Dil Se

We didn’t light the fire. It was a faceless, frustrated and frazzled fruit vendor in Tunisia who lit the fuse for 2011. The effect was a dangerous and explosive contagion which got airborne across the world, overthrowing dictators, killing tyrants, felling autocracies, nailing the money mess, hunting down corruption and telling those in power — “We’ve got you” Sadda haq, aithey rakh  may sound crassly, aggressively and unreasonably Punjabi, but it would’ve been unanimously adjudged the Worldwide Anthem of the Year by  Time  magazine had its yearend team been up with some local lingo. For lyricist Irshad Kamil’s famous first words pretty much signified the psyche and the state of the world in 2011, a tumult-ridden year in which popular protests for  aam  rights went acutely, insanely viral. The spirit of the year was untamed aggression, uncompromisingly and uncannily en masse . It was an upsurge by the 99 per cent of world society against the one per cent occupiers of power. Be

A second consecutive column on the plight of Dhoni and Co is definitely cause for concern. It is not just for the players who are being humiliated by the cocky Australians as never before but for Indian cricket as a whole, and the latter in a much bigger measure. One needs to get over our skipper’s startling utterances on foreign soil, the reports of dressing room fissures, the on field non-performance, the complete slackness of the Indian arm and the comprehensive failure of Team India’s best-ever 11 in the Test format. There is an urgent need to introspect about the golden goose being systematically felled by its own nurturers. The problem of such utter failure lies not in the players so much as it does in the grooming of these players by the Indian cricket Board. The BCCI’s rugged defence of its money spinning activities need to stop if the future of the game is to be saved in India. Blame Dhoni as much as you want to for his straight talk of not being too comfortable as

hree days in a row, I got up at 5.30 am with a start wondering what was wrong. Now I know — my subconscious was being jolted by my men in White doing nasty things to themselves, to me and to a helpless nation, that too in the middle of enemy territory. For the first time in many years, I feared switching on the Live sports channel, unable to bear the thought and sight of the massacre of my favourite men and favourite sport, at a not-so-favourite venue. By the time this gets printed, one would have done the needful to tackle the Sydney shocker, the abject surrender of our playing 11 and the ignominy of being blown away by a lesser Australian team in the middle. When India went into the series, they did so as favourites — the otherwise cocky Australians were struggling with transition woes, unable to stitch up the invincible image they grew up with in the last two decades. Ricky Ponting’s presence in the team was being questioned and their skipper Michael Clarke was still to shed

hope that niceties visit us through the 12 months and beyond, that 2012 finds its feet in positivity, good health and togetherness. As for me, here are six things I will like to do, depending on what lies ahead: No 1.  My most eagerly awaited date will be with the good, old, romantic Yash Chopraji who is on to his next Bollywood blockbuster. He seldom gives flops and even those like  Lamhe  which is counted as one, live to make a huge amount of money in years that follow and among audiences who mature to his version of a love story. Needless to say, and I am pretty sure not many would dissent, there is no other chemistry Professor who has all his equations right that Yash Chopra. From  Kabhie Kabhie  to  Veer Zara , he has gripped your hearts as no one else. Now in his late 70s, it is delightful that he has decided to come out of his self imposed retirement as director after he dabbled rather grippingly with a cross-border romance in  Veer Zara . That was way back in 2004. S

Going away from Delhi always gives your perspective back. It accords you that therapeutic break away from the always-on-the-run, mindless pursuits of whatever the urban jungle lulls you into believing is meaningful. Recently out on a visit to the hills to meet a doctor for an ailment per force cut me off from everything that generally occupied my days — work, television, malls and the like. An 11-hour bus journey up into the hills, not so tedious anymore thanks to the A/C Volvos which penetrate deep into the interiors of Himachal, tells you how the true meaning of the oft poetically serenaded “sound of silence”. No sound escapes from anywhere around you which, in some way, enhances the clarity of your eardrums. The silence, accompanied by the clear skies overloaded with stars inserts peace into your system. Really, where in Delhi can you really see the stars. It’s a magical experience, the feeling that the stars will fall into your arms anytime, the shooting stars streaking the

It was quite a startling experience to watch the morning show of  The Dirty Picture in one of the PVRs the other day. It was for the second time I was watching the film but the first time in a cinema hall. Being the film critic for my newspaper, I am a regular at morning shows on Friday but have never experienced anything like what I did in  The Dirty Picture . It was like watching those morning shows of all those years ago in halls like Regal, Sheila and Rivoli, to name a few in Connaught Place. Something titled  Kamsin Jawani  or  Bheega Yauwan  or something even more titillating for your carnal senses. But unlike those morning shows of yore, where the only stiff thing one came across was shady men’s shoulders, not to mention the creepy silence of the audiences, the morning show of  The Dirty Picture  was noisy, raunchy and, well, paisa vasool . The lewd comments about Vidya Balan’s rather heavy bosom were more titillating than the chatter that was coming from her mouth. The c