Songs of the not-so innocent

(This post hasn't come out as well as I wanted. But I'm still pissed off, so.)   Why do we have heroes? What is it about someone that triggers a decision to nail our colours to their mast? I don't have a neat answer so what you read from here on is both an explanation and an exploration. In a post-modern world driven by counter-points, certainty is a luxury. I missed the boat when it came to India's ODI cricket madness. We moved abroad in the late 80s. When I left, my friends and I wanted to be Kapil, Kris or Sunil. When I returned, god was getting comfortable on his heavenly couch and all was right with a world I did not recognise. I had missed Sachin's opening batsman debut against New Zealand, the hullabaloo of the Hero Cup and other notable moments. So, I was interested in cricket, not any particular sportsman. Not even during the '96 World Cup. When India muffed it against Sri Lanka, I hurt for the team, not for a player. Then came Dravid. And, perso...

Sometimes, all I have in me is a song for the moment:  

To live in a city is to exist on a purely man-made plane. Sure, you can go ahead and say you're still in touch with Mama Nature by visiting the neighbourhood park. But even you know that's a lie. Let's face it... as far as the average city-dweller is concerned, "going back to my roots" really means adding more potato, ginger, carrot and maybe a turnip or two to your diet. To live in a city is to hear it constantly. Especially in a city like Mumbai, where a lonely wolf-like howl at night is only the local kulfi seller, yodelling his wares like his life depends on it. Maybe it does too. Mumbai is an orchestra of human sounds. Being deftly conducted by an invisible Cacophonix. Trains. Planes. Cars. Autos. Hawkers. Pedlars. Hopers. Desperadoes. People. And Gujaratis. The night has no pity to dispense. In the quietest lanes live the noisiest dishwashers, the sound of clashing steel suggesting a battle is being fought with pots, pans and plates. Or ag...