The book of love is long and boring
and no one can lift the damn thing

Its full of charts and facts and figures....
and instructions for dancing

But i.....i....i.....
i love it when u read to me
and u...u...u...
u can read me anything

The book of love has music in it
in fact thats where music comes from

some of its just transcedental...
sum of its just really dumb

But i.....i....i.....
i love it when u sing to me
and u...u...u...
u can sing me anything

the book of love is long and boring
and written very long ago

its full of cards and heart shaped boxes....
and things we are all too young to know

but i...i...i...
i love it when u give me things
and u..u...u...
u ought to me wedding rings

u ought to give me wedding rings...
u ought to give me wedding rings...

By Peter Gabriel

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Last night I had a visitor from the outer world. No not an alien, but a mortal who had presumably descended from heaven (at least that is what I presumed); I could not see any marks of torture on his body. But Quaid e Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah looked completely forlorn and depressed as he sat on the edge of my bed and poked me into wakefulness. I got up with a start and immediately drew back. My fear was genuine; on many public occasions and during several animated discussions with friends I had torn the poor Quaid to shreds and held him out to be a political opportunist and a communal politician. I thought he had finally had enough and decided to take his revenge.
But the Quaid had something else on his mind. He wanted me to help him. Help? I thought.

‘What is all this your fellow Advani is saying about me?’

‘Why?’ I asked “Aren’t you happy? He sang praises for you?’

‘Praises?’ the Quaid shot back, ‘this man has no understanding of my life or my politics. How can he label me secular? It’s an insult!’

‘Why? Aren’t you pleased with what he said?’

‘Of course not!’ The Quaid was visibly flustered and expressed his consternation in no unclear terms. “How he turn my entire political legacy upside down. That too in my own mausoleum… even though I have stopped living there ever since the ceiling started leaking. But still…it’s my mausoleum and Pakistan is my country.’

I agreed, Pakistan was his country no doubt. But why this irritation with Advani.

‘He is the most devious of all you Indians. Look here he comes into my country and labels me a secularist. Tomorrow he would say I was like Gandhi and Nehru. Then where would be my identity? I fought all my life to remain distinct from them. And then this fellow Advani will become PM and say India and Pakistan are alike because their founding fathers were alike. And then! Allah! He will say India and Pakistan should unite…because we are all secularists at heart and parted only because of those goras!’

‘Ah…’ Jinnah sighed in agony. ‘My beloved Pakistan will be finished’

I suddenly began to see Mr.Advani in a new light. Indeed he would be the new national hero, an international hero; the Nobel Prize would be his for doing the impossible. No wonder all his opponents were so worried.

‘And that commando who thinks he is a General allowed Advani a free run in Pakistan. Help me! Help me!’ pleaded the Quaid.

‘What can I do?’

‘Appeal to your Prime Minister, ask him to keep these dangerous people at home. Help me save my Pakistan. You are at least consistent on your views on me and my country. That is why I came to you for help.’

The Quaid looked visibly distressed by the time his allotted visiting hour was got over. I reassured of him that I would make all possible appeals to the PM to heed the sagely advice of his soul and keep the future of Pakistan in mind. We departed on a cordial note. I had discovered a humane side to the Quaid which I never thought existed before and I made up my mind to vote for Mr.Advani in the next elections.

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mujhko bhi tarkeib sikha koi yaar julahe,
aksar tujhko dekha hai ek taana bunte
jab koi dhaga toot gaya ya khatm hua,
jod kar doosre dhage ki gaanth usme aage bun ne lagte ho
tere is taane mein lekin, girah ki ek bhi gaanth dekh nahin sakta hai koi
maine to ek bar buna tha ek hi rishta, lekin uski saare girhe saaf nazar aati hai yaar julahe
mujhko bhi tarkeib sikha koi yaar julahe.

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aaj phir ibaadat se tumhe yaad karte hain
khuda se tumhari hee fariyaad karte hain
tumhari woh hansi, tumhari woh baatein
tum bin guzri woh tanhah raatein
tumhare aane ki dastak, tumhare kadmo ki chahek
geele keson ki mehak, us sugandh ki pahal
ghar me phelaa tumhara woh aangan
mez par likhti tumhari choondiyon ki khankan
murjhe phholo se tumhari woh mohabbat
meri aadaton par tumhari woh shikayat
woh sang beeta befikr waqt
woh bebasi meri, woh zindagi ki kashmakash
ab kabhi kabhi woh aangan, woh phool, woh mez dekh lete hain
woh mehak woh aadatein yad kar lete hain
kaee tanha raaton mein khuda se phir tumhari faryaad kar letein hain.

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The general feeling today is that classes and masses don’t mix. What the crème de la crème want differs completely from what the average man on the street desires. We live in an age where markets and consumerism define everything, from what we eat and buy to what we watch on television. Rising incomes, growing urban rural divides and a tendency to measure everything in money (a natural consequence of infant capitalism), has lead to compartmentalization of markets each deemed to possess different wants and desires. In this perceived lack of homogeneity comes the drive to cater to the lowest common denominator, the largest market size. Thus you have television channels and newspapers trying to outdo each other in ‘dumbing down’- while strictly taking the defense that if the reader/viewer wants entertainment and not information and opinion then they have no option but to accede to this demand. It is a trend which is also increasingly evident in the kind of movies we make. The advent of multiplexes has provided a compartment for the filmmakers to cater to, a section of society that wants to see a reflection of its own hip and happening life on the big screen, while there is another section which continues to churn out the ‘masala’ stuff believing this is what the common man wants.

In a country as vast as ours and with so much heterogeneity, it may not be incorrect to argue that different communities/ sections have different demands or tastes. But what is incorrect and frustrating is the complete lack of effort to cut across these artificially perceived lines, the almost inept throwing up of hands and falling to monetary interests while claiming to serve the consumer. It is in this environment that two individuals this season have proved to be exceptions. The success of Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Black and Rabbi Shergill’s debut music album carry a message that out there exists a space for original and brave creativity.

Bhansali’s Black has been universally lauded, its sensitivity and artistic perfection complimented. But his real success lies probably in the fact that an unusual Hindi movie with a rarely touched theme and with no songs (!) is till now this year’s best commercial performer. It reinforces the weakening belief that good cinema can be (no, must be) both entertaining as well seen to convey a larger message, be panaromic and yet not lose sight of the fact that the man who stands in the line to buy a movie ticket expects value for his money.
Rabbi Shergill’s songs are a rage on radio and television today; and yet he is the same man whom music companies refused for almost four years believing that his music was not worth the investment (I wonder what those managers would be thinking today). The young sardar has proved that there is more to Punjabi music that bhangra beats and loud dhols. It is this novelty of making people explore new grounds of creativity that drive both his and Bhansali’s success – the courage to be different and yet respect the listener/viewer’s intelligence. It is a lesson our marketing managers would do well to learn. Substance, not form ultimately sells. By dumbing down we are only stifling our own creativity and money is poor return for such heavy sacrifice. The big question then is – how many more Rabbis and Bhansalis are there, willing to listen to their own voices and convictions and not allowing their artistic imagination to be held captive by perceived market interests?

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