The Quiet Poetry of Unintended Art: On Cinema and the Soul’s Subtle Nourishment

— A meditation on the inexplicable grace of film and its kinship with the quiet verse of everyday life.

I have often thought that life, in all its splendour, is also remarkably absurd—a curious range of seemingly aimless episodes, where our words vanish almost as swiftly as they are uttered. And yet, amid the jests and trifles, the endless he-said-she-said of human discourse, something strangely beautiful occurs: we compose a kind of poetry. Not the sort penned with deliberation, but a spontaneous, living verse born of unguarded moments. If we resist the urge to scrutinise it too fiercely—if we let it settle into the soul like sunlight on still water—this poetry begins to shape the very rhythm of our days.

This sensation, overwhelming though it is, finds its closest echo for me in cinema. Whether foolish or profound, poetic or prosaic, true or illusory—films speak a language understood not by the mind alone, but by the heart and the senses alike. We do not merely watch them; we breathe them in, chew them over, savour their essence. And when rightly absorbed, they nourish us—imparting not only fashions and moods, but something akin to well-being, even a quiet joy that clings to the spirit like a fragrance long after the final frame has faded.

A House Once Glorious: Remembering Yash Raj and the Slow Return of Grace

— A personal reckoning with disillusionment and the cautious rekindling of trust in a faltering cinematic legacy.

I cannot now recall the last occasion on which I watched a film bearing the venerable insignia of Yash Raj Films. This absence was not born of any quarrel with the house itself—for what could one hold against a name that once conjured such splendour? Rather, it was sorrow, not scorn, that kept me away—a quiet disenchantment with the direction the studio had taken. What had once been a mausoleum of storytelling, painstakingly built brick-by-brick under the discerning eye of Yash uncle and his noble companions, seemed now adrift—its legacy bruised by unwise commerce and the eager but fumbling hands of a younger generation.

When their grand spectacles—laden with stars and noise—began to stumble and fall like overfed giants, there came, almost miraculously, a film called Chak De. I did not see it, and yet I noticed it. Not because of the ever-bankable presence of Shahrukh Khan, but because, by all accounts, here at last was a film where the story—not the stardust—held the reins. Content, they said, was king. I believed them, and that belief felt like the faint pulse of a studio remembering its soul.

When Fanaa was in the making, I took note—for Ravi K. Chandran, a cherished friend, was behind the lens, and Aamir Khan, whose family I have known with long affection, played the lead. And yet I stayed away. There was something missing—an indescribable vigour, a heartbeat I could not hear.

Then came Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi, and though again Ravi lent his gifted eye to the project, and though it marked the debut of Anushka Sharma—a young lady from my own city of Bangalore who had, by happy coincidence, modelled for some dear friends in fashion—it still left me unmoved. The glimpses I caught on television seemed hollow, like an echo of a song once lovely but now too often sung.

And so time slipped by, as it always does, with quiet indifference. Then, just last week, in one of those aimless hours when one neither thinks nor dreams with purpose, I found myself perusing the current cinema listings. Amidst the gaudy posters and forgettable titles, one image caught my eye—Band Baaja Baaraat. I knew nothing of it. I had seen no preview, read no review. Yet something in its posture—unguarded, almost cheerful—drew me in. And so, without expectation or reason, I resolved to see it.

The Arrival of an Uncut Gem: Ranveer Singh and the Restoration of Sincerity

— A tribute to the rare authenticity of a debut performance, and the hope it offers to a weary industry.

With no expectation save the mild curiosity awakened by a well-designed poster, I found myself seated in the dim hush of the cinema, awaiting what I presumed would be a passable diversion. But scarcely had the opening credits faded and the narrative begun to unfurl, when I beheld for the first time the countenance of Ranveer Singh. And in that moment, I knew—with the kind of quiet certainty one rarely experiences—that I would remain with this film to its very end.

For here was no mere performer straining to impress. No, Ranveer’s presence was of a different order: one felt an immediate and effervescent euphoria, not shouted but shared, as though he had stumbled upon the art of touching hearts without ever seeming to try. His energy was not the exhausting sort, but a buoyant current, tempered with an innocence rare and a dignity rarer still. It struck me, as I watched, that such a quality had long been absent from our screens—perhaps forgotten altogether in an age increasingly enamoured with spectacle and artifice.

As the story wove on, my admiration deepened. The lad carried his role with such ease, such intuitive grace, that one might be tempted to forget the labour behind the craft. I thought to myself, If only he resists the glittering temptation to ascend too swiftly by way of those directors whose reputations are large, but whose works are hollow… For in our times, it is all too easy to confuse fame with mastery, and many a fine talent has been spent in service of mediocrity disguised as vision.

If he remains unswerving—if he chooses scripts that stretch rather than flatter him, and continues to refine the subtle sensitivity already evident in his art—then I do not believe he will falter. He may stumble, yes, as all men do when treading uncertain ground. But fall? I think not.

The very next day, I came upon a report in the newspaper which told me that young Ranveer had publicly expressed his gratitude to the filmmakers for entrusting him with the role, acknowledging the risk they had taken in casting an unknown. But I must confess, my thoughts ran quite the other way. It is not Ranveer who owes thanks to Yash Raj Films, but they who ought to thank him. For in his performance, they found not only the beating heart of Band Baaja Baaraat, but a long-overdue revival of their own reputation—a resurrection, if you will, from a season of lacklustre offerings.

Indeed, fortune smiled on both: on Ranveer, for being placed in a role no one—save perhaps a Shahid Kapur—could have honoured so convincingly; and on YRF, for having found in him an uncut gem who has, by sheer authenticity, restored to them a measure of lost glory.

Of Restraint and Radiance: Anushka Sharma and the Grace of Simplicity

— A reflection on quiet strength, natural talent, and the virtue of not seeking more than one is.

As I have previously confessed, I hold a quiet fondness for Anushka Sharma—one that stems not merely from her roots in my own city, but from her auspicious debut in a film captured by the discerning lens of my friend, Ravi K. Chandran. It is true, I have not followed her career with any particular diligence since then, and yet, Band Baaja Baaraat has made something plain to me: when rightly cast and sensitively directed, she reveals herself as an actress of genuine substance.

There is no denying the charm of her presence—she occupies the screen with a confidence that neither demands nor pleads for attention, but earns it by the quiet force of authenticity. What is most striking, perhaps, is her restraint: she does not fall prey to the theatrical excesses that often mar the performances of the inexperienced. One senses that she understands—perhaps instinctively—that her natural self is already a gift well worth offering. She does not embellish what needs no ornament.

From this point onward, I shall be watching with interest, and with hope. My wish for her is simple: that she may be granted not merely roles, but worthy roles—those that speak to her vision of herself and stretch the fine thread of her talent without fraying it. For she has already shown that she can deliver what is required; she now deserves the opportunity to deliver what is great.

Craft over Clatter: On Directorial Integrity and the Return of Honest Storytelling

— An appreciation of the film’s creators, their restraint, and the quiet truths embedded in their work.

As for the director, young Maneesh Sharma reveals himself to be a craftsman of no small ability. His touch is confident, his choices largely wise, and—most refreshing of all—he resists the garish indulgences that have become habitual within the Yash Raj fold. Gone, mercifully, are the improbable dream sequences set in alien landscapes more suited to travel brochures than human drama. In their place, we are given something far more precious: a story that breathes the air of its own soil, and a world that feels not manufactured but inhabited.

The screenplay by Habib Faisal does not dazzle with ornament, but it moves with purpose, taking us precisely where it intends. In its unassuming stride, it teaches—though never preaches—lessons not only of love, but of that rarer and nobler virtue: fellowship. It is a quiet truth, often neglected in tales of romance, that the greatest wonders are worked not by grand gestures alone, but in the steady labour of those whose souls are attuned to one another. This film remembers that, and honours it.

The music, too, deserves its applause. There is a vigour in the compositions—a liveliness not contrived but contagious. That the songs are bound closely to the plot gives them an integrity often missing in such fare. They belong, not as adornments, but as chapters in the story’s own rhythm.

I must, however, speak plainly of a moment where the film falters. The rupture between the two protagonists—Ranveer and Anushka—is portrayed with a kind of dramatic excess that strains belief. Now, I concede: human beings, when injured in matters of the heart, do not always behave nobly or even logically. But there is a line between the trivial and the petty, and here, I fear, the characters—having built something with mutual respect and effort—regress too sharply into the pettiness of petulant children. Their behaviour, so out of tune with the maturity they had hitherto displayed, pulled me momentarily from the world the film had so carefully constructed.

Yet despite this blemish, the film retains a quality too often lacking: freshness. The premise, though faintly reminiscent of The Wedding Planner, stands on its own with grace. The film draws from familiar wells, yes, but manages still to quench. There is a delicacy in the execution—a gentleness with which the story is handled—that made me forgive its reliance on certain time-worn tropes.

One moment, in particular, I found both delightful and quietly profound: the subtle satire on celebrity culture, and the unvarnished truth of how great stars descend upon weddings for a fee, like heavenly bodies hired for the evening. The scene in which Ranveer persuades a bride that the real star of her wedding is not a film idol but the man who has chosen to love her is, I think, a moment of quiet brilliance. For in it lies a deeper truth: that no glory, however loud, can outshine the quiet radiance of genuine affection. We need not wait for a Shahrukh Khan to bestow grace upon our lives; we need only open our eyes to the everyday beloved, and recognise the wonder already at hand.

Of Intimacy, Language, and the Courage to Be True

— A contemplation on evolving femininity, emotional nuance, and the quiet rebellion of being natural in a world of deception.

There were, I must add, certain subtleties within the film that struck me as both refreshing and admirably honest. Chief among them was the portrayal of a young woman who does not retreat into shame or self-reproach for having expressed her desire physically. There is no hollow drama here, no overwrought moralising—only a quiet, sincere rendering of a moment shared between two people who, in that instant, are simply human.

What followed—those immediate, inarticulate tremors of confusion and consequence—was, I felt, handled with remarkable finesse. The film captures with rare precision how the subconscious, that hidden architect of our emotions, silently infiltrates the conscious mind. A subtle shift in language—from tu to tum—becomes a symbol of distance and delicacy, of intimacy altered by awareness. Such a small detail, and yet so telling; for often in love, it is not what is said, but how it is said, that tells us whether we are drawing nearer or drifting away.

It is also noteworthy how the film reflects the quiet evolution of society—how women, in particular, are increasingly at ease with their agency, even in matters that once bore a cloak of secrecy or shame. The dignity with which this shift is portrayed speaks well of the filmmakers, and gives the audience a chance to reflect without being instructed.

And now, if I may turn to a different, more corporeal observation: I have noticed a curious trend of late in our cinema—the pursuit of an almost androgynous aesthetic among leading men, as if masculinity were something to be polished away. One sees them waxed and gleaming, as though sculpted not by nature but by the same pretence that prepares a showroom dummy. Ranveer Singh, to his quiet credit, has resisted this tide. Though he bears a physique that might tempt any man toward vanity, he preserves a look that is unmanufactured, a body that still belongs to the species that builds, breaks, and bleeds.

It may seem a trivial point, and yet I would argue it is not. There is something noble in allowing men to look like men and women to look like women, not by rigid standards, but by the unspoken dignity of being true to one’s own form. For in a world ever blurring its lines, there is still room—indeed, a need—for distinction. And in this, Ranveer earns one more mark of quiet praise.

A Plea for Imagination: On Legacy, Gratitude, and the Courage to Choose Wisely

— A final exhortation to preserve creative integrity and remember the wellspring from which true storytelling flows.

In conclusion, it is my earnest hope that Aditya Chopra (Adi, as we call him)—and those who presently preside over the creative destiny of Yash Raj Films—will not allow the triumph of this particular work to dull the edge of their imagination. Success, though a sweet thing, is a dangerous counsellor. It often tempts its recipients to repetition rather than innovation, and in doing so, places at risk the very sparkle that won the victory in the first place. May they not fall into the weary habit of casting actors according to convenience or commercial certainty, thereby imperilling the very lives they have so carefully and providentially set into motion on the screen.

In green-lighting this screenplay, YRF have offered a quiet assurance to their audience—that they have, at last, begun to learn from the missteps of the past and are finding their way, however tentatively, back to the road of creative integrity. It is a hopeful sign. I recall with affection how Adi once gave my friend, Jimmy Sheirgill, a fine platform in Mohabbatein, allowing a sincere talent to be seen and heard. And now, with this film, he has done something perhaps more urgent: he has given us Ranveer—a necessary breath of fresh air in a cinematic world stifled by dynastic surnames and the dull entitlement they too often carry.

For too long now, we have watched a parade of the well-connected and ill-prepared walk across our screens with no understanding of the craft they pretend to possess. They are given opportunity upon opportunity, as if inheritance were a substitute for insight. In contrast, here is a young man who possesses not only energy but humility, not only talent but the willingness to shape it. For bringing such a one to light, Adi deserves, not flattery, but thanks.

And should he, in future days, find himself again uncertain of what stories to tell or whom to trust in the telling of them, I would simply say: do not look too far, dear Adi. Knock gently upon the door of Yash Uncle’s legacy—the wisdom is there, waiting. And if you listen closely, I believe you will not go wrong.

One does not require the paraphernalia so industriously marketed by modern science to liberate the soul from the clutches of a cigarette—be it the sleek electronic vaporiser masquerading as a lesser evil, the patch that promises deliverance by degrees, or even the solemn circles of Nicotine Anonymous where testimonies echo with well-intentioned despair. Nor is one likely to find redemption in the morbid gallery of images plastered upon cigarette packs—those ghastly portraits of decay meant to evoke fear, yet rarely touching the heart with conviction. All these, though perhaps fashioned with good intent, remain but external instruments—mere scaffolding erected around a problem whose root lies deeper within.

No, the truth—plain, unfashionable, and rarely spoken in the antiseptic halls of public health—is this: what a man truly needs, if he is ever to break the chains of such an enslaving habit, is not a product or a program, but a person. Not merely anyone, and certainly not one of those shallow infatuations which we so easily mistake for love, but someone whom he truly, unwaveringly, and self-forgetfully loves. Someone before whom all pretence falls away, whose well-being is dearer to him than his own fleeting comfort or momentary pleasure. It is in such a relationship—authentic, luminous, and profoundly human—that the desire to smoke withers not by command, but by choice.

For when such a one—this beloved soul—looks into your eyes, not with condemnation but with earnest care, and asks you to stop—to truly stop—you will find that the ember’s allure fades into ash. The hand which once reached for the lighter now trembles with a new resolve. Not out of guilt, nor even fear, but out of love—a love that sees beyond the smoke to the life it wishes to preserve.

And in that moment, without drama or spectacle, the real miracle happens. You do not quit for your health, or your lungs, or your wallet. You quit because someone matters more. And that, my darlings, is a far more potent medicine than any patch or pill could ever hope to be.

Do not be beguiled by this man’s gentle countenance; there lies in him, coiled beneath that composed exterior, the strength and ferocity of a dozen beasts. Indeed, to train under him is to contend not with one lion, but with the whole pride. I discovered this firsthand today in what I must call my initiation at his hands—a personal training session that could well have passed for a trial by fire.

And yet, paradoxically, it is in such a one—so fierce in discipline—that I have found the rarest of friends. Merv is not merely a master of physical form but a craftsman of character, and more—he is that once-in-a-lifetime sort of soul, the kind that one stumbles upon not in crowds, but in the quiet providences of fate. Genuine to the core, he is a man of whom it might be said, “Here walks one in whom there is no guile.”

The training he subjected me to was intense, no doubt, but carried out with a meticulous purpose. I could feel that he was studying the contours of my ability, not to boast of his own, but to tailor a regimen that would, in time, sculpt my body as one sculpts stone—with patience and vision. Somewhere in the midst of that trial, however, I began to falter. My lips turned dry, my head began to reel, and the world tilted as if on a drunken axis. I, who rarely betray weakness to the weights, felt undone.

But before I could speak or even raise a hand in protest, Merv—who reads distress like a connoisseur reads wine—had me seated and vanished. Moments later he returned, not with some concoction of powders or pills, but with the humble, life-giving banana, which he insisted I eat at once. Only afterward did he explain that what I had suffered was not due to weakness of will or muscle, but to a deficiency far more subtle and insidious: lack of sleep.

He spoke with the conviction of one who knows, not merely from books but from the school of experience, that sleep is not a luxury, but a law of nature, as intrinsic to human flourishing as breath itself. Modern science affirms what ancient wisdom intuited: the mind deprived of sleep begins to falter in judgment, lose emotional equilibrium, and erode its memory’s shores like waves do to cliffs. Sleep, in its silent ministry, restores the body’s tissues, consolidates learning, regulates metabolism, balances hormones, and shores up the immune system like a fortress against unseen foes.

Psychologically, sleep is the balm that soothes our inner tempest. Without it, anxiety sharpens its claws, depression creeps through the cracks, and even our social graces diminish. We become less capable of empathy, less able to distinguish friend from foe, intention from accident. The prefrontal cortex, seat of reason, yields to the primal brain, and we are driven more by impulse than insight.

As Merv gently rebuked me, he used a metaphor that lingers in my mind still: “Even a machine must be turned off to avoid overheating. A radiator, if left uncooled, begins to smoke. So too the human frame—body and soul—demands rest, else it unravels.”

To you, Merv—my brother in sweat and wisdom—thank you. Not merely for the punishing drills or your quiet acts of care, but for being a man whose presence reminds one that discipline and compassion are not rivals but partners. I promise to rise to the level of effort you are willing to pour into me—not only because it is your vocation, but because it is your nature to give so wholly. You are, indeed, the sort of friend one rarely finds outside the pages of stories.