It was my second day at the local language school here in Germany and I was eagerly looking forward to mastering the basics of the country’s language. The classroom was large and bright, with huge French windows ushering in warm rays of sun on a chilly, winter morning. The students were seated in a U-shaped configuration – no front benchers and back benchers, no slackers or pranksters. Everybody was in the plain sight of our Lehrerin (teacher). The class numbered 19 till yesterday. Our classroom resembled a mini UN assembly meeting, so cosmopolitan was the mix of students. After our formal self introduction session, I had determined that between the 19 of us, we represented 17 different nationalities. We had Jordan, Tunisia, Algeria, Kazakhstan, USA, Morocco, Russia, Macedonia, Lithuania, Belize, Iraq, Brazil, UK, Spain, Turkey, Portugal and of course India. But today we had a new student. She knocked on the door, walked in and nervously greeted the class in a timid voice. She appeared to be in her late thirties and sat at the opposite end from me. My Iraqi neighbour to the right leaned in and asked if I was familiar with the garb our new classmate had donned. I told her I was not. The seat to my left was empty. Soon our Lehrerin waltzed in and took the roll call. When she noticed the new student she asked us to introduce ourselves to her in German. When we were done, the girl introduced herself, “Hallo, Ich heisse Farhat und ich komme aus Pakistan”. For a second I lost my balance, after all I had never met a Pakistani before. Around 15 years ago my sister had a pen pal from Pakistan and that was as close as I had ever got to one.

Given the long standing feud over borders, one never knows what sentiments to hold for our “neighbours”. I, for one, had been unable to take a stand until that eventful day. I am quite liberal in many ways. I don’t care for race, religion, age, sexual orientation, political leanings or any other forms of personal beliefs. But due to the ever-super-charged atmosphere between India and Pakistan, I did know how to break the ice or where the boundary was. So you could imagine my surprise when Farhat walked over to my end of the table and seated herself to my left. I managed a charming smile when she immediately broke into full conversation, “Oh, so you are from India! Very nice to meet you. Where are you staying, why are you here, how long will you be staying, do you like it here, do you speak Urdu, where does your husband work, do you have children” – the questioning went on. I was delighted to answer all her questions because I suspected I had a friend in the making. She had just shown me how easily border disputes could be swept into oblivion.

Just a few weeks later, she invited my husband and I to her beautiful home. She is a marvellous cook. Her biryani and kebabs were scrumptious. Her husband is a warm person who fondly recalls how well he was treated by his Indian host when he visited Delhi in 1996. And her children have been brought up with good values and morals and are a credit to her job as a mother. When my relatives visited us here in Germany, she also invited them to her house and treated us to the best Rasmalai we had ever eaten. Since then, we have visited each other’s homes on several occasions. Some friendships are destined to live forever. It has been a year since Farhat reminded me that, international boundary lines apart, we are all in essence pretty much the same.

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Land acquisition and access to resources: two important pillars needed to keep India on its current growth trajectory, if it is to catch up with China and fulfil its promise as an emerging economic power. Both highlight once again the ongoing tension between India’s need to grow and the people it will leave behind or displace in the process. Two recent events bring these issues into sharp focus.

The Indian government recently rejected plans by the London-based mining group, Vedanta, to extract bauxite in the Niyamgiri hills in the eastern state of Orissa. This story made the international news headlines, even being compared to director James Cameron’s recent blockbuster film “Avatar”, as the mining company came into direct conflict with a few thousand tribals who call the hilly region home. Citing concerns that this would affect the tribal people’s right to their way of life and the ecosystem in the region, the Environment Minister, Jairam Ramesh, also said the project had violated India’s environmental protection laws.

Curiously, a day later, in a different part of the country, in the state of Uttar Pradesh in India’s Hindi-speaking heartland, thousands of farmers marched more than a hundred kilometers to the nation’s capital, gridlocking Delhi. This was to protest against a putative takeover of their land by the state government to build important new infrastructure, the two hundred kilometer Yamuna expressway from Agra to Delhi, budgeted to cost over $2 billion. The farmers have been demanding more compensation for land that the state government has been trying to acquire, stating that what they are being offered is half the market price of about $20 per square metre.

While the two episodes have a superficial similarity, they point to fundamentally different issues. The farmers in U.P. were not objecting to the acquisition of their land per se; they simply were asking for a fair price for it. The statutory authority under which the Indian central and state governments expropriate land is a relic of British colonial days, and allows government to take over land with little or no compensation. A proposed new law, which would require government to pay a fair market price for land and compensate the displaced in other ways, has been languishing in Parliament for several years. Seen in this light, there is nothing especially radical or subversive about the farmers’ demands: they simply don’t want to be short changed by the state government, but, if the right amount of cash is on the table, are willing to play ball.

Now, shift about two thousand kilometers east to the land dispute in Orissa. It is striking that the tribals were not holding out for better compensation: they simply didn’t want to be part of the system, period. To them, the hills are sacred, that is where they live, and no amount of money would ever be enough to get them to leave. Money, in fact, is beside the point for them. The analogy with “Avatar” is apt.

The Vedanta dispute points to a far more fundamental fissure in the modern development paradigm: what happens when modern economic progress runs up against a totally different civilization and culture that wants no part of it, but which sits atop resources that may be vital to the development project itself? Bauxite, after all, is the most important of the ores which when processed become stainless steel, a key input for manufacturing industry, a central driver of growth in developing countries whether India or elsewhere.

What results is a “clash of civilizations”, to borrow a phrase used in a different context by the late Samuel P. Huntington. The value systems of the two worlds are simply incommensurate: the modern economy is offering money as compensation to the tribals, who in turn have no value for money or what it can buy, and simply want the land they live on and don’t want to be disturbed. There is no possibility of gainful exchange here, to put it in economic terms.

In this particular case, the Indian government supported the tribals, and has blocked the project. Not that we should necessarily impute a great deal of virtue to this decision: the Congress-led central government has an eye to state elections, and standing up for the tribals, and against the state government of Orissa, led by a different party, may be good electoral calculus. Nor should we forget the threat of Maoist rebels, known in India as Naxals, who are an ever-present danger in Orissa as, indeed, they are, in about a third of the country’s districts. The Naxals, latter-day Robin Hoods, stand up for the poor and dispossessed, and are challenging government authority in a wide swathe of central and eastern India. While the Indian government’s hawkish Home Minister, P. Chidambaram, is pressing for an aggressive strategy to root out the insurgency, other elements within the Congress Party are pushing for a more tempered approach. Most notably, Mani Shankar Aiyar, a former minister in the government and self-proclaimed Marxist, has repeatedly pointed out the economic underpinning of the Maoist insurgency, and the fact that it it is no accident that it has taken root and thrives in the most background regions of the country, amidst those that have been left largely untouched by the growth miracle that has led to India’s recent skyrocketing growth rates and booming stock and property markets, to say nothing of its IT industry known worldwide.

All of this is a timely reminder that modern economic development, while empowering those who benefit from it, simultaneously disenfranchises others who don’t share its capitalist and market-oriented premises. The farmers in U.P. will probably get a little more money for their land, and should make out OK in the end. The tribal people in Orissa have been spared, for now, but it’s only a matter of time before another mining company encroaches on their land, with or without the government’s permission, or before someone else discovers even richer reserves of bauxite somewhere else in the country, and clamours for mining rights, whether or not someone happens to live on the land. And so development marches forward.

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Ramadan smells like eggs. Eggs fried with a little bit of onion and mustard seed, rolled into fat roti, the whites peeking out from the ends, the yolks pushing up against the edges, smears of yellow shining through the holes left by popped air bubbles in the bread.

In my house, Ramadan was something of a family affair. My mother, despite being Catholic, would rise with my father in the pre-dawn twilight, cook said eggs and roti and make him a cup of tea then go back to bed. When I was around ten, I started getting up every few mornings too; eventually my brother joined us at the breakfast table, everyone drinking tea or juice, too bleary-eyed for conversation, but feeling the silence important somehow, too. In the comfortable, sleepy companionship of those mornings, though, there hung an unspoken agreement: my brother and I would fast, too, just as soon as we were old enough. But for us, fasting has never come to pass.

My brother has his own reasons, though we’ve never spoken about them. We rarely speak about religion these days, both in somewhat precarious positions. I’m married to an athiest, he to a Christian whose family has strong church ties. I do know this, though: I don’t fast because I don’t want to, but rather because I can’t.

I have grand mal epilepsy. It doesn’t affect my life greatly–I’ve had it since I was three, and I’m used to it. If all my symptoms suddenly disappeared tomorrow, I think I’d be lost. (Once, I went a whole week without seeing the tiny glimmers of green I usually see in the shower; it was like greeting old friends who’d been away on vacation when they came back.) There are, however, a few things I can’t do: drive, swim, and fast.

My father has come to terms with my not fasting in a kinda-sorta way. Every now and then, he remarks that I’ll be able to fast soon, when I’m strong enough, as if epilepsy is a wasting disease and I simply need to gain a little weight back. And I have tried–a few years ago, I fasted as part of a charity Ramadan-a-thon at MIT, to raise money for local food banks and shelters. It went just as it was supposed to: Joe and I woke up together, I made eggs and roti and tea, and then I had a partial seizure while visiting a friend (also fasting). This was in 2005, the year I ran the Vermont marathon, and I cried because I was forced to drink orange juice and let down my sponsors.

In terms of strength, I’m about as good as I’ll ever get. I run between 25 and 30 miles a week. I walk the baby another 15 or so miles per week, and buy running shoes more often than other women by heels or chocolate. I take Pilates classes, and I try to do yoga on my own time. My weight puts me bang in the middle of the healthy BMI range, at 22.5, and I’m a US 6. There are only two things I can do to be healthier: sleep more, and eat spinach out of a can as often as Popeye.

The Qu’ran takes people like me into account. The sick, elderly, and infirm are not supposed to fast. And yet, I still wish I could, even though I’ve accepted my epilepsy. I’ve been seizure-free long enough to get a license, and I’m studying for my learners and every time I wind up near a pool, I talk Joe into giving me swimming lessons and try to improve my rather mediocre breaststroke. But fasting is something I simply cannot do, and it bothers me, because I’ve broken our egg-and-roti agreement.

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Only three weeks after landing in India there I was trundling off to Pondicherry, officially known as Puducherry, for a reunion with some old friends. We hardly spent any time in Chennai before catching the East Coast Road, or ECR as it is commonly known. As we made progress the landscape transformed from urban sprawl to coconut trees leaning lovingly against each other on stunning sandy beaches. Stopping for water at a small shack we smiled as the smell of the sea wafted into the car. We were almost there…almost at Pondicherry, the seaside town that was known for it’s Indo-French style and seaside bliss.

As we jumped out from the haven of an air-conditioned car, a warm, smiling reception was accompanied by a sudden blast of heat. Heads reeling from the sudden and extreme change in temperature, we clambered on to the buggy that was waiting to take us on a grand tour of our eco-friendly resort. Organic farms crowded with bleating goats lined the dusty unpaved path that ran through the resort grounds. The buggy eventually pulled up to a Bamboo cottage, our home for the next few days. It seemed that we were in for a serious sojourn with nature.

Entering the cottage we marveled at the thatched roof and commended the complete absence of synthetic materials. The usual shampoo sachets that most travelers like to pocket were creatively packaged in glass bottles with wooden stoppers. We lauded the effort even though we knew we would be unable to take them away! Outside the cottage cycles were provided for the guests to use within the grounds of the resort. I was beginning to wonder if this would be a holiday but certain that the weekend would be a healthy one. We jumped on for a quick ride, only to stop soon after for a swim in the pool. And then it was time to explore the rest of this charming town.

Driving down the famous Promenade beach we got a dekko of the waves rolling in as young couples, braving the sun, walked hand in hand down the coast. Overlooking the Promenade are beautiful colonial buildings that would not look out of place on the French Riviera. Their wrought iron balconies the perfect vantage point to gaze at the sea. Foreign tourists look conspicuous with their heavy backpacks and flowery cotton pajamas. They seek refuge from the balmy temperatures at the famous Gandhi statue and browse through their travel guides. We decide to drive down and sample the local French fare but our timing could not have been worse. It’s Sunday and most of the renowned joints are filled with ravenous travelers. “No Space ma, waiting time one hour!” the friendly mustachioed watchman exclaimed with a delightful Tamil twang. We shrugged and walked on to Café De Flore, a quaint little al fresco eatery surrounded by tall white pillars. The menu was in French and luckily one of us was fluent in the language. My friend ably gave our orders to a man who looked like he stepped off a Kollywood movie set with swarthy skin, a thick mustache and a smile proudly displaying dazzling white teeth. Yet another example of just how harmoniously two cultures, Tamil and French, have blended with each other. Something I hope that the rest of the country would someday take note of and then emulate.

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Rakhi (Rakhri, Raksha Bandhan) has existed in Indian culture for centuries. This bond between brothers and sisters demonstrates themes of love, care and most importantly protection. Occasionally this ritual is celebrated between parties that aren’t literally siblings, but assume a similar bond; for example, mother and son, father and daughter, cousins and friends etc. Most will be aware that it consists of the sister tying a string around her brother’s wrist – sweets and money are thereafter exchanged in a gesture of good-will.

There are various accounts of the historical legend that inspired the tradition, but because they go back in early Hindu mythology it’s not easily verifiable which is the first or most accurate. However, with a ritual such as this, it’s not necessarily the historical telling which is most important, but the fact that it continues to thrive.

According to my understanding it relates to a sister, who fearing her brother’s loss of life in battle, gave him a piece of string for protection (which she’d previously prayed with). The string kept her brother safe and protected in battle. Eventually his army was defeated by the enemy, but only when he was captured, and the string removed, that he eventually passed. The string clearly carried the strength to keep him alive. It’s quite possible that this is an idealised version of the tale, but it’s probably the clearest understanding of why, over time, the ritual has become so powerful. Of course, it can’t really be dated, particularly as there are various accounts of Gods, Kings and historical figures who claimed to have celebrated the ritual in various ways over time. If anything, all these instances simply add to the ritual’s mystique.

As the recent full moon passed a few days ago, it was time to celebrate Rakhi again. Brothers and sisters around the world prepared to visit each other across cities in various NRI outposts. For those not having the means to be present, the strings are sent via mail. For some reason or other, the ones that come directly from India are always the loudest. I once saw a Spiderman themed Rakhi. That’s when I realised that Rakhi had truly arrived as twenty-first century ritual – to take its place amidst Dr Who Easter eggs and Ben 10 Christmas crackers. Yet despite this delve into commercialism, most sensible Rakhi wearers will opt for something simple in a single colour. Anything more fabulous than that will simply get washed away in the shower.

As a brother, every year this day approaches, I can’t help but develop a sense of apprehension. I begin to feel a little bit like a father who’s just been told that his daughter’s getting married. I wonder if many others feel the same. You begin to think – how much is this going to cost me? Most brothers, will give whatever they can. And when they’ve more time, will even give a considered gift – thus side-stepping the idea of needing to comply with a set a fee. This questions what the principle of Rakhi actually is and what it should be.

Historically, most women will approach men and tie a Rakhi on them in exchange for protection. A group of sisters in an ancient time would do well to bestow their attention on their cousins, who in turn would offer their care and protection. The theme of caring therefore gained a utopian degree of mutuality. But this seems to work better in simpler times, when physical dangers were more prevalent.

As times have changed, women have become more independent – and the need for ‘protection’ has evolved. It’s gone beyond a verbal agreement, or a symbolic idea. Yet, brothers have wanted to still demonstrate care – so gifts, sweets and money have become the tokenistic replacement for these things. But the question remains, how much is a piece of string in today’s world? What will a brother have to do to show that he appreciates it? What if what he offers isn’t the same as other brothers? Does this matter? Has this ritual now become an opportunity for women to invest in shoes?

Of course these questions do carry a little bit of cynicism, but that may be due my personal experiences of it always being uncertain every year. Naturally, some incentive will keep this ritual alive, but it also needs to keep true to its origins; a time when care and protection have been valuable attributes in their own right, standing in place of monetary value. I won’t ask for sisters to sit and pray with a Rakhi for a set period of time, but if it comes at a nominal fee, is this really the wrong thing to expect?

When I’ve been in India during times of Rakhi, I’ve often found that I suddenly have more sisters than I ever realised. It’s this opportunistic trend that creeps into all celebrations and rituals that strongly has the ability to taint them, but, as most brothers and sisters do, we’ll take it with a pinch of salt.

To present a fairer argument, I should try and see things from the female point of view. Rakhi is an opportunity for a ritual that sprang from a dangerous time to be celebrated in a jovial, modern but sincere fashion. It can be the perfect opportunity to demonstrate a bond which is otherwise difficult to categorise for many not born into a conventional brother and sister style nuclear family. Regardless of my regular sceptical concerns about most rituals, I can’t deny that I feel better for having my Rakhi, and that when it withers, I wait anxiously for Rakhi day to come back again.

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If you ever Google search for Mohanlal, you will find him. And fast. You only need to type in M-O-H-A-N and Google’s ever so smart keyword-suggestion feature will deliver Mohanlal to the the top of the list.

Mohanlal, a Mollywood hero, is close to 50 years old, overweight and yet he manages to top the Google search results. “Why?” Some may ask shaking their heads in sadness over the state of Malayalam cinema. “How?” others may ask in horror.

Fifty is definitely not a glamorous number when associated with age. Especially when your waistline measures something close to that as well. And let’s not even mention the ‘moustache’, an essential hair piece in Mollywood. Yes, you can be an aging, bald actor, but as long as your moustache stays its hairy, shiny self, the theatres will stay packed. Mohanlal seems to have kept his audience enthralled with his on-screen performances so far.

The Big M has ruled over Malayalam cinema for almost three decades, although he has had to share his throne with fellow actor Mammootty. An actor’s greatest strength lies in his versatility to adapt to any role, and Mohanlal has certainly proved himself in that regard. One of my personal favourites is his role as the love-struck mentally disturbed patient in the tragic romance ‘Thalavattam’. Or the simpleton trying to get back his house in the comedy film ‘Sanmanassullavarku Samadhanam’. And the struggling director waiting for his first break in ‘Udayananu Tharam’. Unfortunately, in recent times screen-writers and directors, it seems, are happy to have him play a stereotype. The suave, fears-no-one hero who has very little to do in terms of acting. These stories are sure-shot theatre-fillers but peppered with meaningless dialogues and gratuitous fight scenes. Once in a blue moon, a director churns out a good Mohanlal starrer where as we watch him we are reminded why he still continues to rule the Malayalam cinema industry.

The actor has won several awards including the prestigious Padmashree award and National award twice for his performances in ‘Vanaprastham’ and ‘Bharatham’. And rightly so. He became the first Indian actor ever to receive the honorary rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the Army. Interestingly for a Mollywood actor, he has gained recognition among a wider audience with roles in Hindi movies like ‘Company’ and ‘Aag’.

Lovingly referred to as ‘Lal-ettan’, which means ‘Elder brother Lal’, he is probably one of the most commonly imitated actors in Kerala. Mohanlal is famed for his slant-shouldered stance and cheeky grin. The one advantage he does have over his rival Mammootty is that he has excellent comedy timing where Mammootty is better known for his serious, thought-provoking roles.

How long this reign of ‘superstar-dom’ will last, no one can tell. Judging from the strength of his fan base, we can safely predict that Lal-ettan is in no hurry to leave the big screen.

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In my childhood, I had two dreams: (1) to play for the New Zealand cricket team, and (2) for there to be cricket on television every day. In view of the fact that I am currently here writing this article instead of in Sri Lanka with the Black Caps, we can safely assume that (1) did not come true. (2), however, most certainly has, and in amongst the deluge of statistics and ludicrously controversial no-balls, I finally understand that old maxim: be careful what you wish for.

The 1992 World Cup was my heavenly introduction to cricket. This was back in the days of only three TV channels, one of which broadcast every single match free to air, and I sat down to watch the tournament opener while the rest of my non-sporto family got on with their lives in other parts of the house. At seven years of age I of course had no concept that New Zealand’s victory over the world champion Australians was in any way noteworthy, or a surprise. All I understood was that one guy Crowe batted good and another guy Harris was a really good fielder. The game also seemed to share my fondness for statistics; in particular, the inclination to lose oneself in them for hours.

Once the tournament was over, and my conversion complete, I spent hours scanning schedules for the next cricket match, placing precious circles on the paper of each week’s TV listings. ‘Cricket days’ became my greatest joy, and those were the days when cricket was actually on TV. Test or one-dayer, I didn’t care – I’d be there, my energy levels steadily building rising with every leg break and straight drive, until I had to run outside and bowl a tennis ball at the back fence for half an hour. They were carefree days that I recall now with more than a hint of nostalgia.

If I met my former self, I wouldn’t have the heart to tell him that 365 potential ‘cricket days’ a year would be a burden, a frustration. The market is saturated to a farcical degree: we have a World Cup of some sort every year, often twice or three times; we have the IPL circus each season and its upcoming, irritatingly tryhard offshoot, the Champions League; we have international tri-series so regularly that it no longer matters who’s playing. In India at least, all of this is played out live on television, complete with endless punditry and reaction that bleeds into the news channels. Then there’s Cricinfo, a constantly updated resource on which one can easily read or follow matches for an entire day. I literally can’t imagine what it must be like for the kids growing up today, who are essentially living my dream. It’s odder still that I feel sorry for them.

Perhaps the tipping point was the famous Wanderers game, in which South Africa somehow surpassed Australia’s record-breaking total. It was a delight in every way: boundaries galore, heroes and villains, the romance of winning the series in the final game. It gave the chance to compare whose innings was more astonishing, Ponting’s or Gibbs’. It offered flashes of greatness that most others might have quickly forgotten, such as Bracken’s brilliant 43^rd over. And, of course, there were world records galore. That was four and a half years ago, and since then, everything seems to have been an attempt to recreate that incredible March day. There have been so many fours and sixes, and so many new statistics, that cricket now seems to fill its own separate universe.

This, I feel, is where the problem lies.  Cricket, and its aam aadmi appeal, has been taken away from the grasp of regular folks and catapulted into self-awareness: a swiftly expanding void comprised of Bollywood babes, a dozen ‘next big things’, astronomical paychecks and obviously, an overabundance of actual cricket.  The purity of a confrontation at the local park over whether or not your mate overstepped is blinded by the glare of what is effectively a neverending, mega-budget advertising reel. You can look at it, for a while, but you can’t reach out and touch it; even if you can, its slickness and gloss feel unnatural, otherworldly and not at all like of how used to be.

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Here’s a double feature music review of the two new big film soundtracks to be released recently: Vishal-Shekhar’s Anjaana Anjaani (directed by Siddharth Anand) and A.R. Rahman’s Robot (directed by Shankar). Both soundtracks are by very talented composers, whose sounds are as different as pasta and biryani, for films that are just as different. However, one makes an impact while the other just misses the target.

Anjaana Anjaani

Siddharth Anand’s upcoming Ranbir Kapoor – Priyanka Chopra starrer Anjaana Anjaani arrives with yet another winning peppy soundtrack by the duo of music-cool Vishal-Shekhar. After the successful music of I Hate Luv Storys the team of Vishal-Shekhar prove once again that they know how to appeal to the youth with fresh sounds, fresher voices, and music that guarantees to be in the charts for a while.

The title track of the album comes in two incarnations. The first – the one doing the rounds in the promos – called Anjaana Anjaani Ki Kahaani, is destined to be popular in the clubs. It has a thumping beat with fresh vocals by Nikhil D’Souza and Monali Thakur.  It has a very catchy chorus, which is bound to be big with the youngsters, and sets the tone for the rest of the album. The second version comes later in the album. Simply titled Anjaana Anjaani and sung by Vishal Dadlani and Shilpa Rao, it’s the “sad” version with a slower, more melodious tune and a soft rock feel to it. It’s obviously meant for a different mood in the film but fails to leave much of an impression.

Lucky Ali helms Hairat, a song that’s quickly climbing the charts helped by a hip road-trip promo. It’s heavy on electric guitar and drums and has hints of Aahista Aahista from Bachna Ae Haseeno, mostly because of the way Ali sounds. The weakest song in the album is probably I Feel Good. Sung by Vishal Dadlani and Shilpa Rao, it sounds the most ordinary compared to the other very refreshing tracks in this album.

The three best tracks here, in my opinion, are Aas Paas Khuda, Tumse Hi Tumse, and Tujhe Bhula Diya. Sung by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, Aas Paas Khuda is a love ballad with a rock feel to it. Khan’s qawwali-esque voice with the rock beats work very well and leaves a strong emotional impact. Tumse Hi Tumse is a charming number with a youthful innocence to it. Shekhar Ravjiani’s voice brings a playful bounce to the track accompanied by English interludes by Caralisa Monteiro. Tujhe Bhula Diya has an opening that makes it instantly addictive. Shruti Pathak soulfully croons a verse in Punjabi to the sound of a guitar being softly plucked in the background. Then Mohit Chauhan enters singing about heartbreak and loneliness. Though it’s a sad song, it has a scintillating mix of melody and Pathak’s Punjabi verse with interludes of qawwali sung by Shekhar Ravjiani. Definitely a very fresh angle to the quintessential “sad song” that each Hindi love story must have.

Overall, Vishal-Shekhar’s Anjaana Anjaani is just what you expect from the duo – hip, refreshing sounds, appealing to their target audience, and just enjoyable music. They’re quite the reliable team. Check this one out for sure.

Robot

How does a robot serenading Aishwarya Rai Bachchan compliment her beauty? He asks how many neutrons and electrons are in those blue eyes, of course! Yes, A.R.Rahman is back with a soundtrack only he can put together – he invents words, makes physics romantic, and brings his signature fusion music to a full-on South Indian sci-fi flick. The film – starring Rajnikanth with Mrs. Rai Bachchan – is releasing in Tamil and Telegu as Endhiran and in Hindi as Robot. This review is only for the Hindi version of the soundtrack.

It takes a while for Rahman tracks to grow on the listener. After all, he experiments fearlessly, something that isn’t always appreciated immediately. With Robot, there are hints of his trademark experimentation but there’s also a sense of the ordinary with most of the tracks. The album starts with O Naye Insaan, which has a very ominous feel to it. Sung by Srinivas D and Khatija Rahman (yup, Rahman’s daughter), it’s a song dedicated to the robot. It’s the kind of song that will probably sound better with visuals. Srinivas lends a very dominant voice to it while Khatija sounds sweet. The next song is Pagal Anukan (Pyaara Tera Gussa Bhi), the one with the romantic scientific lingo. Despite its odd lyrics – which I guess are fitting for a film about a robot – this song works pretty well. Mohit Chauhan makes the words “neutron” and “electron” sound quite sensual while Shreya Goshal complements him well.

Rahman makes his vocal presence in Naina Mile, accompanied by Suzanne and Kash ‘N’ Krissy. Designed as a romantic dance number, it falls prey to heavy synthesizing, making the song sound rather plain. Arima Arima brings the voices of Hariharan and Sadhana Sargam back after a long time. It’s the trademark grand song that every Rahman album needs, with trumpets and everything. The best song of the album is Kilimanjaro. Yes, it’s titled after a mountain but Javed Ali and Chinmayi , along with the most diverse musical arrangement of the lot, make this the most peppy and likeable song.

The two “theme” tracks  – Chitti Dance Showcase and Boom Boom Robo Da – require you to really get into the mood of the film, which will probably happen after the film comes out. Chitti Dance Showcase seems uneven in its tempo – it fluctuates between slow and fast beats, hyper drums and mellow strings, that don’t quite gel well together. Boom Boom Robo Da is a track that really needs visuals to make it appealing. The song mentions everyone from Newton to Einstein to describe this Rajnikanth-shaped robot and really begs for some Shankar-esque special effects to make it come to life.

Rahman, as the regular composer for all of Shankar’s films, has delivered truly quirky songs for all these films, including some that have become chartbusters (who can forget Shakalaka Baby from Nayak?).  With Robot, however, Rahman doesn’t deliver that same punch. It’s a quirky soundtrack for sure, but it fails to jump out at the listener as another high-profile collaboration between Shankar and Rahman. Even though it’s tailored towards a sci-fi theme, the songs often end up with very similar sounds to one another. Rahman excels at assembling the most diverse array of singers, but unfortunately it’s not his most inspired soundtrack and will probably make much more sense once the film comes out.

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