Bit of a sad article this one, spurred on by a certain person's love of Justin Bieber, who shall unnamed. One thing that I've noticed is that humanity, its actually funny to refer to all people that way because it almost seems to give the feeling that humanity is united, tends never to be together in things. A bit clumsily phrased, but let me give an example that hopefully will iluustrate the point. In India, there was a man called Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, otherwise known as 'Mahatma' Gandhi, the father of the nation, who delivered us from colonial subjugation by starving himself. However, there are people in india, that let alone praise him, actively hate him and his contribution to India. My point is that, has/is/will there ever be/been a time where the voice of 'humanity' has spoken one message, if a person's contribution as great as Gandhiji's to India, is not universally recognised in India, then it would seem no..
However, there has been one thing that seems to have constantly drawn people together, no matter what caste or creed. Hatred. Particular examples include Taylor Lautner, Robert Pattinson, Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrus, Paris Hilton, anyone whose won X-Factor. Sure, one could definitely argue that these people have their fans, Twihards and all. However, one gets the feeling that the 'haters' don't actually know anything personal, about the celebrity, they just hate the attention they get. Before Robert Pattinson became R-Patz, he was a perfectly respectable English actor, who had a small role in one of the Harry Potter movies. I really would like to know why people hate them? Or indeed why people love them?. Do the fangirls screaming for the Twilight cast, or frantically texting into X-Factor, actually appreciate the craft of the person, are they grouping for the feel of being surrounded by people doing the exact same thing, or are they attracted to broad shoulders and a handsome face?
To sum up, you might say, that people are too diverse to come together, come from too many different backgrounds, have different cultures, customs and strictures to ever come to agreement. Nevertheless, most people still talk of certain things being intrinsically bad, Unforgivable. Things that are universally good, that everyone would agree on, do they exist? My last question. Is is easier to judge than to appreciate?
Monday, 22 March 2010
Friday, 8 January 2010
It was finally over....
It was finally over, a lifetime of longing, of waiting, of slavering for this one thing. This one statuette chronicled the story of his lifetime. Sacrifice, Sweat, Blood and Tears had gone in to this endeavour. He got up, out of his seat, hugged his producers, no wife of course, hard to be in a romance when you were married to a dream.
He thought of his blessed mother and father, his college girlfriend, his colleagues in Engineering that had gone to do great things, earn money, buy cars, own houses, the whole shooting match. How many times had he doubted himself over the years? How many people had told him, stop chasing this dream, go and get a real job, get married, get settled.
As he stood and made that last golden walk to the podium, his life seemed to flash before his eyes, he saw himself as a graduate scribbling away at pieces of paper in between math lectures, and chemistry lab sessions. Staying up at night, drinking espressos, writing, editing, changing, striving for perfection. His mother had come to see him once, when he was living in and around uni. Had taken one look at him, his room, his unshaven beard, his unkempt hair, the takeout boxes sprinkled around the room, and then had done something he still hadn't forgotten even now. Silently, and without reproach, she cleaned up his room for him, taken him away from his computer, given him his best meal in months, given him some money for clothes and such, as well as giving him a letter that his father written for him. She then left, as unceremoniously as she came after hugging him.
As he got presented with the award, he grasped inside his jacket, and withdraw that slip of paper that his father written for him.
"Thank you, first, Thank you so much but I'm afraid I'm going to read from a speech, since I'm not as verbose as my venerable American colleagues. My father wrote this for me, a long time ago, and I would like to say it now."
He looked down, at that withered piece of paper, and repeated those words, that had kept him going throughout the years, whenever he had doubted himself.
"Dear Rahul, remember this, your parents believe in you and in everything your doing, Love Papa. Ladies and Gentlemen, if I am here, it is my parents' blessings that have brought me here. Thank you"
He looked down at the best director Academy Award, Oscar, the one statuette that chronicled a dream that had encircled his lifetime
A dream that seemed to have come true.
He thought of his blessed mother and father, his college girlfriend, his colleagues in Engineering that had gone to do great things, earn money, buy cars, own houses, the whole shooting match. How many times had he doubted himself over the years? How many people had told him, stop chasing this dream, go and get a real job, get married, get settled.
As he stood and made that last golden walk to the podium, his life seemed to flash before his eyes, he saw himself as a graduate scribbling away at pieces of paper in between math lectures, and chemistry lab sessions. Staying up at night, drinking espressos, writing, editing, changing, striving for perfection. His mother had come to see him once, when he was living in and around uni. Had taken one look at him, his room, his unshaven beard, his unkempt hair, the takeout boxes sprinkled around the room, and then had done something he still hadn't forgotten even now. Silently, and without reproach, she cleaned up his room for him, taken him away from his computer, given him his best meal in months, given him some money for clothes and such, as well as giving him a letter that his father written for him. She then left, as unceremoniously as she came after hugging him.
As he got presented with the award, he grasped inside his jacket, and withdraw that slip of paper that his father written for him.
"Thank you, first, Thank you so much but I'm afraid I'm going to read from a speech, since I'm not as verbose as my venerable American colleagues. My father wrote this for me, a long time ago, and I would like to say it now."
He looked down, at that withered piece of paper, and repeated those words, that had kept him going throughout the years, whenever he had doubted himself.
"Dear Rahul, remember this, your parents believe in you and in everything your doing, Love Papa. Ladies and Gentlemen, if I am here, it is my parents' blessings that have brought me here. Thank you"
He looked down at the best director Academy Award, Oscar, the one statuette that chronicled a dream that had encircled his lifetime
A dream that seemed to have come true.
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