‘Dhoom 3’ — Rhetoric On Ropes

© Yashraj Films

Iqbal Khan (Jackie Shroff) is a misunderstood artist of his generation. He is a visionary. He is not interested in rendering a generic circus machinery: that of hackneyed antics, animals (ill-treated behind the stage) and forced glamour. The callous bank executive — metaphorical of Philistine corporations and close-minded audience — is predisposed to reject his plea, with hidebound contention that viewers only expect puerility from circus. The director, Victor Acharya, sets the scene of Iqbal Khan’s plights within seconds of his introduction. Jackie Shroff, a seasoned campaigner that he is, portrays the character’s frustrations with ease. It’s hard to imagine anyone else in this role, albeit the length.

The casting of the young Sahir is crucial to the narrative. For one, he has to be a gymnast. And he has to be a good actor. He evades bullies in an act of mini-parkour. It’s a swift and effective introduction — a tap on his potential, for things to come. Siddharth Nigam is a real-life gymnast, so that takes care of acrobatics; where he excels the most is with his innate skill as an actor.

The trial circus show of 1990 is filmed very well. There’s soft “malang” tune in the background. (It would evolve into a full song and a proper circus act in future.) The circus props would also evolve in the future acts. The hat-throwing trick of the father and the son would later be replicated in the final robbery with motorbikes replacing hats. So far, so good from Victor Acharya.

Although Dhoom films are set in real world, they are quasi-fantasy films. The director makes sure that the implausible stunts are shot aesthetically. This is what separates a good director from an ordinary director. Every scene in Dhoom 3 has a function. There is a circus motif in each robbery. Tightrope walking is a common feature in circus and riding bicycle on a tightrope is a possible feat. Accordingly, the motorbike on high-rope is fully thematic in the quasi-fantasy realm of Dhoom. Since motorbikes are essential in Dhoom series, it makes for a thematic correlation between the Dhoom trope and circus. (Upon a closer inspection, preferably in high-definition, one can see that the tyres are mould in the shape of the rims to grip the rope.)

Victor Acharya uses slow-motion and ultra-slow-motion to a great effect in the motorbike scenes, without relying on gaudy tableaus. Then he immediately gets back to the normal speed: it enhances the effect of motorbike’s acceleration.

The second escape adventure is a riveting spectacle. The taut background music underlines Sahir’s predicament when the motorbike reaches the bridge. Sahir underplays well through his countenance of predicament. The scene also harks back to James Bond films where Bond uses gadgets to get out of trouble. Herein, the motorcycle unbelievably transforms into a Jet-Ski. After all, magic is meant to be unbelievable: a mix of sleight, contrivance and deception. Sahir, again, relies on circus acrobatics and magic tricks to escape. The VFX transformation is top-notch.  The entire scene is wonderfully executed without any toffee-nosed rush or jumpy chopping. The editor does a fine job in knowing when to chop and when to spare.

In both robberies, Sahir uses the disappearing trick (taught by his father) to circumvent the police.

The “malang” song is well-timed at a crucial juncture before the interval. The prelude has a sense of grandeur, silhouettes representing the young Sahir and his father, with an oration of the poem “bandey hain hum uske” in the background. Sahir’s father passes a flambeau to him and the curtain opens. Malang has so much potential that it could have become a meta-movie in the song itself. But it is still impressive, grandly expressionist with colours, shadows, outlandish creatures and magic. The qawwali version of the Dhoom tune is noteworthy. The epilogue has a sense of achievement, as Sahir somersaults out of the box to a resounding applause. The movie shows an extended version of the song, which is not there in the official video or soundtrack.

Unlike Hollywood, background music seldom gets due appreciation in Hindi cinema. Like the previous Dhoom movies, the background music is superlative. Julius Packiam blends it finely in the narrative: at times subtle, at times prominent as per the situation. It lingers on even after the movie ends. One gets to appreciate the background music more during repeat viewings. (For the record, Salim-Sulaiman did the background score for Dhoom and Dhoom 2.)

A big revelation comes at the point of interval. This scene, again, is very well directed. The good thing about Victor Acharya is that he knows when to accelerate and when to slow down. Following the confrontation with Jai, Sahir ensconces towards his room. It’s a long take with no dialogue. The length engenders a feeling of suspense. As Sahir sits on the chair, probably facing a mirror (a common mode of cinematography), one can hear his breathing. The camera circles slowly, the silence adds to the anticipation. The interval point is worthy of applause.

Abhishek Bachchan delivers his best performance of the Dhoom series. He shares more screen-time with Aamir Khan than he did with his adversaries in Dhoom and Dhoom 2. He shows a menacing streak in the scene where he interrogates Sahir. Since everything has to be done in the Dhoom framework, the film misses out on opportunities of what they could have done with Jai’s character, as well as a few other things, because in many ways, it’s Jai Dixit who comes across as a stubborn antagonist. The result, however, is still effective. Jai’s beard in the amusement park scene is shoddy: almost a blot on the great picture. Although it is probably done on purpose since he is working unofficially and he is no master of disguise like the Hrithik Roshan of Dhoom 2. It almost seems like an unintentional nod to the ostensible masquerades from the old movies where a hero (or sometimes a heroine) would put on a moustache and become unrecognisable by one and all. The computer-generated shorter beard in the later scenes is much better.

Much like Dhoom 2, Ali (Uday Chopra) is in an adjutant position. He is affable, unsophisticated character who listens to lowbrow music, wears tawdry clothes, but considers himself stylish and poetic. He is a polar opposite of Uday Chopra because of their disparate backgrounds; in spite of that, Chopra gives an unaffected performance. And that makes his performance special. 

A propos the act in India, the idea was to play it to the gallery with a rustic fight scene. The auto-rickshaw feature, however, is unbefitting to the Dhoom template. Ideally they could have harked back to the brilliant chor bazaar (black market) scene from Dhoom 1; that scene had a riveting escape (with Jai and Ali being the absconders instead of chasers) and a little story behind it. But here, there is no back story, no motif and no Dhoom twinge on the rustic tableau.

© Yashraj Films

There is an unsubstantiated criticism that Dhoom 3 lacks the essence of the Dhoom series. In that way, Dhoom 2 was very different from Dhoom 1: Dhoom 2 showed robberies, while the first Dhoom barely got into robberies; Dhoom 2 was also a love story, while Dhoom 1 wasn’t. Similarly, Dhoom 3 doesn’t show any robbery, and much like Dhoom 1, it emphasises on escapes, yet it has its own identity while inheriting the quintessence of the series. Besides, just adding a new antagonist without making any changes would be assembly-line cinema, much like The Hangover Part II.

Dhoom 3 also succeeds in bringing old-school rhetoric to the fore. The poem “bandey hain hum uske” is orated throughout the film in different tones, each at a key moment. Sahir and Iqbal Khan disperse a few memorable dialogues: “Jo duniya ko namumkin lage, wohi mauka hota hai kartab dikhane ka. [What appears impossible to the world is an opportunity to perform a feat.]” This also makes the implausible stunts apt.

Katrina Kaif plays a spirited and somewhat quirky girl. Her smile after “malang” is moving, so genuine and heart-warming. She leaves a strong impact in songs with her adroit moves and expressions. And none of the songs are forced in the narrative. This time she really unleashes her inner kamli (her passionate self), which she couldn’t do in Jab Tak Hai Jaan.  Although, excluding songs, she has a small role, her character is vital in the grand scheme of things.

It’s hard to think of any other actor with such a wide-ranging repertoire of films (acted or produced). Aamir Khan takes care of aesthetics and nuances in a remarkable performance. As always he stays true to whatever character he plays. There is no reliance on past glory, self-reference or braggadocio. His poised countenance and that remarkable stance make the motorcycle scenes more effective. He gives Sahir an aura of mystique when he goes to meet Jai Dixit at the police headquarters. His fine hat, tilted a tad upwards, gives him an air of a sly jester. In a brilliant cinematic moment, we hear Samar speak for the first time, stammering “bandey hain him uske—” in pain.  It is Aamir Khan’s brilliance that enhances the scene’s effect. In another noteworthy scene, Sahir impersonates Samar. Aamir adds a bit of Sahir in that impersonation. Since he is acting like Samar from Sahir’s point of view, not his own, he has to act not only like Samar but also incorporate Sahir into the act. It’s a subtle difference but crucial. In the same scene, where the audience cheered the loudest, Sahir says, “Hoshiari, tarqeeb aur dhokha —teeno mil jaye to log ussey jaadu samajhte hain. [When sleight, contrivance and deception converge, people think it’s magic.]” During the dialogue, he scratches his face with the gun with an old-fashioned panache. Whether it’s a nod to the old-school acting or personal mannerism, it goes well with the rhetoric. This is the closest he can come to self-reference.

Confused Connoisseurs of Cinema

Double standards of brainwashed connoisseurs. National sense of inferiority in cinema.

Snobbery, impressionability and intolerance — when they converge, people mistake it for connoisseurship, but in reality you get the gist of Indian audience. Plagiarism subsists in Indian cinema (not just Hindi cinema), but these days any similarity with a foreign film is pronounced plagiarism by lifestyle gurus. And there are gross inconsistencies in the accusations. Take for instance, Dhoom 3 is called a copy of The Prestige just because both movies feature a similar magic trick. (Rabid critics whine that both films dealt with revenge too; hence, it’s a copy. In The Prestige, a magician held a fellow magician responsible for his wife’s death and became his enemy as a result. It wasn’t a classical revenge tale. It dealt more with obsession, rivalry and magic. On the other hand, in Dhoom 3 a son seeks revenge of his father’s death from a bank owner. That way the revenge theme in Dhoom 3 is similar to that of yesteryear Hindi films like Trishul or Akayla. But revenge is one of the most commonly used themes in Indian cinema.) The core similarity between Dhoom 3 and The Prestige is the magic trick involving twins. I doubt if most of the accusers have even seen The Prestige. If that similarity makes it a copy, then the French film Irreversible should also be called a copy of Memento. Like Memento, the narrative is in reverse chronology. In both films, the protagonist is in pursuit of his spouse’s killer or rapist. But of course Irreversible, being a foreign brand, is venerated by the weak-kneed moral gurus of India. Barfi is practically a collection of copied scenes from a few foreign films and Charlie Chaplin’s gags, yet everything is brushed under the carpet because it is supposedly intellectual cinema. Even the recently released Imtiaz Ali’s Highway’s plot bears resemblances with The Chase (a 1994 Hollywood film): a rich girl is kidnapped by man from ghettos; after initial antipathy, she develops a strong bond with him. I do not mean that Highway is plagiarised work (it’s more of an inspiration), yet the same stratum of lifestyle connoisseurs, who get in a moral outrage over minor similarities, have stayed quiet this time — simply because Highway is a highbrow film. Aamir Khan’s own Ghajini had striking similarities with Memento, yet not many people made a fuss out of it — because it came in as a remake baggage from the highly feted south Indian cinema. Salman Khan’s Jai Ho’s premise is lifted from Hollywood’s Pay It Forward, but it has barely attracted any notoriety from lifestyle gurus and connoisseurs. The 2007 blockbuster Jab We Met was quite comparable to My Sassy Girl, yet Indian audience dote on it without any fuss. The yuppie breed’s front runner Hum Tum had many similarities with When Harry Met Sally, but the lifestyle gurus stayed quiet. Dhoom 3 is also called a copy of Now You See Me. There are certain similarities, but Now You See Me came only four months before it — a long time after Dhoom 3’s shooting had finished. It’s downright absurd to proclaim that they modified the script, re-shot the film, did all the complex post-production work (visual effects, editing etc.) just after seeing Now You See Me’s trailer and got everything ready for Christmas.

©Yashraj Films

In Dhoom 3, people found the motorbike’s transformation into a Jet Ski ridiculous. If a Hollywood film had done that, the same crowd would have gaped in awe. When James Bond’s car turned into a submarine, it was greeted with whistles and cheers from connoisseurs. Many Hollywood films have implausible action scenes: in Goldeneye (1995), James Bond jumped off a cliff on a motorbike and entered an imminently crashing aeroplane. It was a conspicuously impossible stunt, notwithstanding in contravention of the laws of physics. Nevertheless, it met with negligible disapproval. Had it been executed in a Hindi film, even with the same finesse, it would have led to bigoted moanings from the national bellyachers. Tom Cruise wore sticky gloves to climb vertical surfaces in Mission Impossible 4 and the propaganda connoisseurs applauded with deference; yet a similar gadget in Hindi film would be received with rabid disapproval. In Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill, Uma Thurman killed hundreds of assassins with a sword in one scene. In another scene, a girl decapitates a man, pumping a fountain of blood at a high pressure for a few seconds. But none of the weak-kneed connisseurs winced. The comic book themed Sin City (one of my favourites) was full of implausible fight scenes, but the spineless Indian audience didn’t complain. They would never extend the same level of tolerance for an enterprising Hindi film like that. If a film like Sin City were to be helmed in Hindi cinema, it would become an object of national scorn for its “unrealistic” fights and “stupid” comic-motion scenes. This is one of the reasons why Indian writers dread trying anything out of the box. Anurag Kashyap endeavoured Franz Kafka and Federico Fellini-style surrealist world in No Smoking. It was received with hateful hysteria from film cults. Since then, he has limited himself to easy-to-comprehend austere cinema, though he hasn’t pandered to the lusts of lowest common denominations. Imagine if Virender Sehwag had only played T20 cricket. He would still be a great cricketer but it would be such a waste of his enormous talent. People received intellectual orgasms with Gravity after it had received global acclaim. If made in India, the same film would get sardonic responses like “there is no story”, “it is like a documentary”, “it is too slow” and so forth. This is the reason why nobody would even dare to envisage a concept like this.

Lifestyle gurus, whose bellies start aching over long Hindi films, have no qualms about the lengths of long Hollywood films, namely, Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Titanic etc. Even the second-grade Hollywood movies like Fast Five, Fast & Furious 6, G.I. Joe Cobra, Cave are treated as cinematic deities by the class-conscious connoisseurs of India who even deride movies like 3 Idiots. How can it not be anything more than mental slavery? Choice seems to be either manufactured by peer pressure or it just does not exist. 

The level of ignorance, impressionability and intolerance spewed by snobs is metaphorical of mob violence. If in the past, Indian audience were afraid to express their opinions, now they are afraid to form an opinion; as it shows, media and lifestyle gurus do all the thinking for them. Mob mentality is considered a virtue in Indian society. Lifestyle gurus exploit this sentiment to manipulate mental slaves. Snobbery and impressionability always go hand in hand; add ignorance it, and it becomes a fatal combination.

‘Desh Drohi’ — Caterwaulings of a Rickety Eyesore

Sometime in 2008, a fatuous film Desh Drohi released with equally goofy eyesore at the helm, the self-proclaimed billionaire, KRK. Although it still remains his only film to date, it did enough to catapult him to the echelons of high connoisseurship. The most curious thing about it is the attention showered by Indian media upon him, the self-proclaimed billionaire, KRK. They disperse petals on the floor he walks, they cosy up to him during long walks, they hark his everyday tidings and tantrums — he gets attention like a newly-wed bride. Despite the passing of all the years, he continues to be media’s babe. It is tempting to write a review.

To quote Albert Einstein: “The difference between stupidity and genius is that the genius has its limits.” The greatest of films can be graded using a uniform abstraction, but there is no limit to the lecheries of lowest common denominations. This wish-wash even makes the popularly known worst films — Clerk, Plan Nine From Outer Space, Jaani Dushman: Ek Anokhi Kahani — look decent in comparison.

It’s hard to understand all the attention given to this rickety eyesore: film snobs hail him as a chic socialite, box-office mystic, prophetic film critic and prolific Tweeter with a huge following. It is contended, with rabid justifications, that, since he doesn’t have nepotic association in the film industry, his work ought to be appreciated. Does that mean Aamir Khan and Hritihik Roshan are inferior actors just because they come from families of film-makers? Nepotism is more prevalent in Indian politics. Then, as per that logic, he should be made the prime minister of India.

At best there are unintentionally hilarious moments throughout this abject pseudo-intellect, though too vapid like the rickety eyesore at the helm. The uncouth prude is so unlikeable, so despicable that his unintentional humour turns into a travesty too loathsome. He is like those grossly ineffectual singers who turn up at auditions of reality shows for self-abasing publicity, being fully aware of their extreme ineptitude.

In terms of technique, it is an absolute botchery. A local cable TV crew of reluctant videographers would do a better job at shooting a film than the director, who is, surprisingly, not short of experience.

A wise man once said that snobbery can sell anything in this country. The box-office plaudits and the hyped television premier in prime-time slot reaffirm the adage that snobbery sells quicker than hot cakes. In Hindu mythology, it is prophesied that in Kalyug (the current era, translated as ‘the age of downfall’), swan will pick a grain and crow will eat a pearl. In other words, brilliance will be lampooned and idiocy will rule the roost.

Shallow Linguistics

One can thank heavens when the man of the masses, Noam Chomsky, refuses to be swayed by the Twitter snobbery. The usual Chomskyan fans would have expected a roar of approval with fervent locutions from the intellectual honcho, but he is neither impressionable nor snobbish to surrender himself to such pseudo-intellect. Lifestyle gurus are pimping touting Twitter as a linguistic breakthrough. According to their pompous theories, Twitter induces creativity by forcing people to write within 140 characters; apparently, it will also render literature obsolete. As usual, lifestyle gurus are using chicanery to influence masses.

On Twitter, a person asked Madhu Trehan on her experience as a journalist during the emergency in the nineteen-seventies. She replied that it was not possible to describe that in 140 characters, and advised him to read books thereof. That sums it: everything doesn’t either “suck” or “rock”; there are layers of details, far from the reach of stunted messages.

Make no mistake, this isn’t criticism of the social networking website. Twitter serves as a good platform for sharing headlines and staying in accord with current events, but it only works at a superficial level. It’s like a trailer, not a feature film. It’s not a linguistic phenomenon. Life is far more complex to be diminished to the fleeting limits of Twitter. Imagine Noam Chomsky’s disquisitions being condensed to mere tweets. How would a superficial-level tweet entail the niceties, the intricacies, the celebrated Chomskyan reasoning and corroboration of facts in just 140 characters?

Meet Dawood Ibrahim’s Rabid Dog: Abu Azmi

Quote, unquote Abu Azmi: “Dawood Ibrahim is not a terrorist.”

Finally the beans are getting spilled out of the bag. It is not a secret that Fascist honchos (like Abu Azmi, RSS or Khap Panchayat) can get away with anything in this country. They have a cult following by impressionable masses and, most importantly, blessings of intellectual community. In a country where people’s sentiments get hurt over trifles, Abu Azmi not only stands up for the country’s nemesis with pomp, but also chastises those who oppose him.

For years Dawood’s rabid dogs like Abu Azmi have used snobbery to defend him by foisting indoctrinations like “if you don’t like him, you are racist”, “if you don’t support him, you are not cool” etc. Ibrahim’s brother carries out his illicit trades in India, while rest of the country watches passively like couch potatoes. Moreover, the spineless western countries — that usually throw fits over soaring immigration — distribute visas to his family like prasad, allowing this canker to strengthen his grasp all over the globe.

Abu Azmi also has hot pants for rapists. He blames women for getting raped; he calls for a strict moral code for women, yet our great intellectual honchos say nothing. This Tartuffe considers himself an authority of morals but has no qualms about the ageing pervert’s lecherous lifestyle of getting laid by a virgin every night. Snobbery sells after all.

‘Headhunters’ — Rearing Its Ugly Head

Original Title: Hodejegerne (2011)

The effete bellyacher, which we are supposed to endure as the protagonist, is embarrassed of its height (and perhaps “size”); the milksop has oodles of inferiority complex because its wife, Diana, is too good for it; it is also equivocal to her desire for procreation, which we are to sympathetically ascribe to its various dysfunctions. In a quick shift of scene, it is copulating with another woman (Lotte), whom it only treats as an object of concupiscence. It exploits and dismisses her as per its sick needs, yet the over-sensitive moral gurus raise no qualms over the pervert’s glorifications. We are supposed to accept, with compassion, that it behaves this way because of its inferiority complexes.

The director, Mortel Tyldum, instantly gets in the tempo. True to the title, he conducts an interview that examines the importance of reputation. We get a sense of profundity in the beginning. But in self-contradictory moral panic, Tyldum looses his clarity. The stench of putrid innards, packaged as an art thief, goes to rob a painting from a house. In a ludicrous change-of-heart moment, it sees children from the window and decides to have children; consequently, it abandons the robbery. But instead of absconding, it makes a phone-call to its wife to break the “good news”, right there. So, as per the director, procreation is the key to perpetual redemption.

We are supposed to root for this pantywaist dissembler, which despite having a fling with Lotte, gets in a moral rage when it stumbles upon its wife’s cell-phone at Clas Grave’s (played effortlessly by Nikolaj Coaster-Waldau) house. We are to cheer for this ungainly rapscallion that obdurately refuses to take its dying crony to hospital. Of course, the director expects us to embrace the “shades of grey”, yet he gets moralistic with an utterly cheesy, saccharine sweet climax, accentuated by Diana’s pot belly.

Aksel Hennie is obviously an awful miscast. How could someone so ineffectual, with the appeal of coughed-up phlegm, be entrusted with this role: perhaps as a mascot to ward-off the evil eye? When it opens its mouth, you expect — at your impartial best — a grotesque, cartoonish voice. But you hear grating recitals of a bellyacher, trying to sound like a tough guy. But it’s just a lion of sand, a kick away from getting scattered.

In an attempt to evince its breed, this faecal sausage disguised as an actor, threatens to dismiss Clas Greve and render him unemployable. Its persona as an intimidating corporate magnate is a giggle. It gets downright laughable when the director tries to pass this rickety eyesore as a John Rambo and a James Bond-archetype who wrestles out of every peril laid out for him — herein a faecal sausage that refuses to flush down.

Still Waters Run Deep

In an empty arena, from an unspecified duration before the contest, a pugilist contemplates in solitude, getting acquainted to the ambience, envisaging success. It is a scene from a video-game, with soft music in the background. One year later, the player enters the empty arena and reposes, savouring success — though this scene wasn’t in the game. Such moments are profound, serene and meditative. 

At Cricinfo, writers described the best and the worst of cricket in 2012, Sidharth Monga chose something different:

It was a warm Adelaide afternoon. Australia had completed a 4-0 whitewash of India hours ago. The stumps had been taken out, the volunteers had finished cleaning the ground, the broadcasters had moved out with their equipment. Anyone with any sense had left Adelaide Oval, except for the lazier journalists. And the Australian team. Every now and then an Australian player would come out of the dressing room to take telephone calls and then go back in. A year ago they were hammered all over on their own grounds by England; they were now staying back to celebrate the end of a remarkable series. 

Four hours after the last wicket was taken, Peter Siddle came out to an empty ground, still in his whites. He went to the top of his run-up at the Cathedral End and bounded in without a ball in hand. With the same intensity with which he bowls in Tests, Siddle went through a delivery, turned, appealed to an imaginary umpire, and then celebrated an imaginary wicket. What joy.

[Source: Cricinfo]

Intellectuals Can Dance

Do intellectuals condone honour killings? Is peer pressure the key to curb social tribulations?

Often when confronted with social issues like honour killings, intellectuals tend to equivocate or digress.

Why is it that they diligently excoriate political matters, bewail sufferings in distant corners in their moralistic discourses and yet brush the carnage of honour killings under the carpet?

Intellectuals may not be able to make sweeping changes in international politics; they may not be able to emancipate the oppressed but they can drastically curb social ills by wielding their didactic prowess. It’s a big waste of influence. Are intellectuals more concerned about protecting their “vote bank”, a chunk of which comes from perpetrators and apologists of honour killings? Or do they really underestimate themselves?

In symposiums, theorists proffer ways to curb teens’ violence and other social tribulations. The discussions are full of platitudes emphasising the role of parents and teachers. They fail to recognise the two key factors that influence people: peer pressure and snobbery. After all, diamond cuts diamond. Advocacy from parents and schools isn’t enough. It has to go beyond that. As bizarre as it my seem, the elixir lies in indoctrination through peers, MTV, media and intellectuals. If parents or teachers try to influence them, they would be snubbed as “preachy” or “boring”. But if their peers and “popular” kids do the same, they would have a much better chance of acceptance. The onus is on media and intellectuals to scout such popular teenagers from various groups — making sure they have horses for courses — and mould them into brainwashing their respective clans.

Media plays a vital part in shaping people’s opinions. If they can post cheesy articles describing the shopping habits of nitpicky six-year-olds, if they can write about their utopian state, Youngistaan’s objection to Lata Mangeshkar’s usage of Twitter, they can also blend in interviews from their hip-and-happening contemporaries, lambasting violence and drug addiction. That way the message comes across from right sources without being construed as didactic.

MTV culture has a humungous influence on kids, which must be respected. There is a lot more to MTV than music: it’s about style, yuppie culture, interviews of trend followers who discuss their predilections and lifestyle. Imagine if an exponent of MTV generation talks against drug addiction, violence and labels them “not cool” and stigmatic, it would have a profound effect on the young viewers.

Religious scholars too can make a difference. With the amount of reverence they draw from hoi polloi, they certainly have it in them to render the ills verboten.

Intellectuals have a wide reach of followers from yuppies to hidebound traditionalists. Take for instance, Noam Chomsky: a well-respected human being, an invincible debater and an influential moral guru. If he morally instructed people against honour killings (or any social ill) using his critical analysis based on corroborated facts, he could turn it into a moral and intellectual anathema. Masses would follow the lead and defaulters would be ostracised.

It is time for the divergent influences of society to bury the hatchet and work together — using horses for courses is the key. After all there is a reason why Chomsky is considered the rider of people’s hearts.

Glorification of Mediocrity

Much has been hyped about the trend of Internet English. Lobbyists have called it a linguistic phenomenon, a boon to the linguistically underprivileged. 

Everything doesn’t either “suck” or “rock”.  A broader vocabulary isn’t detrimental to one’s knowledge. In the words of an eminent intellectual: “The day we stop learning, we stop living.” How can a blinkered, Philistine outlook boost a yuppie society’s intellectual capacity?

The Internet acronyms have become a part of our day-to-day correspondences. There is nothing revolutionary about it. Their usage doesn’t mandate departure from eloquence and propriety. It’s not Shiv Sena’s hidebound fundamentalist world, which has no room for coexistence. Contrary to the harbingers of lifestyle gurus, the so-called revolution will not render Charles Dickens’ literature incomprehensible after a couple of decades. 

The lobbies proffer theories that ascribe attention deficiency to intellectual superiority and long attention span to slow wit. No wonder why an advertisement touts impatience a virtue, the reason behind momentous discoveries.
 

The betoken revolution of Internet English is just a pseudo-intellectual propaganda by media and corporations to sell mediocrity and keep masses receptive to their inculcations.  Ultimately, it’s easy to excrete mediocrity and sell it for great profits. 

The ostensible rationale behind it is that it’s a godsend for promoting the language globally. In truth, those who intend to learn or at least have the know-how of English (or any language for that matter) would do so — with the same or greater effect — even without the aid of Internet English; novices did so for centuries. And for those who grew up speaking English, how could fine-tuning it be such a dreadfully arduous task? I was under the impression that only maths and science were considered difficult.

Returning Home With a Sigh of Relief

If a KP lost in the morning returns in the evening, he cannot be called a lost KP. Led astray by sly sympathisers, he upheld his uncompromising stance in a press-conference, staring down the barrel at an impending retirement. However, two days later, he walked back with penitence, retracting all his demands. But England Cricket Board shut the door on him.

South African media ethically stoked the controversy, asserting that Pietersen yearned for his original “home”. They conveniently ignored that years ago he had emigrated from the same “home” in protest of the quota system; they suitably disregarded his unequivocal apology, committing himself to real cricket.

People relished this opportunity to brew more gossip. When Chris Gayle rebelled against West Indies board, and in fact missed a year and a half of international cricket, nobody came up with snide remarks (whereas, Pietersen never missed a match on his own accord). Perhaps South African fans expected him to return to South Africa. Perhaps the fans from India — once the finest connoisseurs of world cricket and now jingoistic zombies — had developed delusions that he could defect to India and play IPL as a local player.

Eventually ten weeks later, after a series of dialogues in a “reintegration programme”, England Cricket Board opened the door for him.

Nevertheless, disappointed fans continue to spew cynical remarks following his reinstatement. It is a classic case of cognitive dissonance: now that there is nothing else to disparage, the fans contend that the English team is of no worth without him. Interesting remarks, considering that no other team has shown more dependence on one cricketer than India on Sachin Tendulkar.

England Cricket Board have only themselves to blame by not embracing the repentant cricketer, who despite going astray, chose the national team over club cricket. He made mistakes but he also had the courage to apologise in public. How many people would have the sincerity to do that? Besides, ECB isn’t impervious to mistakes. They were gullible enough to believe in Allen Stanford’s fraudulent scheme (click here for the story). He had proffered the same to a few other cricket boards (including BCCI) but only the impecunious West Indies and the gullible ECB fell for it. Not only that, ECB debased the heritage of Lord’s by letting the charlatan’s helicopter land on the ground, whence he flaunted a Perspex briefcase containing $20 million. It was a tawdry display of power and one of the most ignominious moments of English cricket. Sir Walter Hammond must have turned in his grave.

Cricket would have been the biggest casualty, if they had not resolved the dispute. Even the most loved teams in cricket — like Pakistan and West Indies — have had severer internal disputes. The tight spot that ECB are always in, they should never wash their dirty linen in public.

Sketchy Ruminations

PCB’s Fantasy
I wonder who thought of the name for Sialkot Stallions. They found a spot in the Champions League at last, though only to be eliminated from the qualifiers. Four teams from the IPL get a direct entry, while most of the teams have to qualify. Instead, why not just have a mini-IPL? Nevertheless, PCB’s fantasy of getting BCCI in sack isn’t far. In yet another incidence of disgraceful scheduling, the latter have squeeze in a short limited-over-only series for later this year. 

Super Over 
There is little doubt that ICC’s members have rocks in their head as Mike Hesson suggested.  In the tied T20 matches, the super over should come into play in knockout matches only (i.e. semi-finals, final); but here it’s used in every tie. Even in football, extra time or penalty shootouts are only exercised in knockout games; notwithstanding that scores are more likely to be levelled in footaball than in cricket, yet this rule is foolishly applicable for every T20 match.

Scullions Sack Ranatunga 
Twelve years after getting the Test status, Sri Lanka won the world cup in 1996, led by Arjuna Ranatunga. An astute leader and sometimes a sophist; he stood against prejudice, albeit a dubious claim, to defend his cricketers. He was the exponent of Sri Lankan superiority, often lionised as an Asian hero by jingoists. 

It turns out that BCCI’s arse-lickers, Sri Lankan cricket board, sacked the legendary Arjuna Ranatunga from a position in the board for speaking against IPL and BCCI. If someone of his stature isn’t indispensable, then no one is in BCCI’s world order.

BCCI Sena

The two agents, or henchmen, or pimps, or the Shiv Sainik archetypes who spread BCCI’s isms are Ravi Shastri and Harsha Bhogle.

Ravi Shastri is an embodiment of the drum-beating villain from the feted blockbuster, Agneepath. Like Kaancha Cheena he brainwashes the impressionable villagers (fans) to lynch Master Dinanath (anyone who opposes BCCI). Like an intolerant Shiv Sainik, he sees every disagreement from an outsider a menace to BCCI Sena. Anyone who stands up to BCCI is insinuated as India’s enemy. Anyone who questions BCCI’s policies is deemed jealous of IPL.

The bespectacled Harsha Bhogle has the semblance of a calm, innocuous geek. But there is something sinister about his aura and his cultic discourses of BCCI. He is like BCCI’s pimp. Sophistry is his strength to endorse BCCI’s views. He uses chicanery to solicit IPL to the gullible fans. He purports that playing less cricket is the way to save Test matches. It is a counter-intuitive idea, considering that in the year 2011 South Africa had played only one Test match until October. Australia and South Africa — the two best teams in the best of rivalries of modern cricket — played a two-Test series instead of the customary three, in one of the most disgraceful scheduling of cricket. Sri Lanka cancelled their tour of England in 2009 to play in IPL. This year they only held a short, two-match Test series against England in order to render themselves to IPL’s behest. And Mr. Bhogle thinks that fewer matches should be played. Is playing one Test in eight–ten months too much? 

He doesn’t have the courage to criticise the mishmash that one-day cricket has become. He doesn’t write a word against the excessive amount of one-day matches played between India and Sri Lanka, which have gone past ridiculous proportions: in the last four years, they have played forty-four ODIs against each other. The man who complains about too much cricket doesn’t have the nerve to say that IPL’s season stretches for too long. He doesn’t find the Champions League an unwanted addition to the jam-packed schedule, which has always been a dud despite the addition of four IPL teams. But Mr. Bhogle touts it as a successful and essential fixture. 

Their near concupiscent cultism of BCCI squirts intolerance. Hitting the day entrenched in IPL porn dungeon, drunk with power, clad in saffron, playing percussion kartal blocks, Bhogle and Shastri continue to chant BCCI’s hymns.

A Streetcar Named IPL

May I use this platform to raise a rhetorical question: Is the Indian Premier League as popular as portrayed by BCCI?

They have craftily inculcated a suggestion: “If you are a cricket fan and you don’t support IPL or T20, you are anti-Indian.” This ploy is effective in manipulating the impressionable masses. For Indian fans in particular, the fear of being ostracised or branded as unpatriotic triggers an obligatory concession for IPL.

Do Indian fans really adore IPL? Inherently, Indians watch cricket to support their country rather than IPL’s franchises — it does not surpass international cricket. Can IPL match the buzz of Pakistan’s tour of India in 2005 or the 2011 World Cup? Surely IPL draws crowd to the stadiums but the television ratings have plunged in the last two seasons. Watching IPL matches at grounds is like a picnic for the spectators, for it’s a short T20 format; it’s an outing, a deviation from their dreary routines; it’s a use-and-throw, watch-and-forget entertainment for them, like an intercourse without foreplay with a streetwalker. Indians are losing interest in “real” cricket, let alone the vaudville of IPL. But BCCI and its agents continue to flaunt a story of success. At times they open gates to let the indolent, ticketless throng fill the stadium. The dearth of T20 international matches — except for the frequent world cups — can be imputed to depriving people of T20 cricket so that IPL remains the flagship brand. Repetition is the key: the agents, in the form of media and commentators, keep hammering IPL’s tremendous stature, till it permeates the psyche of the peer-pressured consumers.

BCCI’s scullions crow and snigger whenever a foreign cricketer chooses IPL over his country. If an Indian cricketer chose Big Bash or county cricket over India, would they extend the same tolerance?

Red Carpet Cricket

Saeed Ajmal’s surprising exclusion from ICC’s awards has incited vehement remonstrations from Pakistan Cricket Board and sympathisers. ICC’s awards are as important to cricket as Oscars are to cinema. The winners of the last year’s awards are crystal clear in our memories, just like the awards from the years before. I clearly remember how we all waited with bated breath after every nomination, only to exult or utter invectives thenceforth, depending on the outcome. Don’t we remember watching the news channels showing enthusiastic fans carousing and revelling on streets? Don’t we remember the ubiquitous Ravi Shastri’s encomium, filled with his signature expressions, in the leading newspapers? How can we forget the winners’ parade in an open-air omnibus, a la Shahrukh Khan’s team’s victory march in Kolkata? It was the ICC’s award that enchanted England’s win in the T20 World Cup, 2010. (For those struggling to keep up with the T20 world cups, yes, England are the defending champions in the upcoming world cup.) It was the award that rocketed Vinay Kumar’s “price” in the IPL auction and fetched M.S. Dhoni a multi-million-dollar deal.

In one of other ICC’s vagaries, Australia have descended to number ten, below Ireland and Bangladesh, in ICC’s T20 rankings. The ranking system appears to be over-simplistic; Ireland and Bangladesh have more victories than Australia but all their wins have come against associate nations (non-Test playing nations); whereas, Australia’s comparatively fewer victories have been against superior teams. Cricket Australia should take a leaf out of PCB’s book and threaten to boycott ICC until the rankings are annulled thereof, and they are ascended to a more respectable position; moreover, preferably higher than New Zealand.

Everybody’s Got a Price

Kapil Dev has at last sprawled himself for the mighty BCCI. Two months ago he said that he wasn’t accountable to BCCI and now he is calling it his “parent”. It took a few snubs, thwarts and eventually $270,000 for him to prostrate himself before the dogged authority.

In all fairness, he is entitled to avail the pecuniary benefits from BCCI when others in the fraternity are laughing their way to the bank. But what’s interesting is his sycophancy towards BCCI. The man who had threatened to go on a hunger strike unless the ostracised ICL (now defunct) cricketers were reinstated by BCCI  is now eulogising their double-chinned administrator, Srinivasan. He is the same man who always vehemently criticised BCCI; now he is crooning paternalistic hymns, his hands folded in obesiance, in front BCCI’s simulacrum and Srinivasan’s adorned picture. The old school locution happens to be true: “Everybody’s got a price”.