Souvenirs from the lasting braces..

# The first day of 2012 was just another day, and not surprisingly, the ones that followed suit replicated the former. Phew! It’s so agonisingly hard to believe that things would venom upon its itself and alter to take a shape of fervour goodness. I trust and always have, that I, as human, cannot remain indispensable for the most of what this planet subscribes to.

# I came across couple of invigorating and sparsely written articles that count amongst the finest of 2012, as equations stand today. A flashback like endorsement for the inimitable Mohd Rafi was not always required, but at times, to rekindle the past could be of such palatial pleasures. I loved every frame and revived the golden era of playback rendition.

‘Unsexing Marilyn Monroe’ was an astonishing document of unravelling facts. Her mystique, stunning beauty and the blatant controversies have intrigued me for long, and this was worth a sublime read.

Scanned many others, but significantly, few could grasp my attention with trance.

# Indian cricket’s dark moments have loomed large since the whitewash in Thame waters, and the annihilation down under has only reinforced the tame truth: this playing eleven might not be capable enough to win a 5-day battle overseas. Failures are apart of this mercurial game, yet the manner in which the most vaunted brigade has faltered in the last 7 duels in the 22 strip has to be a lot more than mere coincidence. I am shocked at our gameplay, and I am not ready to point fingers at one entity. Neither am I terse to proclaim disaster by relegating few legends of the game to tatters. Yet, BCCI has to bridgett much more than minting frivolous cash out of the celebrated IPL and gorge some focus on the fundamentals of a playing eleven which has forgotten to essay its role in the longer and authentic version of the game, which for me, still breathes test cricket as oxygen.

# Ah! Films quote statements. And trademarks slide away for such notes. Couple of Tamil films impressed me and watched ‘Nanban’ with dialysis of the known. Guy Ritchie’s ‘Sherlock Holmes’ was a visual stunner and Rohit Dhawan continued his father’s legacy with a dud-dish ‘Desi Boyz’ which was a poor rehash sans Chitrangada Singh (I have got used to the leggy Padukone now ;)) who stole the squib show with élan.

Not quite impressive but then you can expect me to have rugged weeks with less pomp.

Not wonders, but hoping for the next few weeks to embrace with perfidious nonchalance. Again, I chose restraint while over-boarding appears vicious.

Published by lifeoholic

Flamboyance meets me, and I could be contagiously luring. It kind of comes off in my writing, as my stories of passion and indulgence unfold.

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