended it. Besides, it was also my first open air gig. On any given day, I'd hate crowd but on that particular evening, I begged to differ with myself. Classical concerts in a packed auditorium soothe your nerves but this was something else.

When you're in a faceless event as such, no one recognizes you and you are just another aficionado or worse. You gradually seep into a maddening rush to be part of an experience that it doesn't matter even if the person standing beside you is howling, whistling or throwing his limbs into whatever space available. It is as if you were just part of something big, something much bigger than you. I know I must be sounding exaggerating as usual but trust me, it was beautiful. Especially for a bonafide-weekend- hikikomori like me. Additionally, I wonder if a gig could be so adrenalinistic, how would a revolution with all its charming protests feel like. No surprise, Arab countries are having the time of their life out on their streets.

And yes, how can I forget Bryan Adams? The guy is 51 but will stay 18 till he dies. He had this aura of a stage performer and a sandpaper voice that didn't betray a chord. He crooned almost all his hit songs with his trademark guitar in hand. What struck me was the sheer power a musician of his stature holds. He asks you to hold your cellphone high so as to lighten up the ground a la full moon night and you gladly oblige. He goads you to join him in the song and you shout at the top of your throat in your frog-kissed voice without a care. That's what I loved about the whole thing. You are free in spite of being trapped in swarm of strangers. There must be thousands of singers out there but not everyone can get people involved. A good performer never does it alone. He makes sure the audiences are invited in the party. I can go on and on about Bryan Adams. Maybe it has a lot to do with the fact that I've never seen an international singer perform before. Whatever it is, I can still go on and on about him. He duly deserves it. Plus, his crew, especially the guitarist Keith "Fastest Fingers" Scott, was damn lively. Interestingly, whenever they displayed Keith's lightning fingers strumming on the big screen, people turned quiet due to undeniable electric awesomeness whereas Bryan's voice brought the spoilt schoolkids in us out. Again.

Amazing as it was, there wasn't any sign of fatigue or boredom. It was indeed a weekend to remember and *helped* in churning out an usually positive post, for a change.

In related news, I must stop cribbing and start going out more. Not.

Just Another Stupid Post

I talk a lot about life. And death. And everything that mingles in between. But I mostly stick with life. It’s easier to tattle on something you’re experiencing on a daily basis. Of course, death is a handy topic too but being alive is the biggest reality. Trying to sprinkle some gyan about life is an intriguing exercise. It may make others go “You need to get a life!” or something in that line but trust me, they don’t say anything to your face and whatever they think in their empty head is their own personal business. Whatever. I can even bet that almost each one of us spew philosophical nonsense on life, knowingly or unknowingly. It’s like a validation of all the time you spent on this lonely planet.

Interestingly, we refer to life as a third person. Most of the words we use to describe it is inspired from songs we hear, dialogues we rote on screen, news we read and stories and poems we learnt as a kid. Yes, not to deny that considerable amount of it is based on personal inexperiences, too. Situations vary. Expressions vary. For example, when we are happy, we don’t jump around thanking our life for being so kind and shit. The same reaction isn’t true when unfavorable events take place. Why me? How unfair! FML!...... follows. Needless to say, life is exaggerated so it’s quite normal to see its nuances pumped up via words. I

Almost everyone’s ultimate dream is to lead a perfect life. It could be for anything – love money, fame, peace, industry, benevolence, etc. In truth, very few pursue this relentless dream as the idea of perfection is hard to overcome. For the rest of us, talking helps. Hearing your voice may be the easiest task but that’s when reality kicks you in the balls. The thing is, our approach towards life is totally different from the way life approaches us. We are like life’s guinea pigs. Most of us have no clue what we want to do with our lives. Some do. But the worst are those who know exactly what they want to do but are doing nothing about it.

Moreover, there is no dearth of words of wisdom when it comes to how you should live. That’s how it is.

After reading this, you must be cursing “You need to get a life!” to me. Fair enough. If I had the kind of life I wish I had, I wouldn't have been bothering myself with this stupid blog either.

Life's *Storry*

Since I’ve got absolutely nothing to blab on, I’ll try my bad luck with stories. Like you know, stories go back a long time. For most of us, our grandmas held the password to the magical world of endless tales that kept us engrossed when we were less-stupid little kids. And then one day you grew up and stopped paying heed to impossible fibs. In simpler words, you became a part of your own story called Life. You were the main character, for a change. Of course, you realized every now and then that you weren’t cut-out for the part but still you carried on with it. Needless to say, you often wondered, “How the heck did I bag this role?” So you started looking around and acknowledged the fact that this whole world is an exotic stage and we are all mere hams, diligently trying to act professional, ad-libbing every now and then to add a twist to the script. But in the end, you get a story to call your own.

No matter where you come from, you always carry some f-ed up story with you. These stories, so to narrate, are mostly based on personal inexperiences and utter disregard to consequences. That’s exactly what makes it so damn captivating – its raw unpredictability and undeniable authenticity. Somewhere down the line, we learn that our story can’t be perfect the way they show in movies. Our stories are basically sad, to be frank. We love melancholic drama and not even attempt to get tired of it. Maybe this is the reason why our stories mostly turns out very hospitable to tears and warms heart. Luckily, a fortunate few find the silver smiling lining amid this charade and laugh their heart out at the trivialness of breathing. And some join in the laugh riot.

This story we’re talking about here is alive. It has procreative gifts. For instance, it can give rise to spiteful rumours, adulterated anecdotes and misquoted quotes, too. Far from being dead words, this story is life itself. It may so happen that once in a while, life may abandon you and digress towards loneliness, lethargy, maudlin and other such inviting corner. Despite this interlude, the story goes on.

"Dearest Life, January was here but you weren't, where were you? February is here but you aren't, where are you?”

The search never ends nor the hide-and-seek routine. Just for a story’s sake.

Chancing on a Change!

If you ain't living on some deserted island or in deep Amazon, there is a pretty good chance you'd be nodding to the fact that something is brewing in Egypt, or should I say in Arab world, at large. They say it is history in the making or a dictator in the breaking. The experts believe epic events like these don't take place often. Well, the people in the know love to dig past, analyze present and predict future. That's their job. But one intriguing word is doing the rounds – Revolution.

People love revolution. Everyone desires a change even at the price of not knowing what exactly that change is all about. Give them an affable leader and a common enemy and then lo and behold. The emotions will unfold on streets, the very place where we're expected to do the very opposite. Every single time the media flashes pictures of people gathered on a city square, you can feel euphoria, anguish, hope, ecstasy, all served on a single plate. You see a crazy crowd shouting slogans, waving flags, pelting stones, burning vehicles and everything that isn't within the definition of civility. And yes, do note that revolution almost never takes place in rural areas!

The chaos that promptly spills on roads actually begins with a society. We, being the herds that we are, love to let society guide us in spite of knowing perfectly well that human society is a failed experiment. One of the biggest reasons why it flunked lies in our inherent selfishness. Small wonder we ended up here, deservedly though. We belong to the kind that not only hunts on full stomach but also qualmlessly boast about it. We don't have to travel far to know what I'm blabbering about. Just take a look at your place. The place you like to call your home. Make a list of all the stuff lying there that isn't of any use to you but it is still there, nonetheless. It could be anything from the clothes you don't wear anymore to the food that gets wasted every single day. The bottom-line is we are neck deep in materialism. The concept of sharing with the less-privileged never kicks in. After all, we are busy 'getting ahead in life'. This is where society fails abysmally and such imbalanced societies proceed to give birth to so-called revolutions. History reeks of struggles where collective human suffering was the winning difference.

Now, the daunting question is who do we want to change – the society or self? The simpler choice would be changing the society. People have being doing that aeons now – trying to change others. The more difficult task would be changing oneself voluntarily. It's high time we washed off this thick coat of want and get a better sense of other's pain and misfortune.

Coming back to the breakthrough happenings of North Africa, let's hope this time it's a revolution for real, not political checkmate or a religious knockout. Revolutions always leave behind its share of ignominy. In fact, the only revolution that passes off without any controversy is the one our planet takes around the sun.

Let's see.