C Is For Complaining

For many years I'd considered the axiom "Humans are fundamentally greedy" as the one unshakeable truth that would forever stand the test of time, space and everything else in between. Now, however, I've come to the realization that that there may be another dictum that is so forceful and inflexible that it can supplement, if not altogether replace, the 'humans are greedy' idea. Be warned, this is not a groundbreaking new theory that I've arrived upon through a divine flash of inspired genius; it's just something I've noticed that has, thus far in my short span of life experiences, stood the test of every variable in existence. Before I get any deeper into this rambling mode of mine that I so often get stuck in, I'll pronounce my great discovery as concisely as possible. So here goes - Human beings are inherently inclined to complain. Alright, that may not have been very concise, but at least I managed to steer clear of the dramatics. Which can only be a good thing.

Think about it - we complain about everything under the sun. We just like to complain. We may go blue in the face denying this, but there really is no going around our undying fondness for complaining and criticizing. No conversation seems complete unless we bitch about something, whether that thing is in our own backyard or in some far-flung place halfway across the globe. Take the case of Raj Thackerey and the wondrous bunch of TV News channels in our country, for instance. The other day when Mr. Thackerey cut a cake on his birthday, a whole heap of people went up in arms over the supposedly evil way in which he brandished the knife before committing the deed. Then one of the anchormen on one of the news channels felt duty-bound to admonish the immaturity of these complainers, solemnly declaring that what goes on in a politician's household is no one's business but his own. And then the next day at work I couldn't stop complaining about the alternately hilarious and nerve-gratingly annoying news channels that we are blessed with in India. Of course, this sordid pile of complaints would never have come into being if Raj Thackerey hadn't felt the need, in the first place, to bitch about all people who exist outside Maharashtra. You see, this is one depressing chain of events that is much worse than the cliched 'vicious cycles'.

Work. I can never tire of complaining about work. Actually, no one can, as far as I know. We constantly complain about how our workplace bears an uncanny resemblance to hell, and we never get bored of proclaiming that nothing in the world is more boring than our work. And when we reach our sorrowful offices, we happily (or sadly, to be technically correct yet conceptually wrong) indulge in good old-fashioned office gossip, which is just another term for complaining about our colleagues. And the less said about the words we choose when talking about our bosses the better.

We whine about the poor infrastructure in our country (and that includes everything from our shoddy roads to our appalling education system) and we gripe about the politicians who apparently don't take steps to improve that infrastructure quickly enough. Heck, we even bemoan the political, moral (!) and economic conditions in countries other than our own, specially in the rich ones likes the US and the UK. We complain about the bad movies that are inflicted on us by clueless filmmakers in the name of cinema, and, when shown the 'House full' board at the ticket counter of our favourite multiplex, we grieve about how people are such losers that they have nothing better to do than go to the movies on a Sunday morning . We grouse about the restrictions imposed on us by our families, and we discover that taking digs at the most obnoxious member of our friends' group is the best pastime in the world.

I, of course, have my own set of pet complaints which give me a particular and oddly comforting pleasure. I grumble, loudly, when my room is messed up by the slightest amount imaginable. I never waste an opportunity to eloquently narrate to anyone who'd listen how incredibly tiring it is for me to travel some 60 km everyday to get to my workplace. I dramatically lament about how we still seem to live in the dark ages every time we have a power cut, and I curse my mobile service provider when I receive my phone bill every month. I condemn every single commuter I lay my eyes on when I'm stuck in a traffic jam (I think I need hardly mention how much disgust I express about the government and its road maintainence programmes at such times) and I grouse about rising costs when I go to my favourite restaurant and find that the rates have increased yet again. I blame everything from bad luck with the cards to the dishonest ways of my opponents when I lose a Pictionary game, and I say without remorse, when I strum out a particularly ill-tuned chord on my guitar, that my guitar strings need to be changed, all the while grimly muttering about how little time I get to practise or go to a guitar-learning class. I criticize the stupid draw system followed by the tennis tournament organizers when Roger Federer loses at any stage before the final of a tournament, and I abuse my ancient computer when, at the most riveting point of a tennis match, it slows down inexplicably and kills the live stream that I'd found after so much tireless scrounging. I think I could go on and on with this list of mine; fortunately, I've got work tomorrow so I have to wrap this post up sooner rather than later. God, that was one remarkably depressing sentence.

There are some things, of course, that I can find nothing to complain about. The movie Wall-E, for example. Watched it last week, and although I confess I was fully prepared to fall in love with it because of the glowing reviews it had received from nearly all quarters, I can fairly say that it is a stunning achievement in film-making whichever way you look at it. The guys up at the Pixar studio (incidentally, the last movie made by Pixar was the equally delightful Ratatouille) must have some seriously creative guys at the helm to have come up with as heart-warming a gem as Wall-E. The animation is gorgeous, the characters absolutely lovable and the premise immensely original and thought-provoking. If you thought The Dark Knight was genius, wait till you watch Wall-E. How I wish the Oscar jury members would get some sense knocked into their heads; if they don't nominate both of these movies for Best Picture they'd really prove themselves as the biggest bunch of knucklheads ever. Ahem, there I go again. We humans really are inherently inclined to complain, aren't we.

Shaking Off The Rust

I'd like to say that I've spent the last 3 and a half months gallantly travelling around the world, meeting flamboyant people and experiencing memorable adventures, which is why I haven't been able to post anything since the beginning of July. Proudly declaring that I made some radical career decisions and have embarked on my career of choice - an unconventional, risky path that everyone advised me against - would have had a nice ring to it too. Heck, I'd even settle for having had the opportunity to say that I've finally started - and finished - writing the book that I've long been dreaming of writing, and am now anxiously hunting for a publisher bold enough to let my work of art go to print. To now say that I've not even come close to doing any of these things sounds so depressing that I'm already starting to regret writing this post. And precisely as I finish typing this astonishingly sorrowful sentence, a bunch of really really loud Diwali firecrackers go off in the distance, almost making me jump from my chair. 'Ironical' doesn't even begin to describe it.

3 and a half months is a really long time. And yet, all I've been able to do in that really long period is continue with my same boring old routine which goes something like this - work, get tired, eat, remain tired, sleep, remain tired, and work again. Oh, somewhere in the midst of this routine I have had the time to develop and solidify a deep hatred for my job, watch a few movies, wonder why Ernests Gulbis, the 20-year-old tennis player from with Latvia with THE talent keeps getting the worst draws imaginable in the big tournaments (I mean come on - Nadal in the Wimbledon second round, Roddick in the US Open second round and Nadal AGAIN in the Madrid Masters second round? You've got to be kidding me.) and muse indifferently at how weird it is that the global economy, and consequently the entire world and all of its people, really, depend on such few unpredictable, unreliable, lottery-like and completely manipulable elements like stock markets and real estate markets. I'd also like to have been able to say that I spent some time during my hiatus trying to find ways to shorten my sentences in my blog posts, but then, wouldn't that be too obvious a lie?

I hate my work. Period. It's so easy to say something like that. I don't know when exactly this hatred started, but I can assure you that it is in its full bloom right now. Of course, the fact that my current assignment requires me to travel on my bike for 60 km everyday (sometimes in the midst of pouring rain, and frequently through mind-numbingly frustrating traffic jams) contributes a great deal to that loathing. But I've come to the realization that I'd probably hate anything that I have to do, whether it's for earning money or for getting a degree. I can enjoy doing something, anything, only as long as I do it of my own free discretion. Heck, I'd probably start hating Harry Potter if I had it as a subject of my course material. I don't know why this is so; I don't even know whether everyone else is destined to suffer this awful fate or I'm the only woebegone one. Deep thoughts these - I think I need PLENTY of leisure time to adequately reflect on them.

Watched a fair few movies the past few months. I was completely bedazzled, enthralled and awed by the phenomenon that was The Dark Knight, both in my first viewing AND my second one, possibly even more in the second one. It makes me feel so good that I had declared Chris Nolan my favourite Hollywood director to anyone who'd listen more than a year before everyone else watched The Dark Knght and started jumping on the Nolan bandwagon. Rock On!! was good, but I really wasn't as impressed by it as most people seem to be (I know I'm nit-picking, but just why couldn't the director have asked Arjun Rampal to at least make an effort to look like he was actually playing the guitar?). Kidnap was tremendously funny; I simply cannot get Imran Khan's priceless expressions out of my head, specially the one when he mouths "Main tumhara kal, aur tumhar kal hoon" in a supposedly sinister voice. And they said the kid was a promising actor. I missed out on all those meaningful flicks like Mumbai Meir Jaan, A Wednesday, even Body Of Lies, but frankly, I think I'm a little tired of the terrorist theme being played out in nearly every single movie being released these days. The movie that I truly, truly regret missing out on is Wall-E; I have no idea when the movie was released in India, let alone when it was pulled out of theatres. Now I have no option but to wait for the DVD release, which is going to be sometime next month. I can't believe I watch all the piece of trash movies in the world but pass over the only animated movie in the past 20 years that is being talked up for a Best Picture nomination at the Oscars. I cannot believe this.

In other news, it has been confirmed that Jelena Jankovic is going to end the year as the world's No.1 tennis player, as is Rafael Nadal on the men's side, but for once, the women are causing a greater stir than the men among tennis fans. Jankovic, as has been widely asserted, has never triumphed at a Grand Slam, has only been in a Grand Slam final once (this year at the US Open) and has played the most matches on tour this year, losing as many as 17 matches. Serena Williams, on the other hand, won this year's US Open (and has won 8 other Slams overall), was part of a breathtaking Wimbledon final against her sister Venus, and lost just 7 matches throughout the year. I'm sorry, but in my opinion it simply doesn't make sense that Jankovic will end the year No.1 while Serena will be languishing at No.3. Jankovic does care about rankings a lot more than Serena, I'll give her that; but how fair is a ranking system that allows a player to play a bunch of tournaments towards the end of the year (incidentally, the 'end of the year' period in tennis is the period when most of the big guns have trouble gathering up enough motivation and energy to get through their matches with their reputations intact) and usurp the top ranking from a player who has just re-affirmed that she is the only player on tour who can blow away the competition (unless that competition is her sister) when fully fit and healthy? Someone should be asking this question to the WTA bigwigs.

I took so long to write this post that the fireworks, which at one point seemed capable of blowing a hole through my wall, have now been reduced to an occasional bang here and a half-hearted thud there. I guess that's a sign for me to wrap things up. This looks like one of my worst blog posts ever. But it's alright. I'm rusty. I won't think of it now. Tomorrow is a new day. God, I need to end this before it gets any cornier.

THE Match

Clearly, there's not much I can say about Sunday's match between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal that will add anything whatsoever to the myriads of columns, articles, opinions and reactions that have already been voiced and written by all sorts of people all over the world. It doesn't help, of course, that I am actually at a loss for words to do adequate justice to the match that was of such epic proportions that it still seems a little beyond belief. Which is why I think I'll put aside any thoughts of an objective analysis or technical evaluation of the match and instead, write about it purely from the perspective of a Roger Federer fan. It might be a little more painful, but it will surely be more fruitful, no? (Forgive the Nadal imitation; it's become something of trend to add a 'no' at the end of every sentence these days).

Some people are calling this the greatest match in the history of tennis, and nearly everybody agrees that this was the defining match of our generation. Was it better than the Borg-McEnroe Wimby final of 1980? The jury is still out on that, but certainly, this match had everything, if having everything is the basis on which such things are judged. It had a confident, assured start by Nadal which served as an appetizing teaser; a stirring comeback by Federer to keep the ball rolling, and a relentless, hit-till-you-drop 5th set that took the rivalry to as dizzying a pinnacle as anyone could have hoped for. Throw in a couple of dramatically timed rain delays and a finish in near darkness with the flashbulbs of innumerable cameras sparkling upon the court like some kind of divine rapture from the skies and you have a transcendent sporting moment that will perhaps never be witnessed again. When the match finally ended after 4 hours and 48 minutes - incidentally, this was the longest-ever Wimbledon final - and Nadal fell to the ground in part relief, part disbelief, and part life-changing ecstasy, did anyone even remember the extremely high stakes that had rested on the match, the remarkable slice of history that Federer had been denied or the extraordinary accomplishment (the French-Wimby double that hasn't been seen since the days of, oh, Bjorn Borg and 1980) that Nadal had just achieved?

For a Federer fan, the match provided plenty of moments to savour and keep in memory, although I'm sure most Federer fans would actually want to quickly forget this match in its entirety. Federer began the match as badly as anyone could have feared, and seemed to realize soon enough that he would have to summon his TMF (TMF=The Mighty Federer, a delightful little term coined by members of the site www.tennis.com) mode to make a match of this. And summon TMF mode he did, racing away to a 4-2 lead in the second, seemingly gaining control of proceedings. But Nadal, in what has become scarily customary manner now, staged a brilliant comeback, and all of a sudden memories of Roger letting slip those 4-0 and 5-1 leads in Monte Carlo and Hamburg came painfully rushing back. Almost expectedly, Federer's level dropped, and by the middle of the 3rd set he was shanking backhands all over the place. At 3-3 in the third, Federer went 0-40 down on his serve, and even the most optimistic of Federer fans must have given up hope then (I know I almost switched off the TV after Nadal took the second set). But Federer's serve, as it has so often required to do throughout his career, bailed him out, and Federer survived. His bad temper lingered, however, and in the next game he let his grumpy side come out in full force, making such ridiculous challenges on baseline calls right at his feet that it seemed he was going prematurely senile. Muttering and grumbling away in typical Federer fashion, he somehow managed to hang in there till the rains came pouring down, giving him a much needed break for perhaps a few calming words from girlfriend Mirka and a cooling off under some ice cold water. When play resumed, of course, TMF mode was back, and he took the 3rd before most people watching it at home had even realized that the match had resumed.

The 4th set tie-breaker was perhaps the most spectacular display of tennis and spell-binding drama that anyone will ever get to see. Leading 5-2 with two serves in hand, Nadal choked; a double fault was followed by a backhand error, and when a player as mentally strong as Nadal chokes, you know that the match means much, much more than a Grand Slam title or 1000 ranking points. Federer then got yet another opportunity to show why Wimbledon is supposed to be his house, striking a backhand passing winner down the line on championship point. It was a shot so unforgettable and so unfreakingbelievable that it seemed like a travesty when they continued to the next point, instead of giving the TV broadcasters time to show maybe a 100 replays of it.

When the match went to a 5th set the general feeling was that the momentum had swung irrevocably in Federer's favour, and when Nadal went down a break point at 4-3, it seemed only a matter of time before the 6th consecutive title was in Federer's fashionable little bag. But Nadal had other ideas, keeping up his magnificent serving and refusing to let Federer get another sniff, in spite of the distinct disadvantage that he had of serving behind in the final set. Federer frequently went down double break points on his own serve, and with every ace or service winner that he thundered down on these points, the Nadal fans all over the world must have been trying their hardest not to remember those squandered break points from last year's final. After a point it got so, I don't know, routine that I could only laugh in amazement every time Federer fired yet another ace when he was in trouble on his serve. Has there ever been a better example of clutch serving in the history of tennis? I guess I'll have to dig out some of those Pete Sampras clips on youtube to answer that. Eventually, of course, Federer could not keep up in the face of the unremitting attacks by the Spaniard, and Nadal finally had the break to go up 8-7. And yet, there was more drama in store. Down another championship point at 7-8, 30-40, Federer came up with a return of serve that one commentator described as "the best return of serve that I've ever seen", only to falter a few moments later when an errant forehand found the net. Tell me, what did this match not have?

I didn't have the heart to watch the post-match ceremony, switching off the TV after Nadal had climbed down from the stands having embraced and rejoiced and cried with his support team. Federer looked so forlorn and lost that it seemed almost an invasion into his privacy to even watch him sitting on his chair, staring blankly into oblivion and trying, and failing, to look unbroken by the result of the match. I've been told that he almost broke into tears during an interview with John McEnroe some time after the match, and I'm fervently thankful that I didn't have to see that. Why was this match so important? Surely, Federer will have many more chances to win Wimbledon. Undeniably, Nadal has many more years to prove and reinforce his mastery over grass, if he hadn't already done that before this match. Even the rankings haven't been greatly affected by the result - it's still highly likely that Federer will end the year ranked No. 1. On Sunday, the Federer-Nadal rivalry touched its zenith, a dazzling peak that will perhaps remain untouched and forever ensconced in folklore and legend, and it was a crest that transcended all cause and reason. It was sport in its purest, most enthralling form. After the match, I felt really really sorry for Federer, but I felt sorrier for all the people in the world who don't have the chance, or in some cases don't want, to watch and witness the glory of sport.

P.S.: I also feel sorry for Venus Williams, whose remarkable 5th Wimbledon crown and the fantastic final she put up with sister Serena are destined to be forgotten and relegated to the after-thoughts heap in the face of the incredible, incredible men's final.

When A Treat Is Not A Treat, But Is A Double Treat!

Trust A R Rahman to pull a fast one on us when least expected. For the past 3 years we’ve been fed on crumbs, literally – there have been a measly 3 albums (Rang De Basanti, Guru and Jodhaa Akbar) composed by the musical genius since 2006 and we’ve been forced to sportingly take that lying down. And now out of the blue, two A R Rahman albums releasing one day apart! Talk about a double treat. And even though I know that as a die-hard A R Rahman fan I should be ashamed for not having had a shadow of an inkling that Rahman had been preparing to cut his own album for the past 6 months or so, there’s a certain special charm to pleasant surprises like these. It kind of makes me wish I hadn’t spent the 6 months before the release of the 7^th Harry Potter book obsessing about the million or so theories concerning anything and everything about Potterverse.

Right then, so the big question, of course, is – how good are the two new A R Rahman albums – Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na and Ada? I’ll start with Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na, or JTYJN for short (I really did think Aamir Khan, of all people, wouldn’t find the need to have the title of his movie sound like the first half of the script). The movie is supposed to be a youthful romance, and Rahman, as always, makes sure that every track in the album perfectly fits the theme of the movie. The first track, Kabhi Kabhi Aditi Zindagi is - there’s no other word for it – vintage A R Rahman. In other words, a very very good composition. Jaane Tu Mera Kya Hai is somewhat a middling track – a little weird on melody, and the kind of song you don’t really know whether to like or not. Nazrein Milaana almost sounds like Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy territory, and I think I should add here that Rahman does a better Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy than anyone else, maybe even better than the trio themselves. I normally hate to use this word, but the track is wonderfully - peppy. So much for the perennial classical inclinations of the maestro.

Pappu Can’t Dance is, plain and simple, disappointing. If there has been one grouse I have held against Rahman these past few years, other than his tendency to occasionally disappear from the music scene for months together, is that he seems to have lost his touch when it comes to dance numbers. Which was the last really rocking dance number you heard from him? Masti Ki Pathshala from Rang De Basanti? When I heard that song for the first time, I had a hard time getting past the fact that the song actually had no tune to speak of. Personally, I thought the Meherbaan track from Tehzeeb was great, but even that was nearly 5 years ago. I don’t know about you, but I really miss the days of Rangeela Re and Humma Humma. But we must make do with what we have, and what we have is still quietly and impressively enthralling. Kahin To Hogi almost sounds like a Westlife/Boyzone track with Hindi lyrics, and it does its job well. And can we ever have a Rahman album without a single track that strays dramatically from the beaten Bollywood path? Tu Bole Main Boloon is laden with heavy jazz and funk elements, and while I’m sure it’d suit the context of the movie well, I can’t really say that I enjoyed the track.

Ok, enough of film talk. Let’s talk about Rahman’s own privately recorded album Ada now. The thing that struck me the moment I started listening to the tracks of the album is how unnatural Rahman’s songs sound when sung by typically dulcet singers like Sonu Nigam and Alka Yagnik. Maybe I don’t notice that in Rahman’s Bollywood albums, but then again, how often does he sign up the typical Bollywood singers anyway? I personally can’t get enough of Rahman’s own vocals – there’s something very endearing about the way he completely disregards the lyrics of the song (he still can’t speak Hindi, even after all these years) and gets lost, almost like a child, in the rhythm and melody of the track. As it turns out, however, there’s just one song sung by him in the album, and that put me off in a big way. Ada is a very nice album, no doubt, but I somehow get the feeling that Rahman is playing it safe with this album – almost too many mass-appealing numbers. Gulfisha is a fantastic track, but what on earth is Gumsum all about? For a second there I almost felt like looking it up on the internet and making sure that it was actually Rahman who’d composed the track and not some blissfully stagnant Nadeem-Shravan or Sajid-Wajid type of music director, what with the Madanpura-style beats and all. Hawa Sun Hawa restored some of my faith in Rahman, and Meherbaan almost made me feel guilty of my earlier disparaging thoughts about him, but Ishq Ada again goes on a tailspin, taking ‘weird melody’ to another level. Hai Dard and Milo Wahan are a little too ordinary for my liking, but Tu Mera Hai is again an impressive piece. I suppose by now I should’ve gotten used to the wild fluctuations in quality that have been the norm with any Rahman album ever since I can remember, but it always comes as a surprise to me that genius must necessarily have its low moments to inspire and propagate its incredible highs.

I think I’m going a little overboard with the whole ‘Rahman and genius’ thing. But you know what, when compared with the run-of-the-mill plagiarists that make up the majority of Bollywood’s musical talent, ‘genius’ might actually be a bit of an understatement. It’s not everyday, after all, that a Taal or a Dil Se is created. To be honest, however, the Rahman magic seems to be waning a little these days – perhaps he needs to take himself a little less seriously? He’s become the mascot, so to speak, of international music, and it just seems to me that he’s become a little too conscious about making sure that his music reflects the global appeal of his work. I think he needs to let go of all the baggage that comes with being a larger-than-life icon and concentrate, instead, on making uncomplicated, beautiful music, the kind of music he made for Roja and Rangeela, the kind of music that made us fall in love with his astonishing – I’m sorry, but there’s no other word for it – genius. No, I have not over-used that word. Some people just deserve to be exaggerated about.

Sport in All Its Fascinating Glory

I had sworn I wouldn't write about tennis at least until the French Open got underway, but guess what, I'm notoriously bad at sticking to resolutions. And besides, the tennis world hasn't exactly been lacking in sensational developments lately, has it? Ok, I'll admit that Justine Henin's retirement from tennis wasn't as big a shock as some tennis analysts seem to think it was, but it was huge news anyway. Let's leave Henin and her motivational problems aside for a bit though, because right now all I can think of is of Roger Federer and his ridiculously captivating quest to solve the Rafael Nadal puzzle on clay. The Hamburg final yesterday between the world's top two players looked very much like a repeat of their Monte Carlo final three weeks ago, which Nadal won 7-5, 7-5 after being down 2-4 in the first set and 0-4 in the second, but yesterday was, for Federer fans at least, infinitely more satisfying and more disappointing at the same time. That may sound like a paradoxical statement, but if you watched the match, you'll know what I'm talking about. How can you not admire Federer for playing such sublime tennis that he got to leads of 5-1 and 5-2 respectively in the first two sets against the superhuman king of clay Nadal? And yet, how can you not be infuriated that Federer blew both those leads through some very poor serving in crucial games?

The final score went 7-5, 6-7, 6-3 in Nadal's favour, and for some reason I wasn't as depressed at the end of the match as I thought I would be. Part of the reason for that could be that I was rapturously happy that it went to a third set at all after Federer went 0-40 down on his serve at 5-5 in the second. Some mighty fine serving got him out of that hole, and then he ran away with the tie-breaker, restoring some of my faith in his ability to play well on the big points. But I think the main reason why I'm not so gloomy right now is because Federer seems to be playing like a claycourter for the first time in memory, and he finally seems to have discovered the right strategy to play Nadal. Those 5-1 and 5-2 leads mean nothing with respect to the result of the match, but I'm sure it's more than comforting for Federer fans to remember that those leads did happen; Federer is fully capable of dominating Nadal for reasonable stretches of time, and, short of a large bunch of crushing victories over Nadal on clay, I don't know what else can give Federer and his fans greater hope and confidence for the French Open. And to top that, Nadal maintained his grip on the No. 2 ranking by winning his semi-final against Novak Djokovic, which means that the terrifying prospect of Federer facing Nadal in the French semis has been firmly avoided. Comforting thoughts aplenty for the average Federer fan.

Speaking of Djokovic, I can't believe that I actually called it right when I said his semi-final match against Nadal may turn out to be the best match of the year. The tennis that the two put in the match was spell-binding, breathtaking, insanely riveting and spectacular all at the same time. The thing that was firmly established in my mind while watching it, however, is that when Nadal is at his best, it won't just take a superhuman effort by any player in the world, including Roger, to defeat him - it will take much, much more than that. Nadal's defense, particularly his incredibly steady forehand when pulled wide and his nearly-unfailing backhand passing shots simply defy belief. How do you defeat a player who refuses to let even the most ferociously well-timed potential winner convince him to give up the point? Djokovic played fabulously throughout the 3 hour long match - for the first time ever, I found myself feeling bad for him - and I have a feeling that the years of torture that Federer has faced on clay at the hands of Nadal will now be passed on to Djokovic. I guess if he wants to inherit the No. 1 ranking from Federer, he'll have to take on everything associated with Federer's famed legacy. Federer and Djokovic may do all that they can to adapt their games to suit clay and spend months practising on slow courts and hire the most adept and inspiring coaches to help them get their hands on the French trophy, but the truth is that Nadal will always be there, forever stalking their paths, eternally intimidating, absolutely relentless.

Someone who will not always be there, of course, is Justine Henin, who became the first woman in the history of tennis to retire while ranked No. 1 in the world. The thing with such premature retirements - Justine is still all of 25 years old - is that they invariably invite comparisons with Bjorn Borg's retirement back in 1982 (or was it 1983?) at the age of 26. For once, however, I think the comparisons are justified - both were at the top of their games when they bowed out, and both were thwarted in their attempts to capture the last bit of glory missing from their respective careers - the US Open for Borg, and Wimbledon for Justine. Justine actually went so far as to admit in her retirement press conference that she never believed she had it in her to win at Wimbledon, and that it was always a distant dream to her that never seemed within her reach. Perhaps that's what made it all the more desirable for the undisputed clay queen?

Then there's also Justine's admission that her win against Maria Sharapova at last year's year-end championships, the 4th-longest women's match in history which Henin won 5-7, 7-5, 6-3 after nearly 3 and 1/2 hours, took too much out of her both physically and mentally. Can anyone say Wimbledon final 1980? Borg won that match against John McEnroe after a titanic struggle and an epic 4th set tie-breaker that McEnroe won 18-16. Borg was never the same after that, losing 3 Grand Slam finals to McEnroe before formally announcing his retirement. It was the changing of the guard - McEnroe was a brash, arrogant, but also prodigiously gifted tennis player who was showing signs of embarking on a GOAT-worthy career - and Borg knew it. Did Justine Henin undergo the same thought process as Borg? Her crushing defeats at the hands of Sharapova and Serena Williams this year certainly point to that possibility. But then again, all of this analysis and theorizing is based entirely upon conjecture; there's no real way of knowing what exactly goes on in an athlete's mind, is there? Specially if the athlete in question is as reticent and guarded with the public as Henin. She said she had no 'fire' left in her to play tennis any more - and that could be because fighting and neutralizing the power games of her opponents took a heavy toll on her body and mind, but it could also be because of a totally personal matter that had nothing to do with tennis, or maybe she simply got bored of tennis, period. All I know is that these are the kind of poignant moments that we watch sport for - if sport was just going on the field and playing to win then there wouldn't be much charm in it, would there? Justine's retirement has been a fascinating subject to think and talk about. Almost as fascinating as Federer's already-legendary pursuit of that last bit of filthy silverware. Almost.

The Different Forms Of Art

There is something to be said about playing to the gallery with such pinpoint precision that the very act, provincial and classless as it may seem on the surface, is elevated to an art. The makers of Iron Man 'play to the gallery' with such remarkable intensity that it's hard to imagine anyone not thoroughly enjoying the movie. The loud bangs and vivid scenes of mindless flinging and flying of heavy objects are all in place, as are the mandatory romantic subplot and crisp humorous lines by the protagonist. Just about every cheap mass-appealing cinematic technique is thrown in, but no one's complaining, because all of it works so perfectly. It helps, of course, that the film is laden with some of the most magnificent cinematography and special effects ever seen, and that Robert Downey Jr. and Gwyneth Paltrow have no shortage of that thing called screen presence. No, this movie won't be thought about in connection with the year's Oscar hopefuls, not even as a joke, but I can tell you one thing: you'll have a blast watching it. Which is considerably more than you can say about any potentially Oscar-winning movie. Don't get me wrong, I still think Batman Begins is the best superhero movie ever made, but sometimes it's nice to not keep looking for cinematic brilliance or aesthetic expertise or thought-provoking dialogue and instead watch a movie for pure entertainment.

Moving on to a completely different subject, I've just realized what the best thing about the game of tennis is: it allows for very little mourning time. The tennis schedule is so jam-packed with tournaments that the average tennis fan gets very little time to wallow in his miseries and bemoan the total lack of joy on earth when his favourite player or players lose, because before you know it, the next tournament, and the chance of redemption for the player in question, is already underway. And this is exactly what happened with me this week, when Roger Federer's quarterfinal loss to Radek Stepanek (?!) at the Rome Masters was followed by Novak Djokovic winning the tournament, which, trust me, is a big, big tragedy in my eyes. The Hamburg Masters actually began even before the final match between Djokovic and Stanislas Wawrinka started, so I had no option but to snap out of my depression and get back to my nervous checking of the tournament schedule and live streaming/scores and assure myself that Federer hasn't yet made an early exit at a tournament for the umpteenth time this year. Incidentally, a potential semi-final match between Rafael Nadal and Djokovic at the Hamburg Masters might just turn out to be the marquee match of the year, considering the fact that the winner of the match gets to walk away with the No. 2 rank in the ATP computer rankings. I'm nervous for Rafa already.

Just finished watching the extended, unedited versions of all the three Lord of the Rings movies (which might actually be the exact antithesis of a movie like Iron Man) for what seems like the hundredth time. And yet, the sheer magnificence and grandeur of the trilogy never ceases to amaze me. I think I've said this to nearly everyone I've ever talked to about any sort of movie, but this is the first time I'll be putting it in writing: In my opinion, the Lord of the Rings trilogy is the greatest set of movies ever made. You can have your Godfathers and Shawshank Redemptions and Gone With The Winds, but nothing comes close to the jaw-dropping spectacle created so lovingly by Peter Jackson. It's just as well that the 3 LOTR movies together picked up no less than 17 Oscar awards. Just goes to show that the Oscar jury does get it right every once in a while.

Back Without A Bang

Ok, I'll admit I can no longer stand the guilt that comes with not writing a post for over a month; I feel I can be brave enough to concede that the only reason I'm writing this is because every other blog writer I know continues to merrily write post after post without so much as a hint of a furrowed brow, while my blog has been languishing in the sorrowful shadows, unattended and ignored. Ugh, looks like the month-long hiatus has made my writing a little over-dramatic. But what the heck, as long as I'm writing something....

Perhaps the most significant development in the last one month, other than Hilary Clinton closing the gap on Barack Obama in the Democratic presidential race in the US, the previously unheard-of phenomenon of foodgrain scarcity scaring the living daylights out of Americans, Priyanka Gandhi meeting with one of the assassins responsible for her father's death, and our dear old MSEB announcing that Pune will not have to face load-shedding at least until September but deciding to subject Puneites anyway to frequent, painful power-cuts lasting anywhere between 5 seconds and 5 hours (whew, this is turning out to be one long sentence), has been the roaring success of the Indian Premier League, or IPL, to be more hep about it. Actually, 'roaring success' might be an understatement - there's something so enthralling, so rivetingly amusing about seeing those mighty Australian and South African players being meekly obedient to their Indian captains and eagerly putting in the yards to, oh, defeat just another State team filled with a bunch of second class Indian cricketers, that there never really should have been a doubt about the success of the tournament. It helps, of course, that the format of the tournament is eerily similar to that of the many football leagues in Europe that are so wildly popular with a small but substantial segment of Indian sports watchers. The IPL has done to cricket what a 100 years of Test cricket and 40 years of one-day cricket couldn't: it has made cricket, in every shallow and amateurish sense of the term, 'cool'. Way to go, BCCI!


In other news, the tennis clay season has begun, and the question that has enchanted and consumed tennis followers for the past 3 years has surfaced again: can Roger Federer beat Rafael Nadal at the French Open? Federer, for his part, seems to have overcome his early season hiccups by stringing together two consecutive finals appearances on his least favourite surface, notching up his first title of the year at Estoril before losing to Rafael Nadal in the final at Monte Carlo. Yeah, I know, nothing new or earth-shattering about that last bit - Federer losing to Nadal on clay has become somewhat of a given, has it not? What does surprise me, however, is the continued and insistent belief that Federer's supporters hold that he will, one day, manage to overcome the King of Clay at the French Open. I mean seriously, if you saw how much advice, not support, but advice that Federer gets before each match that he plays against Nadal from thousands of people who may never have wielded a racquet their whole lives , you'd think Federer was the prized protege of nearly half of the tennis-watching population of the world. Play the slice backhand. Use the forehand dropshot. Come to the net more often. Attack Nadal's second serve more aggressively. Improve your serving percentage. Some have even suggested switching over from a one-handed backhand (that gorgeous beauty of a shot) to a two-handed one. Even Jose Higueras, Federer's celebrated (?) new coach, hasn't been spared the 'expert' counsel. In the midst of all this, some rather more well-informed columnists gravely pronounce that Nadal on clay is a puzzle that cannot be solved; that Federer simply does not have the patience or fitness to get the better of the muscular Spaniard on dirt. How true is that last statement? Being a sworn Federer fan, I like to believe that it isn't in the least true; but it's all rather pointless for us to be armchair psychologists, is it not? At the end of the day Federer has to go out on the court and play solid tennis and outwit Nadal. Nothing more, nothing less. In the meantime, he can continue to delight us by displaying the kind of dazzling tennis that he put on show in his quarterfinal match against old nemesis David Nalbandian, and by handing out a few dozen more defeats to Novak Djokovic, preferably including several bagel sets. And of course, a few more moments like the "Be quiet, ok?" admonition that he shouted out to Djokovic's mother in their semi-final match at Monte Carlo. That was just so unexpected and so very wonderful. I mean, wow.


Watched a couple of Bollywood flicks last week, first Tashan, a strange movie that has all the right ideas but falls sorely short in execution. The first half is stylish and mildly interesting, the second half shoddy and exasperating. A shame, really, considering the extraordinary hype generated by the movie before its release and the oodles of hard work that must have been put in by Kareena Kapoor to achieve that thing called size zero. The other flick that I watched, U Me Aur Hum, is almost the reverse of Tashan - intolerably boring first half, mildly touching second half. Here too, the makers had a great premise, but the mandatory theatrics and Bollywood-style wooing sequences ruin things considerably. Kajol comes up with a vintage performance - even after all these years, she still holds, in my opinion, stomping rights to the mantle of being the best actress in Bollywood, and there are quite a few heart-rending scenes towards the end of the movie, but that's just about it. Just a thought: is the tagline of the movie, "Sometimes the greatest journey is the distance between two people" supposed to be a quote from an outside source, knowing as we do how the Ed Norton starrer The Painted Veil has the exact same tagline, or is this another pathetic attempt at thinly disguised plagiarism by Bollywood's dear old thieves?

Okay, for what seems like the umpteenth time, I seem to have run riot with my post - there's nothing more irritating than a post that never seems to end, is there? So I'll end right here - no conclusion, no dramatic parting line. Yes, this is it. The End. I quite like the ring of that. Hehehe.

Turmoil in the Tennis World

While those among us fortunate enough to classify themselves as 'non-tennis followers' sleep comfortably in their homes, blissfully ignorant of distasteful things like Masters tournaments and ranking points, a battle as fierce as any you could imagine rages in the tennis discussion forums of the great big internet. Is the King really dead? Has Rafael Nadal run one step too many in his insanely intense efforts to win at all costs? Is it actually possible for the Royal Clown, or (D)Joker, to ascend to the Emperor's throne? Most importantly, however, are Pete Sampras's Grand Slam record and his standing as the pre-eminent GOAT safe from falling into the clutches of a weirdly aristocratic Swiss snob? Perfectly harmless questions, you may feel, but step into one of the forums discussing any of them, and you'll know the meaning of violent bloodbath.

Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal's tame losses in the semifinals of the Indian Wells Masters, and Novak Djokovic's subsequent triumph in the final, have sparked off a tennis supremacy debate the like of which has not been heard of in 4 long years. For 4 years Federer has dominated the men's tour with such effortless and magnificent ease that it seems almost inappropriate, even vulgar, to talk about the battle for the No.1 ranking. And yet here we are, more than a quarter into the tennis season, and neither Federer nor Nadal has won a tournament, while the Djoker has clinched the two most significant titles thus far. Changing of the guard, for real? Hold your horses, people. Federer, for one, has a very valid reason for his sub-par performances this year: he had contracted mononucleosis prior to the Australian Open, which, while not remotely a life-threatening disease, can be a devastating curse for sportspersons, causing as it does severe fatigue that can last nearly 6 months. Of course, this story itself had its doubters, with many questioning why Federer had to bring this up nearly a month after bowing out of the Aussie Open semis, with some even going as far as suggesting that his doctors made the whole thing up so Federer could blame his loss to Djokovic on the illness. I know, it is sacrilegious to even think such a thing about the man who's just about won nearly every match he's played in 4 years, but Federer certainly does have to let his racquet silence his critics, and soon. His loss at Indian Wells in particular left many of his fans wondering whether he still has the desire or motivation to keep maintaining his incredible standard of play. A lot hinges on how things go for The Mighty Fed, or TMF for short (the nickname that's become really popular on www.tennis.com) in the next few months, not least important of which is the No.1 ranking. Djokovic is closing in on Federer and Nadal faster than Federer can serve or Nadal can run, so it's become almost imperative for TMF to win everything in sight until the hardcourt season, or at least to defend all of his points at every tournament he plays. Personally though, I'd be more than happy if he just won the French Open once. I wouldn't really mind if he didn't win another match his whole life after that. But that's just me.



Nadal's case is a little more complicated. A lot has been written about the delightful spirit that the Spaniard brings to the tennis court, but these past few months tennis watchers have increasingly been getting the feeling that the spirit has deserted Nadal. He just doesn't seem to be enjoying himself in his matches anymore; he looks spent, both physically and mentally. It may be easy to brush off this judgment as a knee-jerk reaction to the fact that Nadal hasn't won an ATP tournament since July, but if you watched some of his recent losses, specially the ones to David Nalbandian last year and to Mikhail Youzhny and Djokovic this year, you'll know what I'm talking about. Then again, the clay season is about to start, and considering how many experts think Nadal is one of the best, if not THE best claycourt player in history, maybe his fans don't have that much reason to worry. If I were Nadal, though, I would worry, specially since Djokovic is far closer to the No.2 ranking in terms of points than Nadal is to the No.1 ranking. And based on the evidence of the past couple of months, there really is no stopping the Djoker.

Why do rankings matter so much in tennis anyway? The last time I checked, rankings weren't exactly the most accurate reflection of a player's credentials. Look at Maria Sharapova, for instance. The blonde Russian had had a white hot start to the year, winning 18 of 19 matches and capturing two of the three most important events so far (including her third Grand Slam title). And yet, she is placed a lowly 5th in the computerised rankings, below her compatriot Svetlana Kuznetsova at No. 3 and Serb Jelena Jankovic (No. 4). I'm sorry, but is there even a comparison between the headcase Kuznetsova, the can't-stop-playing-until-I-break-down-completely Jankovic, and the fearless, if somewhat incosistent champion that is Sharapova? You've got to be kidding me. I really don't get why there always is such a huge fuss about rankings in tennis. Maybe it's just one of those things that cannot be explained, you've just got to accept them as they are. Like the interesting case of Novak Djokovic being the most hated tennis player on earth. No wait, there is a reason for that. Lots of reasons, actually. Ok, I think I need to stop.

P.S. Random musing: who is the most likely young player to have a breakthrough season and cement his place among the game's elite? Jo-Wilfried Tsonga, Andy Murray, Marin Cilic or Richard Gasquet? My vote goes to Murray, but again, that's just me.

What's That You've Got Missing? A Heart?

Ok, let me start by saying that I went in to watch Jodhaa-Akbar fully prepared to fall in love with the historical epic. Ashutosh Gowariker, after all, does have a rather splendid body of work to impress and excite people with. You don't get nominated for an Oscar for nothing. And the premise this time seemed so perfectly grandiose - a sweeping love story set in the royally magnificent days of Mughal Shehenshahs and phrases like "Takh Liya!" - what more could one ask for? Everything seemed so right about this movie that, much as in the case of Sanjay Bhansali's Black, people were talking about the Oscar prospects of the movie months before its release. Sadly, they spoke too soon.

I can't really give the exact reason why the movie failed to impress me. The plot construction and character development are more than adequate, the acting is top-notch and the painstaking attention to detail evident throughout the movie is truly commendable. I guess it's just one of those movies which you can brush off with a comment like, "but it had no soul!". And as snobbish as that sounds, I think it's spot on. Gowariker seems to have got a little lost amid all the splendor and the fancy Urdu. The cornerstone of the movie, the fundamentally vulnerable bond between Emperor Akbar and the Rajput princess Jodhaa simply doesn't create an impact as strong as one would have expected in a larger-than-life saga such as this. As contradictory as this may sound, Gowariker had an excellent premise to cut his teeth into, but not enough meat in the central plot to chew on. A cinematic head-scratcher, I'm sure, that not many filmmakers have to deal with.

Historically speaking the movie seems well-researched (for a wikipedia-educated person anyway), though it is certainly questionable whether Akbar would have spent so much time and energy wooing the politically-bonded Jodhaa when he reportedly had over a 100 wives to worry about. The military conquests and political travails of Akbar are intricately woven into the plot in an efficient enough way so that no sub-plot seems out of place or unnecessary. When I say 'sub-plots', of course, I don't include the overly long-drawn sequences of grief and melodrama suffered by just about everyone in the movie, because there sure are plenty of 'unnecessary' instances of those. The movie trundles along at a luxuriously leisurely pace, and while that is forgivable for a period drama, one does wish that Mr. Gowariker hadn't wasted so much time in the first half just trying to establish the proceedings. And the battle scenes. How do I put it? When I first heard about the lavish budget and use of CGI in the film I began to dare to hope that for once, Bollywood would turn out something revolutionary in the purely technical realm of live action. All that came crashing down the moment the Battle of Panipat came on. The sequence is a seriously ridiculous piece of trash, and I was almost in tears by the end of it. Thankfully, however, the quality of the battle scenes improves dramatically as the film moves on (thanks in no small part to the fact that all the subsequent battles aren't really full-fledged, all-out wars but more of small-scale, half-hearted negotiation-cum-conflicts). The final one-on-one fight between Akbar and his principle nemesis bears striking resemblance to the Brad Pitt-Eric Bana fight in Troy, and though it isn't quite as good as the Troy one, it is reasonably well done. The swordfight between Jodhaa and Akbar, however, scores over all the other fight sequences, and considering how much the cinematography and stunt direction of this movie were being talked up, that's a little sad.

The movie's dialogue is considerably difficult to understand, specially since the actors simply refuse to pronounce Urdu the way that it is supposed to be pronounced. And sorry, but there just aren't enough memorable lines for a movie of such epic proportions. The music by A.R. Rahman is fantastic as usual, particularly the Azeem-O-Shaan Shehenshah track, which, in one word, is awesome. As for the acting, I can confidently say that Hrithik Roshan has matured into a truly marvellous actor - he brings out every confused and passionate facet of an emperor with such incredible intensity that I repeatedly had to hit myself on the head for ever having doubted his capabilities as an actor. That said, however, I could never quite shake off the lingering feeling that Hrithik just didn't fit the role of Akbar. He looks - how do I put it? - far too - chiselled? and a little, um, puny, for a king. If you're laughing at me for calling the man with probably the best body in Bollywood 'puny', you ought to take a look at the size of the guy who plays his brother-in-law. Aishwarya Rai is perfectly cast as the headstrong woman-who-would-be-queen, and manages to look like an exquisite dream even when she's straining every nerve trying to make those sobs sound genuine (I have to say I admire her immensely for the effort she puts into acting). The rest are all sidekicks who get sidelined repeatedly during the course of the stuttering romance between these two, though it must be said that Sonu Sood does surprise you with a competent performance.

The cinematography, I'll make no bones about this, is disappointing. The imposing forts and the sets look grand, I'll agree, but I always felt like there was something missing, something that Gowariker forgot to add when taking all those sweeping shots of architectural marvels. There was no majesty in the art direction, no sense of awe-inspiring grandeur. The only times the movie looked anything close to a visual spectacle were when the camera focussed on Ms Rai. This, however, is a completely subjective opinion; I'm sure there are lots of people out there who were totally taken in by the sets and the photography. It's just that I wasn't. It's one of those things. And the movie's length! God, did no one on the sets of the movie remember to carry a watch? 3 hours 45 minutes is WAY too long for ANY kind of movie. One thing's for sure, this film is not going to win any awards for editing.

Gowariker'e last movie, Swades (which I personally loved), was widely criticized for being too much like a documentary and for lacking heart and entertainment value. I think that sort of criticism is much more appropriate for Jodhaa-Akbar. The movie has all the right intentions and the means to be going on with, but it simply fails to ignite the emotions of the viewer. It almost looks a little robotic - some of the lines and sequences, like the one where Akbar abolishes the jizyah tax, come off as downright mechanical. Not a major fault on the part of the director, by any means, but sometimes this sort of thing stops an ambitious and well-made project from becoming a great movie. Swades was a great movie. So was Asoka, if you're talking about historical epics. Not so Jodhaa-Akbar.

Overreacting to Molehills

It's been 3 days since the India-Australia Test at Sydney got over, but the furore over the events during the match simply refuses to subside. I suppose you could call this a good thing, what with Test cricket getting such passionate attention after a prolonged spell of unpopularity, but that would be being optimistic in the extreme. You know what else has been extreme? The knee-jerk and unreasonable reactions to the whole unfortunate episode. I'm sorry, but threatening to boycott a cricket tour because of a couple of bad umpiring decisions and a harsh sentence for an allegedly racist remark is going WAY overboard. I wonder if the series would have been in as much jeopardy as it is now if India had managed to save the Test?

The media has been every bit as excessive in its assessment of the affair as the boycott-happy Indian cricket board. The Times of India has been particularly boisterous in its coverage of the episode, first calling for the result of the Test to be annulled and then proceeding to devote headline after headline (and editorials too) to the threatened tour. Perhaps someone should tell the guys up at The Times of India that if the result of every Test match that suffered from umpiring errors was annulled, there would barely be more than a couple of Test results in the sub-continent in the 80's and early 90's. Umpiring errors, specially when they come from non-biased umpires (Steve Bucknor and Mark Benson are both 'neutral' umpires; they have almost no connection with Australia or Australian cricket) have to be taken with a pinch of salt; there's nothing much you can do about them until the ICC and the cricketing world in general realize the importance of bringing technology into all decisions on the cricket field. So much for level-headed common sense.

As far as the 'bad sportsmanship' of the Australian cricketers is concerned, I'd like to know when the Aussies have ever been a saintly group of sweet-talkers. The Kangaroos have been known to be past masters at sledging, or 'mental disintegration' as Steve Waugh liked to euphemistically put it, and if the rest of the cricketing world could tolerate their nonsense for a whole decade, then why the hue and cry all of a sudden? The English and their 'jellybeans' tactics hadn't attracted half as fierce a backlash as the Aussies have in this Test, which makes me really wonder whether it's just human nature to revel in the foibles of the mighty and the powerful. And puh-lease, since when has claiming half volley catches become a criminal offense? Nearly every player in the world has done it at some point of his career, and while that doesn't make it any less distasteful, it certainly does raise a few questions about the indignant reactions to Michael Clarke's catch to dismiss Sourav Ganguly (which, incidentally, wasn't even proven to be conclusively illegal).

The Harbhajan Singh-Andrew Symonds spat was a serious issue, I'll admit, but wouldn't a straightforward motion for an appeal (which is all the Indian management was left to do eventually anyway) have sufficed, rather than the dramatic boycott threats and disturbingly grave statements that the BCCI so foolishly indulged in? Ah, theatrics! How we love to honour thee! Ok, maybe that was a little cheesy, but I really am at pains to understand why the media and the Indian cricket board have made such a big issue out of this matter. It was only a cricket match, after all - a cricket match in which a few decisions unfortunately and unwittingly decided the course of the match, but also a cricket match in which one team lost because it couldn't survive an over of part-time left-arm spin. Perhaps it would do the Indian team a whole lot of good if its management spent half as much time and effort as it did in attacking the umpiring and refereeing in the match into teaching its bowlers how to hold a bat.

Bollywood 2007: Highlights

I know this is a little late, but here's the second of my 'best of the year' lists, which is about Bollywood. I guess I'll just have to abandon the third of my lists; my posts about tennis hardly get any readers anyway.

Movie of the year: A tight three-way contest between No Smoking, Taare Zameen Par and Jab We Met. After a lot of thought I’ve decided to go with No Smoking for its fantastically imaginative and original script that is treated with such immaculate flair by Anurag Kashyap. No Smoking has almost made me forgive Kashyap for his disparaging comments about Sanjay Bhansali’s Black. Almost.

Performance of the year: Kareena Kapoor’s exuberant turn as the rumbustious Geet in Jab We Met may not have been the greatest exhibition of acting, but it will be remembered for years to come for the sheer fullness of its spirit and naturalness of its expression. Jab We Met wasn’t so much a story of a chance meeting between two potential lovers as it was a celebration of the star that is Kareena Kapoor. And did Kareena enjoy the celebration!
Honorable mention: Darsheel Safary for his stunningly realistic portrayal of a dyslexic child in Taare Zameen Par.

Disappointment of the year: Om Shanti Om may have been the biggest blockbuster of the year, but it fell miles short of my expectations from Farah Khan, especially as it came after the super-enjoyable Main Hoon Na. Someone needs to tell Farah Khan that the spoof-cum-tribute thing is getting a little old now.

PR mastery of the year: Amitabh Bachchan made all the wrong moves career-wise, starring in duds ranging from the ridiculous Jhoom Barabar Jhoom to the pitiable Ram Gopal Verma Ki Aag, but he was mighty successful in one thing – teaching his son how to handle the media. Abhi-Ash was low-key and unglamorous, but not one joint public appearance by the couple failed to whip up a media frenzy. Clearly, the B Family’s got what it takes. I’ve finally figured out how Aishwarya Rai could ever have agreed to marry Abhishek Bachchan. Enough said.

‘Still got it’ star of the year: Shahrukh Khan defied his age and lack of versatility to come up with a couple of blockbusters and Anil Kapoor proved in Welcome that there’s no one who can quite do the loveable hooligan as well as him, but it is Madhuri Dixit who gets my vote for this award for simply being the Madhuri Dixit we’ve all grown to love. Five years after her last cinematic appearance in Devdas, Ms Dixit-Nene in Aaja Nachle is every bit as charming, as beautiful and as magical as she was in her heyday. Too bad her comeback movie itself was as silly as was Madhuri enthralling.

‘Serves you right’ act of the year: The legal team of Hitch suing, or attempting to sue the makers of Partner for plagiarism. It’s about time Bollywood puts a stop to its shameless and utterly disgraceful ripping off of Hollywood flicks.

Song of the year: As many as 3 songs from Taare Zameen Par could have come up trumps in this category - Aamir Khan sure does know a thing or two about songs and their place in a movie. Maa was unbelievably heart-rending and the title track was magnificent. But Mera Jahan had it all - great music, terrific lyrics and choreography that was almost too perfect to be true. Well, the movie was Aamir Khan's directorial debut; something had to be perfect.
Honourable mention: The Main Agar Kahoon track from Om Shanti Om for its wonderful, wonderful picturization, Tum Se Hi from Jab We Met for its beautiful construction coupled with its sweetly soothing tune and Phoonk De from No Smoking for, well, you'll never get it, so never mind.

Dance sequence of the year: Kareena Kapoor and Saroj Khan’s Yeh Ishq Hai number from Jab We Met. Most people might shudder in alarm at a Kareena Kapoor dance getting any sort of award in the year that Madhuri Dixit made a smashing dance-oriented comeback, but Ms Kapoor was something else in that song. She wasn’t dancing in front of the camera; she was having a whale of a time out there. So much so that some of her enthusiasm seemed to rub off on everyone else who appeared in the song. And I haven’t even started on the effortlessness of it all. *shakes head in awe*

Unintentionally hilarious movie of the year: Without a doubt the indescribable Cash. The only thing I want to know is: how on earth could Ajay Devgan have gone from the sensational Omkara to something as alarmingly inane as Cash? Incidentally, Cash would also be a strong candidate for the worst movie of the decade award, if ever someone decides to give such an award away.