THE BICYCLE THIEVES!

First of all, the movie is shot in Rome, and despite the post World War 2 ravaged conditions the city still shines out with its beautiful streets and quaint alleys, making you envy everyone living there. Rome really is so incredibly charming. However, the situation there is evidently quite disastrous with unemployment as a major issue. The Rome of that day was probably very different from the dazzling Rome we see and gush about today.

The movie focuses on a man called Antonio Ricci who is extremely hard up for money and is trying his utmost to keep his family, which comprises of his son and his wife going. He gets offered a job that needs a bicycle as part of the contract, but affording the bicycle is a problem. His wife offers to sell off all their sheets for him to afford a bicycle. Your heart really goes out to the family. It reminds you that even cities like Rome were at some point in time, at the brink of poverty. It makes you think that there is hope for India too. Everybody is of course overjoyed at the change events. However, the happiness is very short lived when we see Antonio Ricci’s bicycle getting stolen on his very first day at work. We feel his agony as he chases after the thief who seems to have been long gone.  We see the emptiness and sheer pain in his eyes as he watches the same bicycle his wife sold their sheets as dowry for, being taken from him. He is absolutely distraught and rushes to the police for their help. The police, very typically is not of much help and claim they have better things to do than go looking for a mere bicycle all across Rome. They leave it up to Antonio who then takes his son along with a few people and sets out to look for his lost bicycle. The bicycle may have just been one bicycle for the police; but it was so much more to Antonio Ricci. The bicycle was his job, his source of money and his family’s happiness. Despite the low chances of him finding his bicycle, he doesn't lose hope and give up. He can’t give up that easily now, can he? His son and his wife depend on him after all. What is also heart wrenching is we see his son, a boy of probably not more than 10 years going to work every day. That will probably be considered as child labour today.

As the movie progresses, we see how Antonio tries endlessly to find his bicycle, but unfortunately to no avail. At the beginning of the movie, we had seen Antonio mock his wife for visiting a seer when times were tough for them. We now see Antonio himself visiting a seer when he is utterly desperate to find his stolen bicycle. It shows us how desperation makes us do things we otherwise would never even consider doing.  All their ceaseless attempts at finding the bicycle seem to be failing. In the midst of the commotion, Antonio hears cries of a boy who is drowning and thinks it is his son. It turns out he was mistaken. He then takes his son to quite a posh restaurant where they leave behind all the pressing problems on their minds and enjoy a good meal and drinks. Who says it isn't okay to let go of all life's bloody nagging problems sometimes and just enjoy a drink?

Toward the end of the movie, there is quite a shocker that awaits us. Antonio spots a bicycle resting unattended and we see him contemplate stealing it, just the way his bicycle was stolen. We see him circling the area trying to make up his mind, making us sit up and wonder what he will eventually do. He decides to take the bicycle and just as he starts riding it, we see all hue and cry being raised and Antonio being closely chased by a few men. The men catch him as he tries to run, and we are heart broken to see his devastation. His son is left in tears as he silently watched his father steal a bicycle and then get caught. We see the depths of Antonio’s angst and desperation as he eventually succumbed to human weakness and tried stealing the bicycle. The sheer desperation and the trying times faced by poverty stricken Rome has been brilliantly depicted in the film by Vittorio De Sica , evoking so much emotion in us.  The film really is worth all the applause and praise it’s been given; so yes, if you haven't watched it already, do watch it! :)

Runner-up no more.

People always seem surprised when I say I support Andy Murray. They expect me to be a Djokovic supporter or worse, a Nadal supporter like themselves. The very thought of supporting Nadal gives me the jitters. I mean, he scratches his butt before serving each time. At least it looks like he scratches his butt. And he has this routine which goes like this – Adjust shorts/scratch butt – tuck hair behind ears - tug at nose – tuck hair behind ears again – serve (Finally). Anyway, enough about Nadal and his very odd, wild and disgusting habits. Back to the man who’s just won Wimbledon 2013.

3 years ago, at the 2010 Australian Open Final, Murray lost to Federer. After the match when he was asked to say a few words during which he broke down mid-way and said, “I can cry like Roger, but it’s a pity I can’t play like him.” That converted me from being a hard core Federer fan to a Murray fan. However cheesy it may sound, but those words struck a chord in me. He was acknowledging the greatness of Roger Federer. Now, after that match, the road forked into two – either he would accept that Federer was too good for him and he couldn’t ever beat him OR he would do whatever was in his capacity to overcome the loss and fight back and believe in himself. Ever since then, he’s been silently entering nearly every Grand Slam semi-final or final, but strangely he goes almost unnoticed every time. Nobody notices his consistency and persistence. Nobody thought Murray had it in him to win a grand slam. No, he isn’t supremely talented like Roger Federer and he doesn’t have the massive power that Nadal has, but he had something else in him. He had the determination to win. He never gave up. He overcame not one loss, but 5. Losing 5 Grand slam finals didn’t stop him from continuing to follow his dream. He wasn’t a defeatist. It takes so much more to lose 5 times before coming up and finally winning something. The joy of the victory is probably 5 times that of someone who’s won it in their first shot. Andy Murray inspired me, inspired more than a Federer or a Djokovic ever can. Ignoring the whole hoo-ha over the fact that he was the first Brit to win Wimbledon after 77 years and all that, he made me believe that losing isn’t a big deal; you can always pull yourself up and win the next time.He proved all those people wrong by winning Wimbledon. He had the strength to not give up and to keep fighting. He grew up, from being that cranky 22 year old who swears uncontrollably to the man who calmly won Wimbledon by beating the World Number 1 in straight sets. Not everybody has it easy for them. Murray didn’t – he didn’t have an easy straightforward, smooth road built for him. He had one with many thorns and obstacles, but he overcame them. He won. He won, despite all the hurdles.  

To all those people who criticised him for not smiling enough and for not being as much of a charmer with a great sense of humour like Novak Djokovic - Yes, he does smile, and a beautiful smile too.  

Sea shores.

So it’s been a while since I wrote. The last few months have been very strange. I’ve been so anxious, frantic and confused most days, that I couldn’t figure when I was PMSing and when I wasn’t.  Oh well, I guess everyone has phases. But I really can’t be blamed, after all the pressure I was under. 8 months ago I was pining for a fresh start and now I finally had the chance to get it. And I did. I wanted something different. Or did I? See what I meant when I said I’ve been confused. Confusion is just part of the journey they say. And if they don’t, then I say it is. Yes, it definitely is.

Well that was 8 months ago. 1 month ago, I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t know which way to go. Every single day had been like a blurred photograph, but a blurred photograph that I was desperately hanging on to and refused to delete. But then, life goes on. The blurred photo should be kept away if not deleted and new and exciting photographs that are in focus can be taken and kept. I’m going to keep both, the blurred ones and the ones in focus, because both matter and are a part of my memories. And all memories are part of your past, and your past makes you who you are today doesn’t it? I don’t know if my metaphors are working; but what I’m trying to say is that everyone matters, however long they’ve been part of your life. Memories aren’t just memories. They’re part of you, they’re etched in you. Every day is probably like a page turning in a book.

I guess life works that way. People come and people go. Some leave an impression and some don’t. A few years ago, a school teacher, my favourite English teacher rather had praised an essay I had written and then afterwards she asked me if I was a sensitive person. The question really baffled me then. I had no answer. I didn’t know if I was sensitive or not! But now, I think I am. Whether I should be happy about that or not is a different thing. I hate that people leave. I wish that wouldn’t happen. It’s just like the sea shore. The waves come like people, wash the shore and go back, where they belong, in a sea of millions of people. They come, touch you, move you, leave an impression and go away. Most of the time. There will always be the few adamant waves that will stay. Anyway, the good thing is that memories can always be relived, right? The present is what really matters. So i'll just live in the present. Life is what you make it and so, i'll make the most of it.