Revenge is Sweet, With Extra Sugar!

Mumbai, India. A seventeen-year-old boy stands alone with both hands in his trouser pockets watching the countless trains passing through the platform at Grant Road Station. Suddenly, he pulls out a pistol from his pocket and starts firing at random. Nobody is killed, but five men and one child are seriously injured. Miraculously, the boy manages to escape!

_____

Grant Road Police Station. A police constable wipes the sweat off his forehead with an old rag of a handkerchief. It is a sultry May afternoon and the electricity at the station is down due to some repair work.

“What motive could he possibly have?” a senior inspector demands of the overweight constable.

“God knows. Must have been mentally disturbed or must have failed his SSC exams,” the constable replies unwittingly. “Should we question the juice vendors at the station one more time?”

“Get out! You’re rubbish! Bloody useless! Don’t bother me now I have to talk to Chief sahib about a new AC for this godforsaken office!”

____

Colaba Causeway. A Portuguese tourist is handing over a five-hundred-rupee note to a shopkeeper having just purchased a set of Buddha statues for four-hundred rupees. It is a typical summer afternoon and sweat pours down his tanned skin and causes his thick braided hair to stick to his skin. As he reaches out to collect his change of a hundred rupees, a bullet hits his right arm and he falls to the floor with a shriek of pain. The boy strikes again. This time, he had a target in mind.

_____

I hate to be rude, but I would kill you too if you disrespected my parents. My father worked at Grant Road station as a ticket-collector and he was mugged by a group of unruly travelers. Not only did they steal his wallet and cell phone but they also physically assaulted him leaving him visually impaired. My mother was killed in Goa by a drunken Portuguese tourist who stabbed her after he was ‘dissatisfied’ by the massage she gave him at the five-star-deluxe hotel where she worked. I know those travelers who I shot at weren’t the same ones who attacked Papa nor was that Portuguese tourist with long braided hair the same one who assaulted Mamma but to be honest, I don’t care. These people ruined my family forever! My father cannot work anymore and my little sister lives in a permanent state of shock and fear and is unable to leave our miniature apartment. What did we do to deserve this? Nothing. Thank God for Chote Vijay who managed to steal his uncle’s pistol for my Cause. I’m glad I did what I did. Nothing and nobody can help me get over this pain, this suffering. I am going to jump into the Arabian Sea now with no regrets. Maybe the fish will devour me? Maybe they'll find me too bitter from pain, who knows? Life, to me, is now meaningless! I lost everything. But revenge really is, so sweet. Goodbye friends.

_____

Although the air-conditioner has been successfully installed, the Police Station is as sultry as ever due to poor power supply. Senior Inspector Raakesh Kumar Savant angrily kills a mosquito with the folded set of newspapers he holds in his right hand before opening up the bundle and frowning at the front page. ‘Mentally Disturbed Boy Jumps Into Arabian Sea; Onlookers Shocked.’ The news article further went on to explain that the recovered body matched the description of the elusive ‘Boy Criminal’ who had caused havoc at Grant Road Station and Colaba Causeway. The journalist went on to speculate that the unidentified youth could have possibly failed the SSC exams, the results of which had been declared a week earlier. The Senior Inspector felt sick.

“tsk tsk tsk tsk......kya hoga es desh ka?” he wonders aloud. What will become of this godforsaken country?

His sour mood is dampened further by the arrival of that overweight constable, Anand Singh, whose face is notably glowing with pride beneath a layer of perspiration. 

“What did I suspect, sahib?” he says, nodding his pudgy head towards the newspaper in the Senior Inspector’s hand. “Failure tha ya paagal tha! Saala!” He was either a failure or a gone case, I knew it! That scumbag!

“Get out!” the red-faced Inspector hollered. “And tell that fool Raju to send in my tea! Extra sugar!”

_____

Isn't it strange how quickly the world jumps to conclusions? Most of us believe everything we read and hear in the print and visual media as if God Himself is sending down revelation through His angels. Have you ever stopped and questioned, "Hey, wait. Maybe there's another side to this story! Maybe the guy who they make out to be the 'bad guy' actually isn't so bad?" I'm not necessarily talking about the little story above, the kid's a lunatic for doing what he did, I'm questioning in a more general sense- There Are Two Sides To Evey Coin and the same can be said of world affairs. Just maybe, we're the ones being brainwashed by our television sets? Think about it. Leave a comment below with your opinion. 

"Room service, sir." An original short story.

His hands felt numb and his face seemed unusually pale as he rubbed aftershave against his skin. Everything around him seemed unreal, virtual almost. As if I'm a character in one of my novels, he thought. An eerie silence enveloped the bathroom. He had started to defog the mirror when he was interrupted by a sudden sound from the outside, a sharp knock at his door. "Room service, sir."

The events of the past two decades still seemed so clear...

Armand Blanc was widely regarded as one of the most influential writers in contemporary French literature. His books had been translated into twenty-three different languages. However, he had received greater acclaim for his work as a philanthropist rather than an author over the past two decades. It started with fighting AIDS in Africa, where Blanc pocketed a smooth seven million dollars in four years. Once the nouveau riche's pity for the Dark Continent had been exhausted, Blanc swiftly moved on to India, battling with God as he helped rehabilitate victims of floods, droughts and earthquakes- leading to another discreet deposit of four million dollars into an ultra-private bank account in Zurich. A year dealing with drug lords in Mexico and six months helping tsunami victims in Asia ensured Blanc's reputation as a humanitarian hero! What the world didn’t know was that only a fraction of the wealth which Blanc used his goodwill as a renowned author to amass from billionaires all over the world actually reached hungry African children and poor displaced families in Bangladesh. The Armand Blanc Foundation (ABF) was actually a criminal organisation, coy and devious behind the facade of charity. ABF bought the silence of local non-governmental aid organisations in order to carry out some of the largest financial scams in human history! Unrecorded and undetected, obviously.

As he entered his suite's bedroom, he noticed that the tuxedo he was meant to wear at the ceremony that night was neatly ironed and placed on his bed. Criminals don't deserve five-star service, he thought, angrily. They definitely don't deserve the Nobel Peace Prize! He walked out of the bedroom in disgust intending to pour for himself a glass of wine from the Ritz’s well-stocked mini-bar, in order to clear his head. Then he saw them. They were all over the living room. Red, white and blue, arranged like the French flag; more than fifty or so balloons accompanied flowers and gifts while a large poster hung from the wall saying Félicitations. Congratulations. Armand Blanc hated balloons. So much as the sight of them made him feel sick to the core. Angrily, he kicked and thrashed around the room, trying to destroy those evil objects of Satan. Dressed in nothing but a towel after his shower, he began to shiver uncontrollably. Unsure whether the shivering was due to the air-conditioning hitting his bare skin, or something else, he moved around uneasily, helplessly looking for a remote of some sort. A sudden seizure, followed by another rapid knock on his door preceded a loud thud as he fell heavily to the floor. Everything went black. “Room service, sir.”

-------

Flashback: Paris, 1973. A seven-year-old Armand is walking down la rue du bon espoir alongside his parents on their way to the cinema to watch La vie est belle. Life is Beautiful. Young Armand notices a vendor selling balloons across the street. A black man stands selling balloons of various colours. Armand is attracted by the man’s smile, which broadly displays his white teeth in stark contrast to his face.

“Papa, s’il vous plait. Je veux un ballon,” he asks sweetly.

“Oui, mon fils,” comes the inevitable reply. “Wait here while your mother and I cross the road and buy you one. The yellow ones look nice!”

Those were to be his father Vincent Blanc’s last words. A speeding Land Cruiser, a drunken tourist and a slow ambulance made sure of that. His wife died two days later from her injuries. Their young son Armand, stood on the sidewalk and watched in horror as his parents skulls were ripped apart in front of his eyes, his mouth wide open filled with the salty taste of tears which were now falling down his face relentlessly. The last thing Armand remembered of the day his parents died was the sight of the black vendor selling two yellow balloons to a small girl who was with her parents, wide smiles across all of their faces, as Armand was ushered into an ambulance by a paramedic.

-------

Flashback: Gaza, 2007. The sky is buzzing with armed Drones who have been in the air for hours, accompanied by Apache helicopters. Armand Blanc stands with his arms folded respectfully, waiting for the procession of bodies being carried toward the mass graveyard behind the two-storied UNICEF building. Child casualties- their homes shelled by the Israelis, the children having committed the crime of being Palestinians living in Gaza. Blanc crossed himself as a reporter clicked a photograph. Goodwill is a crucial asset, he though. My God, I’ve become a monster!

Tanvir, his local guide was walking towards him hesitantly. “Would Monsieur Blanc like to meet a survivor? A young boy has just lost his parents. His house was shelled but he was playing football outside and hid underneath the ground.”

He was sipping on a glass of water when Blanc entered the tiny room along with Tanvir, who was to be his translator. The boy’s food had remained untouched. They sat down on either side of the boy, who must have been around seven or eight. The same age I was, Blanc remembered. He awkwardly put his arm around the boy. Seeing that the boy didn’t resist, Blanc decided to break the silence.

“What is your name, son?”

Tanvir conveyed Blanc’s question to the boy, who remained silent. After a minute of silence the boy looked at Blanc steadily and asked in Arabic, “Who are you?”

“I have come here to help you. Things will be all right,” he lied.

The boy nodded his head furiously before he burst into words. “No, I am not going to be all right. My friends have all been taken; I saw them being carried away just now. My parents died shaheed. They are with Allah in paradise. Why couldn’t I go with them? Why should I be left here with you and this man and the Israelis?”

-------

“He’s awake. Give him some water immediately. Are you all right, sir?”

What am I doing? Looking around at the Ritz’s luxury suite, he started thinking. My whole life I’ve been a heartless idiot trying to deal with my parents’ death by taking advantage of others and earning shitloads of money. But what’s all of it worth? Why am I not like the Palestinian orphan? Do I not want to live forever in paradise?

“Merci,” he said, accepting a glass of sparkling water that was offered to him. “I’m sorry. I suffer from epilepsy. Inform them that I shall be ready for the ceremony shortly.”

The ceremony! The award! I can’t accept it! My whole life has been a lie. I should turn myself in immediately! Or maybe I shall confess in my acceptance speech? I could offer to donate every penny of my organisation to the Red Cross. They’ll save the orphans. Not eat off them like I did.

-------

“Mesdames et Messieurs, let us rise and welcome the winner of this year’s Nobel Peace Prize- Monsieur Armand Blanc!”

The stereophonic sound of the announcer was soon overshadowed by applause as he made his way onto the elaborate stage. Should I confess? The presentation and photographs gave him a few minutes to think of an answer to his own question. Yes, that orphan child was just one. There are thousands like him who need help. Real help. He noticed that Karoline Thompson, the beautiful American actress, was seated in the front row and he was struck by the idea of an after-party upstairs in his luxury suite. I can always call a press conference and confess later. It was time for his speech.

“What can I say?” he began. “This recognition means so much to me after years in this noble field of ours...”

-------

The guests had just begun warming to each other as the champagne started to take its effect. Karoline leaned over and kissed Blanc on the cheek. “Congratulations again,” she whispered. Suddenly, rapid thuds were heard on the door and the voice that accompanied them seemed far too impolite to match the message it conveyed. “Room service, sir.”

Blanc went to open the door, frowning. He intended to reprimand the hotel staff for their impudence, disturbing his private party, although they were probably here with more champagne.

Their well-cut suits and unyielding expressions were sufficient enough to give away the fact that the two men standing outside his door were not part of the Ritz’s payroll.

On e of them- the larger of the two, held on to Blanc’s coat firmly as if warning him not to move or make a noise.

“Interpol,” said the other, coolly displaying a shimmering silver badge from his pocket. “We are here to place you under arrest for over a thousand discrepancies which were brought to light by our investigations. Kindly follow me without uttering a word.”

The last thing Armand Blanc remembered of the day he was put under life imprisonment was the sight of fifty or so balloons- red, white and blue, being let out into a starry Paris night, as he was ushered into a police car by a lieutenant.

HRMUN Diary, 2011.

Harvard University; Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT); H.R. College of Commerce and Economics - Our College stands in truly prestigious company as it plays host to an international Model United Nations (MUN) conference on its campus. Furthermore, HRMUN is widely regarded as the second largest MUN in Asia!

Under the careful supervision of our charismatic principal Dr. Indu Shahani and a dedicated Secretariat, HRMUN was a magnificent event exemplified by its diverse group of delegates, unique committees and dedicated teams of logistics and hospitality.

For our not-so-well-informed readers who are wondering what in the world a MUN is- a Model UN Conference is an educational simulation of the actual United Nations. During a Model United Nations conference, students take on the roles of foreign diplomats and participate in a simulated session of an intergovernmental organization (IGO). It is very much a 21^st century phenomenon in India and the popularity of MUN’s, the concept, has been skyrocketing over the past few years amongst schools and colleges. Participants research a country, take on a role as a diplomat, they investigate international issues, debate, deliberate, consult, and then develop solutions to world issues. During a simulation they must employ a variety of communication and critical thinking skills to defend and advance the policies of their country.

After the tremendous success of HRMUN 2007 which attracted an impressive 350 delegates from over 40 colleges across the country, the organizers of the 2011 edition were inspired to dream bigger at the dawn of the new decade. Finally, after months of careful planning and preparation which included extensive e-mail and telephone correspondence with delegates and sponsors alike, the 13^th of January dawned upon us with a palpable air of anticipation filling the colorful corridors of the HR College. The day had finally arrived! Ensuing months of meetings which went late into the night, phone bills which dug deep into their pockets and countless hours spent researching on the internet, the members of the Secretariat looked visibly relieved on the morning of the 13^th, pleased that the mega-event was finally underway! As for the delegates, they looked keen to get on with the formalities of an opening ceremony and were eager to put their extensive research into words. Mind you, a few delegates looked visibly bored and sleep-deprived (not from hours of research, I assure you!) and they would face the consequences of the same once they entered their respective committees.

The opening ceremony, in itself, was a sight to behold. The several hundred suit-clad individuals present in the auditorium would have done any Raymond connoisseur proud. Besides them, numerous dignitaries from the consulates of various nations gave proceedings a truly international feel. After a slight delay, the chief guest, MD and Chairman of YES Bank, Mr. Rana Kapoor, was escorted onto the stage by our Principal. After the formalities of appointing the members of the Secretariat with their respective positions and opening speeches by the Secretary-Generals Rishabh Shah and Sanchit Gulabani, the audience was treated to some inspiring words by Mr. Kapoor, Dr. Shahani and the French consulate general- Mr. Francois Pujolas. This was followed by short addresses by dignitaries from USA, China, Russia, Iran, Spain and several others. As one keen onlooker aptly pointed out, “It feels like we are sitting in a session of the United Nations General Assembly here in the HR College. This is unbelievable!”

On the first day of Committee, delegates were briefed on procedure and their topic areas. Some light-hearted introductions were observed in each committee. At the end of the first day, all eyes turned to the HR Terrace for ‘Global Village’ a multicultural event meant to serve as an icebreaker for the delegates and also to spread awareness of our unity in diversity. Participants would readily vouch for the positive effect this had on all ensuing dialogue and debate. The HR Terrace was set alight by this show of dance, music and cuisine and the evening ended on an excellent note.

Day Two saw hours of heated debate and deliberation, interrupted only by the afternoon lunch break. For example, the World Bank Forum discussed the grave predicament of the world economy, the declining role of the US dollar and the possibility of a ceremony new international currency. The Human Rights Council (HRC) feverishly debated the issue of legalization of prostitution while the FIFA Committee, filled with passionate football fanatics- discussed the need for goal-line technology in the beautiful game. Similarly, each committee from the Futuristic Security Council (FSC) to the Indian Union Cabinet (IUC) dealt with their topic area in a professional manner. Even those who were participating in a MUN for the first time didn’t seem as disturbed and delusional as expected. Through all of this, a well-directed team of reporters known as the Press Corps marched through the hallways, writing articles and capturing moments worth remembering throughout the MUN. The Press serves its purpose of portraying the critical role the media plays in international affairs and also helps keep delegates on their toes (and off their cell phones!) during long sessions in Committee. They printed several issues of their newsletter ‘Six Feet Under’ which was distributed to every delegate and was arguably the heartbeat of the conference. Another highlight of the event was when the Human Rights Council was addressed by a guest speaker Mr. Robert Swan, an Englishman who had walked to both the north and the south poles and has made tremendous progress towards his aim of curbing global warming. His inspiring words left many speechless and determined to take a more active role towards attaining whatever it is they felt strongly about.

At the end of Day Three, almost every Committee had successfully passed a resolution and was left enveloped in a spirit of nostalgia reminiscent of the three eventful days spent at the HRMUN. Proceedings ended with a closing ceremony where those delegates who performed excellently were felicitated for their efforts. As one cheerful delegate said to me during the closing ceremony, having just received an award, “It has really been an excellent three days! Top class! Thanks to all of you HR organizers! By the way, when can we apply for the next HRMUN?”

NOTE: The above report was written for my college magazine, "The HR Voyager."

Keep an eye on the Blog for a couple of new short stories I've written, out soon!

Preview: Prologue to a novel I've been working on...

Prologue 

Baghdad, Iraq. October 9th 1988.
 It had never occurred to Mahmoud Zaki that the baby would actually make noise. “Ya Allah,” he thought. “Why won’t it just shut the hell up?”
 “Because he’s a baby! Babies cry, Mahmoud, you cried too when you were a baby!” his wife Sameera exclaimed.
 Mahmoud was startled by the sound of his wife’s voice. He hadn’t realised that he had been thinking aloud. He remained silent for a minute. The infant’s cries echoed around their tiny bedroom. The midwife had delivered the young boy only a few hours earlier and he wasn’t ready to sleep just yet.
“Well, maybe,” he admitted, finally. “But surely not as much as this, this is ridiculous! Its two forty-five in the morning, how does it expect us to sleep?”
The wailing child’s mother didn’t bother replying to her husband’s foolish outrage. “Shush, tefal, shhh...” she said, softly pursing her lips as she embraced the tiny infant. Like a piece of my heart, she thought. How fragile he is. She wrapped the family’s only blanket around the crying child. Her firstborn. She thought about how surprised the midwife had looked when she told her they would not be going to a hospital. Rooms at Al-Noor hospital certainly weren’t cheap. With Mahmoud having lost his job recently, there was no way they could afford to pay a doctor. Besides, Mahmoud didn’t believe in doctors. “Arrogant bastards,” he called them. “Just because they have a PhD certificate stuck up on their walls, they think they know more than the rest of us!” He would say this grudgingly and with a hint of regret in his voice. It was probably because Mahmoud had wanted to be a doctor too, in his youth. He had told her about these dreams soon after they were married. When he was a young child, he even forced his father to buy him a toy stethoscope and would wear it all day long, playing doctor to friends, family and whoever would pay him any attention. The numerous wars, poor choices and no money had meant that he could not pursue his dreams. Sameera swore, at that moment, that she was going to let her son fulfil his dreams, no matter what. She was aware that this would be difficult given their lack of resources. She knew though, that one resource definitely wouldn’t be insufficient and that was love. As she watched her baby drift into a reluctant sleep, she felt such a deep sense of affection toward those eight-pounds worth of human, more than any mother has ever loved her child before, she thought, adoringly. Such grey eyes he has. She kissed his forehead gently and said, “He deserves a name as beautiful as he is. We’ll call him Mahir.” Mahmoud grunted something in reply which Sameera understood as an approval. With that she fell asleep, with the child’s petite fingers reaching out for his mother’s nose, sound asleep now, blissfully unaware of the life that lay ahead.

 London, England. 9th October, 1988.
 The staff at the maternity wing of West London’s Royal Hospital had been eagerly anticipating this day for several weeks now and this morning, charge d’affairs Dr. Philip Montgomery confirmed that the day had finally arrived. Vivian McAlister-Jones, the pop singer, was due to give birth to her second child on this day and rumours that her footballer stroke movie-star husband Adrian McAlister had tipped each staff-member an outrageous £300 at the birth of his first child spread like wildfire around the hospital.
“He’s an eccentric man,” a dreamy-eyed nurse said, eagerly. “Who knows what he has in store for us this time?”
 At exactly 5pm, a representative of the McAlister family addressed a large crowd of reporters representing numerous national newspapers and television channels, who had gathered below the grand staircase at the entrance of the Royal Hospital. He was smartly dressed in a black pinstriped suit and a radiant ultramarine tie. His face had the look of a man greatly pleased with the responsibility bestowed upon him and he seemed keen to make the most of his time in the limelight. “It gives me immense pleasure...” he began haughtily, speaking with his face much too close to the microphone causing a static boom which automatically silenced his audience. “It gives me immense pleasure...” he continued. “To announce the birth...of a young boy, the son of Mrs. and Mr. Adrian McAlister, a healthy young child who was born earlier this afternoon.” He spoke slowly and carefully, pausing after every three or four words. “The doctors were pleased with the child’s condition... Earlier, I was delighted to congratulate the proud parents on behalf of the nation.” He cleared his throat and studied the faces of his audience.
They look hungry for information and I have it. Oh, yes. Pleased as punch, I must be looking. I wonder if I should wind ‘em up a little bit?
"Now, in response to the speculation about Mr. McAlister’s England future, he would like to convey...his deep regret at the false accusations of a rift between himself and the national coach, Mr. Bernstein. The facts are: they share a professional relationship and Mr. McAlister will be re-joining the squad for training at Ashburton Grove this Friday...after he completes the compassionate leave he was granted due to the birth of his second child.” He looked down at his notes and shuffled them about unnecessarily before continuing. “On behalf of the family, I would request the Press to respect their privacy at this joyous, yet private occasion.” He paused to adjust his tie and drink a sip of the sparkling water provided to him in a glass on his podium, looking around smugly at the gathered reporters- all the time, soaking in the atmosphere. It isn’t very often you get the eyes of the nation on you, might as well make the most of it. The standing reporters were growing impatient at the man’s peculiar behaviour and started firing questions at random.
“Get on with it!” someone shouted.
 “Is it true that they’re getting a divorce?”
“Why didn’t Mr. Bernstein answer questions regarding Adrian McAlister at yesterday’s press conference?” “Has Vivian had her nose-job yet?”
 “What’s McAlister naming the lad?”
 “Tell us the name, won’t you?”
 Lenny Brighton suddenly remembered the strict instructions he had been sent to follow. The media was starting to get out of control. Get out. Create a scene, and get out! He raised his hand in the air to call for calm and spoke once the crowd fell silent again. “Zeus” he said, finally. “Zeus McAlister is the name.” Saying this, he somewhat triumphantly turned around, climbed up the grand staircase and disappeared behind a wall of security personnel leaving behind him a thoroughly baffled group of reporters.

****** 

Inside VIP Room 101 of the Royal Hospital, Adrian McAlister and his wife Vivian were following proceedings on BBC News. Vivian said, “That was quite a performance. Lenny’s rather good at this whole PR business. You might want to consider giving him a raise.” Adrian was opening a bottle of Cuvée des Enchanteleurs, champagne specially flown in from Paris for this very occasion. He briefly took his eyes off the champagne to look at his wife before replying. “The man was just following my instructions. If anything, I should be the one commended here. The mysterious pause, the immediate exit after announcing the name ‘Zeus’. Brilliant. We ought to make the front page of The Sun, what do you think? They’ll definitely come up with an ingenious headline including the name.” “Are you absolutely certain you want to name our son Zeus?” “Absolutely. It’s perfect.” Adrian was swaying. He was drinking champagne is if it were Gatorade after a football game. “I want our boy to be unique, love. Someone special. He can be whatever the hell he wants to be. Hell, I’ll pay for it. Might as well get famous doing it. ‘The couple who gave birth to a God’. Where is the little fella anyways?” “The nurse took him away to run some routine tests. I told her to keep him for a couple of hours. I have a meeting with Anna, my new trainer. We need to start working on my figure! With the European tour coming up next month, I can’t be carrying mommy weight around with me!” “Super. Make sure Lenny arranges some gifts or some cash for the hospital staff. I’m heading out now. I’m meeting some of me old Arsenal mates down at Aura in Mayfair. See you later, love. Man, our boy is going to be a real star! I can sense it. Zeus McAlister. You lucky little bugger.”

NOTE: The story is about two people, born on the same day, in different worlds. One Mahir Zaki, born in war-torn Iraq, orphaned and poor. The other, Zeus McAlister, born in the lap of luxury. It goes on to show how sometimes, your character doesn't have to be decided by your nationality or surroundings. Its a book about dreams, terror, friendship, football and life. So far, I've written only 5 chapters, it's still very much 'Work in Progress.' Depending on the feedback the above prologue receives, I'll decide whether or not I'll post each chapter on this blog. Leave a comment on what you think of the story!

An essay I wrote on the topic "clichés."

‘500 WORDS ON CLICHES?’ I thought, as I glanced through my crumpled up Press Application form. That’s impossible. But then, Sachin Tendulkar’s squeaky voice in that Adidas ad started ringing through my head- ‘Impossible is Nothing!’ and so our journey through clichés begins.

Human beings, historically, have always felt the need to associate what they’re reading or hearing to something familiar. A cliché gives the reader an opportunity to do so. It brings an air of familiarity or recognition to a bunch of words. Using a cliché is primarily viewed in a negative sense which is not always correct. Sometimes, a cliché adds to the overall value of the article/story as it can enhance the reader’s experience.

Right now, you’re probably confused and want to know what exactly a cliché is?

Well, in simple language- a cliché is a bunch of words, an idea or a form of expression that has been grossly overused to such an extent that it has lost its original meaning, value or novelty. A cliché may not necessarily be true. It may be just a stereotype or a myth. For example, casting the ‘terrorist’ in movies as a Middle-Eastern bearded guy is cliché. The line ‘As many Chins as a Chinese phone book’ is a cliché. So you get what I mean, it differs. The word cliché can be used as both a noun as well as an adjective.

Sometimes in literature, when one great author/poet writes something, pretenders tend to copy his idea and over a period of time, it becomes a cliché. As Salvador Dali so blatantly put it, ‘The first man to compare the cheeks of a young woman to a rose was obviously a poet; the first to repeat it was obviously an idiot.’

Aside from literature, we encounter numerous clichés in our everyday lives. In college, for example, when you meet a person for the first time, the human brain consciously or unconsciously categorizes that person according to certain preconceived notions they have. It could be anything from the way someone dresses, to the way they speak or even something a trivial as their spectacles or a pair of slippers. All clichés

I was in class the other day, wearing my favorite three-fourth shorts after entering late and occupying a seat in one of the last benches. I was busy on my phone as the teacher wasn’t doing anything of real importance. Suddenly, she walks up to me- the ‘back-bencher’ and stands me up and asks me a question, with a smug expression on her face, fully expecting the ‘back bencher’ to go “I don’t know and I don’t care” and giving her a valid excuse for throwing me out of class. Unfortunately, I knew the answer. Perfectly. And even went on to correct several mistakes she made that day while teaching us Banking and Insurance. Shocking, right? A ‘back-bencher’ who is good at studies. Isn’t that the most typical thing ever in college?

Clichés teach us something quite important in life. No matter how often something is repeated, it doesn’t alter the truth. The truth stands firm, always evident. There you go, another cliché! *sighs*

From the Clutches of Corruption.

I read an article in the newspaper recently that really got me thinking. It made me think about our society, our country and our future...or rather, re-think these things.

The article was a crime report. Sushil Kothari, a wealthy South Mumbai resident, was out celebrating the birth of his child at a five-star hotel and, having had a few drinks too many, was involved in a hit-and-run case on Marine Drive. His speeding car knocked two innocent men off their scooter, killing one and leaving the other critically injured. Boom. Just like that- two children were left fatherless, a lady widowed and a family’s life was marred forever. The reason: one drunk individual’s negligence.

After hearing about this incident, a similar case a few months earlier involving Noori Haveliwala immediately springs to mind. I realised that this is just another, in a series of incidents involving the so-called ‘educated upper-class’ of our society being found guilty of sheer negligence, primarily due to the influence of intoxicants. The bit that really angered me was that Mr. Kothari was allowed to walk free the following day as his lawyers simply paid-off the police to close the case. Often, incidents like these do not even reach the press as the media are handsomely paid by the guilty rich to refrain from reporting on their crimes in order to save their reputation!

You’re probably wondering where I am going with this rant? Well, the question I’m asking you to think about is- in an age where our Prime Minister, in every national address, never fails to mention the exceedingly important role of India’s youth in shaping our future, is the youth really equipped to take India in the right direction? Or are we just a disillusioned Westernized version of our parent’s generation? The shocking murder of 16-year-old Adnan Patrawala by his own ‘friends’ is still fresh in our memories. A classic example of how a large section of our society is vulnerable, and can be driven into committing crimes by gluttony and manipulation. What strikes me as unfortunate, is how the same individuals who so eloquently talk about a better future for India and simulate world leaders and our parliament at model-UN conferences, they don’t even think twice before breaking laws and drinking, smoking and driving underage. The issues of the youth can be addressed by a greater emphasis on values from an early stage. But I guess these problems are best addressed at home, under the careful supervision of one’s parents.

The broader issue to dwell upon here is that of corruption. In my opinion, corruption is what is holding India back. Holding India back from launching itself on the world stage as a major player economically, politically and socially. The most obvious and recent example of this is the massive saga that preceded the Commonwealth Games. As spectacular as the games eventually were, the preparations had their fair share of ups and downs. It revealed to the world, that deception, bureaucracy and corruption still exists at the highest level of Indian governance.

It is evident that our troubled neighbours suffer from the same problems. The spot-fixing scandal that rocked the Pakistan cricket team’s tour of England proves that sport in the subcontinent still has a long way to go in order to free itself from the clutches of corruption. These problems lie rooted in the high illiteracy levels of our countries.
Someone once told me the issue is location-specific. “Offer Indians and Pakistanis a quick and easy way to make money and they’ll bite your hand off for it,” he said. “It is in our genes, this lazy and devious character.”
Therein lies a major problem, dismissing our country’s problems as being “in our genes” is a sign of having a callous attitude. Not only must we recognise that corruption is a part of Indian society but also we must take appropriate steps to eradicate this disease.

And how does one eradicate corruption? Is stricter law enforcement the only solution? The truth is, no matter how strict the laws are in a country- there will be criminals and the law will be broken. It is the extent of the punishment that will go a long way towards decreasing or increasing corruption. For example, if a high-profile minister is found taking bribes and he is allowed to get away with it; in the future, other ministers will take it for granted that they can easily get away with the crime and wouldn’t think twice before taking bribes. Conversely, if the minister is severely punished and made an example, others will be deterred from involving themselves in corruption.

Corruption is one of the many areas where country’s who follow the Islamic sharia law benefit a great deal. For example, it is highly unlikely that a Suresh Kalmadi -style scandal could emerge in the build-up to the 2022 FIFA World Cup to be held in Qatar. The fear of the capital punishment serves as a highly effective deterrent. China, South Korea and most Islamic countries follow the system of a death penalty when it comes to corruption. The system could really work in India. Think about it.

At the most basic level, it is up to us eradicate or at least minimize corruption in our lives. From our tacit approval as the driver bribes a policeman to avoid the headache of dealing with the consequences of breaking a traffic signal, to bribing income tax officials in our businesses- it all boils down to us, the citizens of this great nation. As the saying goes, “The accomplice to the crime of corruption is frequently our own indifference.”

Mumbai: The City Above.

Okay, I'm not much of a poet. But here's a sonnet I had to write at an inter-college event.....

The City Above.

Seven islands, once a gift.

Today a city, engulfed with rift.

To Colaba, the Old Lady's Isle,

which boasts Causeway, bound to bring a smile.

To the folks who travel in trains,

an endless struggle during the rains.

To the beautiful necklace of the Queen,

and the folks walking there, trying to get lean.

To the Black Horse, standing tall.

Abode to festivities, for one and all.

To CCI, the city's high and mighty club,

once the home of Indian cricket, now the rich's hub.

And finally to the spirit of the city we love.

Once shaken, still standing, always above.

Right to Peaceful Protest?

What is it about a simple proposal to build a mosque/cultural center in New York that has created a frenzy that is now mainstream news all over the world? Why is it that many Americans are very worried, insulted and scared (choose any one or all three) about this building going up at 45-51 Park Place, Manhattan? What is, undoubtedly, an effort to boost brotherhood among the city’s constantly-growing Muslim population has been foolishly misread by many Americans as: war, treason, murder, jihad and Muslims eventually taking over the United States of Absurdity! Obviously.


Over 2,000 protesters gathered at a rally on West Broadway, holding banners saying things like “Bloomberg: What is your excuse?” (City Mayor Michael Bloomberg has publicly stated his strong support for building the Islamic center) and “Kill Sheikh Os/bama”. But seriously, these protestors fail to realize that for their demand to be fulfilled, they must first petition for an amendment to the American Constitution! The facts speak for themselves- Islam is the fastest-growing religion in North America. Out of the 7 million Muslims living there, more than 70% say they actively participate in one of the country’s 1,200 plus mosque’s community-based activities. So can these protesters justify their opposition to the building of this particular mosque merely due to its proximity to Ground Zero? I mean, mosques in the US are involved in a big way in people’s daily lives. Stuff like inter-faith dialogue, programs to help the needy, youth meets and Sunday-schools to teach kids the religion and keep them away from social-evils like alcohol and drugs. If that’s such a crime in today’s day and age, what has the world come to?

Following this saga on CNN, I was surprised to see that (for once) they interviewed both the protest and the counter-protest. The protesters feel that the building of this mosque is a metaphor of what they fear Obama is trying to do to American society. A society which accepts, encourages and thrives on its multi-cultural diversity seems to scare them. Many observers feel that these protests are a sort-of proxy war against this trend.

The counter protest was a pitifully small group in comparison. Without a stage or a set of amplifiers, they consisted of a few dozen people with signs like “America, when did it become okay to be a bigot and a racist again?” Among them, a man told a reporter, "This has nothing to do with the mosque. They are just racist haters. That's not the America we know. I've been living here 40 years."

He pointed to a 10-year old boy in a red baseball cap, his grandson. "His father is a United States Marine. Where are we going to go? This is our country....They have opinions, that's fine. But don't hate Islam. Those who did wrong, they should be punished. But the same thing is true for the group in the White House that killed 1.5 million Iraqis. They should be punished." Strong sentiments like these were expressed on both sides. The truth, is, usually bitter.


But what can we, the youth of a country on the other side of the globe learn from such an issue? It’s simple, really: compromise. In my humble opinion, the group that wants to build the mosque, doing such a noble job, should not have any objections to a change of location, if only to maintain peace in the city. Furthermore, the protesters have no real basis to their claims that it’s a sign of ‘disrespect’ to the 9/11 victims- the terrorists on 9/11 were nothing, if not the antithesis of the followers of Islam- the religion of peace. As John F. Kennedy famously said, “World peace, like community peace, does not require that each man love his neighbor -- it requires only that they live together with mutual tolerance, submitting their disputes to a just and peaceful settlement.” Wise words.

NOTE: I wrote the above article for a youth political magazine called 'Spectrum' and it was written accordingly. Thank You.

Frozen Thoughts.

This is the second in a series of articles by Shoaib Sumar about life and the contemporary world. In this light-hearted panorama, we discuss the world's most-loved dessert- Ice-Cream! I don't mean to be too figurative when I say this, but this one is miles apart from my last note titled "Earth to Self: "Its time to Joga Bonito!". It reflects the writer's versatility as it differs greatly in style and content.

I don't cry over spilt milk, but a fallen scoop of ice-cream is enough to ruin my whole day!

The Online Dictionary defines ice-cream as "A dessert made from frozen sweetened cream or a similar substance, usually flavoured" This definition, to me, seems rather incomplete. Under no circumstances can the world deny the sheer emotional value that comes attached to a bowl of ice-cream. Let me illustrate further. It serves as an incredible anti-depressant, an unbelievably good tear-stopper for kids, and a great companion on a Saturday night watching a game of football, and you know it! Yet, The Online Dictionary, in its definition, dismisses it as a mere physical commodity. To put it simply, Ice-cream can be defined accurately in two words "Happiness condensed"

Historically, the origins of ice-cream can be traced as far back as the 4the century B.C where Roman Emperor Nero ordered ice to be brought down from the mountains and served with a variety of fruit toppings. Not surprisingly, China too lays claim to the invention of the frozen dessert with records of King Tang of Shang (what a name!) having a method of creating ice and milk concoctions. Wow, so ice-cream too was 'Made in China'. Once ice-cream reached North America in the 1700s it really took off and became popular among the wealthy merchants. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson reportedly served it to all their royal guests. Only in the early 19th century did ice-cream parlors become popular with common folk. Okay, that's enough for today's history lesson.

Did you know that Chocolate Syrup is the world's favourite topping on ice-cream and Vanilla, the world's favourite flavour according to extensive surveys conducted world-wide. Vanilla? Yes, I'm serious.

Another popular myth surrounding ice-cream is that it can only be truly enjoyed in hot weather. Rubbish, in my opinion. Not just in mine, the list of 'Top 10 Ice-cream consuming countries' blatantly quashes this myth. Its no surprise that the United States tops this list- with a Hagen Dazs or Ben n Jerry's at every street corner, why wouldn't they? The surprise lies in the fact that 8 other countries on the 10-member list, (Australia being the one exception) are what we consider 'Cold Countries'. Yes, New Zealand, Denmark, Belgium/Luxembourg, Sweden, Canada, Norway, Ireland and Switzerland make up the other 8 countries. Clearly, ice-cream consumption has no relation to weather, the barometer here, is undoubtedly, economic prosperity.

As time progressed, ice-cream pioneers decided to penetrate into the more price-sensitive segments of the market. This, along with other factors such as the widespread availability of machinery and raw materials led to a sharp decline in the exclusivity of ice-cream during the 20th century. Soon every Tom, Dick and Harry (remember Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour in the third Harry Potter book?) was eating ice cream and loving it!

Now to the issue of flavours. My personal favourite is Baskin Robin's Gold Medal Ribbon- introduced in 1979, 'GMR' is undoubtedly a world-beater. Lets say, an ice-cream equivalent of the Spanish football team. The sumptuous combination of rich chocolate and vanilla enshrined by a ribbon of caramel is guaranteed to salivate the mouths of even a hard-hearted, ice-cream loathing Communist! I am an Indian citizen and am sincerely disappointed by the quality, or lack of the same, of Indian ice-cream. The only half-decent Indian chain of ice-creams is Natural's. Sad, but true.

At this point, I would like to reiterate in the minds of our readers, that Chocolate Syrup is the world's favourite ice-cream topping.

So next time you enter a Baskin Robin's or open a tub of Natural's Chocobite, take a moment to solemnly remember- what you are about to eat is something special. Treasure it. And don't regret the calories!
Good day.

The Fragrance of Forgiveness: A Short Story.

They traveled with the scorching desert sun overhead, their camels expertly maneuvering through the dunes. Two youths, best friends, on a journey through the Arabian Desert.
And as they traveled, they discussed their plans of starting a small carpet business in Aden. They had pooled in some dinars and had decided to open a small shop in the souq in the bustling Yemeni coastal town. Both Omar and Jafar came from poor families in the village of Al-Misrakh and were eager to earn some money to support their respective families. Omar was an orphan and lived with his uncle Ibn Jacoub and had recently been married. He was keen to start a successful business and ultimately ask his wife Maryam to join him in Aden. Besides, he wanted to thank his uncle for raising him by earning enough money to support him in his old age. Jafar, on the other hand had four young sisters to support and his parents were bed-ridden and unable to work. His father, Khalid had failed in several attempts at starting a business. Jafar knew that the reason for his father's failure was that their village was simply too small, and he saw the markets of Aden as a land of opportunity for any young entrepreneur.

The journey would take twelve hours and the two friends, exhausted by the afternoon heat, stopped to pray and rest under some trees.
Jafar said, "Perhaps you should leave your share of the money with me, Omar, four hundred dinars is a lot of money to keep hanging around your neck. What if someone steals it while you sleep? Give it to me, I will keep it with my money in this leather bag."
"But that bag will also go around your neck, won't it?" Omar replied, bemused.
"Just give me the money. I think we both know how capable you are of losing it."
"What do you mean by that? Are you planing to spend it while I sleep? Or worse, run away with it!"
"Is that what you think I am capable of? Your words are not those of a true friend."
There was a sudden tension between the two, Jafar's hazel eyes were now red with anger.
Omar retorted sarcastically, "I think your actions have proven what a true friend you are," referring to an altercation between the two a few months earlier where Jafar had cheated Omar at the ostrich races.
"Come on now, akhi forget the past, we have a business to look after together."
"What guarantee do I have that you will not cheat me, and that our business will not fail!" said Omar, "like all your father's failed businesses," he added.
Jafar, now greatly insulted by the mention of his father, said, "You really shouldn't have said that akhi." And in a sudden fit of rage, punched Omar hard on his face, "Go to hell!"
Omar fell to the floor with a thud, but said nothing. Slowly, he got up, picked up a stick and wrote in the sand- 'TODAY MY BEST FRIEND PUNCHED ME ON THE FACE.' Then, without a word, Omar began to prepare his camel for the journey ahead. Jafar was as surprised at his own actions as bewildered at his friend's response. Still, he said nothing and mounted his camel and with a click of his tongue, set out to face the Arabian desert.

The whistling of the wind was the only sound they heard for the three hours of travel that followed. Omar was thinking about the days when he and Jafar were inseparable, running around shoulder-to-shoulder playing football and racing camels with the other village boys. Jafar occupied himself with surly thoughts of ways he could make a quick-dinar in Aden, with gambling and hashish on his mind.
As evening fell, an oasis approached and the travellers stopped for rest and the evening prayer. Omar tied his camel and went for a swim in the spring while Jafar sat down to rest, lost in his thoughts. He was absentmindedly watching Omar swim when he realised that his friend was drowning! His right leg had struck against a rock and was bleeding heavily. Jafar leaped into the water before he heard Omar cry out for help. With strong strokes Jafar swam towards Omar, lifted his friend upon his back and swam to safety.

As he placed Omar down in the sand and began to tend to his wound, Omar picked up a rock from beside the spring and slowly etched into it- 'TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SAVED MY LIFE'. Jafar looked into his friend's grateful eyes and asked, "When we argued earlier, akhi you wrote in sand, and now, why do you chose to write on stone?" Omar smiled . To Jafar, all the desert's harshness disappeared. Omar said, "That is because when a friend hurts you, we must write it in sand so that its memory can be blown away by the winds of forgiveness and by Allah, Jafar, I had forgiven you before I mounted my camel. But when a friend helps you, it should be engraved in stone so that its memory may last for as long as you live and Jafar, you know I wil be eternally grateful for your kindness and friendship."
The wound had healed on Omar's leg as on his heart as they set out on the final stretch of their journey to Aden.
Truly, 'Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.'

The Prophet Muhammd (peace be upon him) reported that the devil said to God: "I shall continue to lead Thy servants astray as long as their spirits are in their bodies." And God replied: "(Then) I shall continue to pardon them as long as they ask My forgiveness." -Al-Tirmidhi, Hadith 742.

Did Barack Obama deserve the Nobel Peace Prize?

The following is an essay I wrote a few weeks ago...Hope you enjoy reading it...

‘All that glitters is not gold. Many a thought remains untold. Men have reached the Moon, yet our actions cannot be foretold’
Our opinionated planet was divided this January by the decision of The Nobel Committee to award newly-elected US President, Barack Obama with the Nobel Peace Prize. In some quarters, this decision prompted severe criticism of the Committee to such an extent as to even question their credibility. However, there remained an adamant school of thought who backed their decision wholeheartedly. Personally, I was shocked at how the President of a nation, clearly the antithesis of Peace - The United States, could be given such an accolade and justifiably so.
In the United States of America, the President’s decisions reflect the country’s policies. The fact that the country is involved in armed conflicts should be enough to rule him out of the running for such an award. If that isn’t reason enough, the fact that he has broken several promises made to the American people (evident through the plummet in his popularity ratings) should have prompted the Nobel Committee to have made a wiser choice.
The reason cited by his supporters was the ‘Hope’ he created during his campaign. Hope is not a tangible thing, worthy of a Peace Prize. The fact that he replaced George W. Bush is the main reason for the euphoria and joy among the people. Their celebration was for the outgoing villain, not the incoming one. After eight years of Bush’s tyranny, the world desperately wanted a change in leadership in the USA and that is why he received unlimited goodwill from around the world.
Obama is responsible for the death of thousands of innocent Afghan civilians and has failed to bring peace to Iraq. Also, his sanctions against Iran and North Korea, have affected world peace. He has also supported international terrorism through his support of Israel - a criminal nation and a violator of basic Human Rights? Furthermore, Guantanamo Bay is still a centre of vicious American brutality-and several promises to close the prison down have been broken time and time again.
Can such atrocities merit a Peace Prize?
I acknowledge the fact that Barack Obama is a great orator, an inspirational leader and an efficient Senator. Perhaps people expected more from him than he is capable of, and that plays to his disadvantage. As the saying goes –“Actions speak louder than Words” Obama was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize based solely on his words. I sincerely hope that in the remaining years of his tenure, we see a drastic change in US economic and foreign policies so that we may live in a safer world, Insha’Allah. To conclude, I would like to point out that Barack Obama’s actions does not merit his mention in the same breath as some of his illustrious Nobel Peace Prize winning counterparts like Nelsen Mandela and Mother Theresa. If he were to win the accolade three years down the line for “outstanding progress towards achieving World Peace”, I am sure the international community would have no issues.

Earth to Self: "Its time to Joga Bonito!"

The following was written on 9th June, 2010, shortly before the start of he FIFA World Cup. I wrote it as a sort of Preview to the tournament. Okay, "What's the point of a preview, wehn Spain won the World Cup last night?", you may ask. Truth is, there isn't. Its just a nice article and I wanted it on my blog. A more relevant 'Review' may be on the cards soon. Anyways,I hope you enjoy reading this.

This is the first in a series of articles by Shoaib Sumar about life and the contemporary world. In this article, we discuss the FIFA World Cup and its profound impact on people from different parts of the world....

Earth to Self: "Its time to Joga Bonito!"
With the planet gripped in World Cup fever, I lay in bed one night, thinking. Thinking about what it is that makes this event unite all the nations of the world. Thinking about why it means so much to so many, everywhere. Thinking about something which I think about almost every minute of my humble existence- Football.

Call it soccer, futebol' or association football, the sport is undoubtedly the most popular game in the world. Pick up a newspaper anywhere in the world today, and I can bet my life there will be a section dedicated to the World Cup. In some countries, like Italy, even international news features forlorn somewhere in the back pages. Its football that dominates the print and visual media.

What fascinates me no end is how the same event can be viewed in different countries in so many different ways--with fear, excitement, hope, nervousness or indifference. The common denominator here is an unique sense of anticipation which even the Olympic Games fails to generate.

England: Hope.
The typical British sense of hope and loud confidence surrounds the English media. 1966 was the last time they won. But their fans remain confident that "this time, our lads will bring that trophy back to Wembley Stadium!" and with a galaxy of stars like Wayne Rooney, Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard, who can blame them?

The European Power Houses: Euphoria.
Intense political activity, media frenzy and public gatherings are characteristic of this time. Politicians use the sport to further their interests and use the national teams to increase their Vote Banks. Its crazy, as if the Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi (who owns the country's biggest club, AC Milan by the way,) is going to put his boots on and get on the pitch. Yet, if the team wins, it'll probably be his biggest Pay-Day. Ever. Drugs, Drink and Illicit sex will be at an all-time high in the next month.

Asia: Its Party Time!
For those in countries like South Korea and Japan who have qualified for the Cup, its a chance to see their boys on the World Stage. Playing side-by-side their more illustrious European and South American counterparts, who they watch religiously week-in-week-out on the telly.
As for us, who have no representation (or no hope of any, in the near future at least) we watch as neutrals or sort of adopt a nationality for a month or so. Its humiliating how a country, One-Billion-strong, can fail to develop the talent, on account of lack of infrastructure! But India's misadventures on the sporting front is a story for another day.
Moving on to the Arab peninsula, who will be disappointed that Algeria is the only Arabic-speaking representative, but will nevertheless enjoy the spectacle in their usual way, Cafe's will be packed, roads bustling, children on the streets of Jordan and Qatar will be seen sporting their Ronaldo7 and Rooney9 shirts. Many a Sheikh in Dubai and Saudi Arabia will be scratching their beards, thinking about how all the money in the world cannot buy a World Cup team?

The United States: What? soccer? Your kidding,right?

Although I will admit that thanks to the large number of immigrants in the US and David Beckham, 'soccer-awareness' is growing. Yet, the vast majority of Americans are happy in their own little sporting world, where they refer to their baseball final as The 'World Series'. I didn't know the 'World' spread from New York To Los Angeles!Superbowl and the NBA mean everything to them. You can just imagine two fat white guys sitting on a couch talking in their Homer Simpson-ish voices,
"Hey Charlie, wanna watch soccer? I've heard its the most popular sport in the world!"
"Well thats why THEY don't need US watching them!. C'mon I'll buy you a beer. Lets go watch the Lakers game!"
"Beer! sure dude, c'mon screw soccer. Beer and the Lakers game. Hell Yeah!"

And Finally, the World descends on South Africa.....

Ecstasy is the word that best describes the feeling in Africa on the eve of the World Cup.The first one to be held in the Dark Continent will surely be an amazing spectacle. There are smiles and streamers on every street in Jo'berg and Cape Town.People sing "When i get older, I will be stronger, they’ll call me freedom
Just like a Waving Flag"


Its that time when thousands starving in Africa will forget their condition and cheer Humanity. When Palestinians will set aside the pain inflicted upon them unfairly, and cheer Humanity.As for us, we're just thankful to ESPN-STAR Sports for showing us The Beautiful Game and hope that the players do as Nike says in Portuguese- Joga Bonito.Play Beautiful.