The following is a note my uncle sent me after coming back home from the hospital. I was amazed by how he could see the lighter side of things even in a place as grim and scary as an ICU. Just had to share it! :)

It's days like these that make me appreciate the inherent brilliance of limited overs cricket. You can get mauled all day, but at least the carnage is over at the end of day's play.

For the second day in a row, I slept past midnight and woke up at five. Makes me wonder if it's worth all the trouble and if I should just switch that alarm off before I go to bed. But I'm sure I'll find myself waking up in the middle of the night, switching that alarm back on with a look of shame on my face.

Even as the Aussies went about their business this morning, from 5 AM to 7 AM, my face fell in slow motion. I was looking so grumpy by the time the umpires called lunch that my mom didn't even ask me her usual morning question - "iniku gym pogalaya?"

I dragged myself to the gym with a long face. Considering how round I've become, it was probably a slightly oval face. By the time I hit the elliptical trainer, play (read: torture) resumed. That's when I had the worst brainwave ever. I decided, in a rather twisted way, to hedge my happiness. For every easy double they ran, for every boundary they hit, I was going to push myself harder. I figured if we get tonked around, I might as well lose weight in the process.

35 excruciating minutes (of watching India bowl and going full tilt on the bloody elliptical) later, I realised I'd only doubled my self-inflicted punishment. Yes, yes, I need help, I know. In the middle of all this, Punter had reached that elusive three-figure mark. Given that I hate his guts, was that triple punishment?

In case you didn't know already, my hatred for Ricky Ponting is so extreme, even I find it a tad unfair. His talent, I've grudgingly acknowledged. But him, I loathe with every fibre of my being. His perpetually surly face, his overt aggression, his constant spitting, his annoying smirk as he takes position at silly point without a helmet, the fact that he decimated a nation's morale on that fateful night in March 2003, his arrogant gesture to Sharad Pawar to hand over the Champions Trophy, his general in-your-face attitude.. none of this has helped his cause either.

I was enjoying the pressure India was putting on him post lunch. His 97 to 99 took a while, and there he remained for a little while longer. As he knocked one down to mid-on in search of a quick single, our man Sachin went screaming across the turf to deny him that single. It was almost a "yaam petra inbam..." moment. I chuckled nervously. To my dismay, I realised that a small part of me actually wanted him to take that single.

When he did get that run, complete with a desperate full-length dive, I found myself applauding. When he took an extra second or so to get up, you could almost sense the wave of numb relief wash over him. Clarke was finding the situation hilarious, Ian Gould was laughing along, Ishant had his hands on his head with a "What have I done?" expression - but all eyes were on Punter as he looked down at his soiled shirt, removed his helmet and raised his bat. There was childlike glee in his eyes as he wore an an almost embarrassed smile on his face. That expression made him look almost... human.

Hate it when that happens.

As my friend pointed out, when they shed their arrogance, you realise they have the potential to be likeable. He'd experienced the same when he read McGrath's book.

Right. That's one book off my to-read list.

The first time I listened to the album, I remember allowing a thought to flit through my mind - that Tum Ko was probably the only weak link in an otherwise near flawless album. Rahman, as he has done innumerable times before, proved just how wrong I was. If there is one thing I'm thankful for, it's my habit of looping the entire album instead of looping specific songs. The sudden "aha" moments that you encounter from the least expected places are what I live for. Such instances are what makes listening to Rahman such a joy. From "weak link", Tum Ko has risen rather swiftly in my estimation. I wouldn't be too surprised if it ends up becoming my favourite track of the album within a week.

RGV (in a rather brilliant piece on Rahman) had once observed that Rahman's orchestration seems to rise from the depth of the singer's voice. I could see what he was talking about in Tum Ko. The soft strings in the background, as Kavita Subramaniam croons the first few lines in a breathy voice, give way to the absolutely divine sarangi. For a very brief moment her voice branches out from the sarangi as she continues to hum along. Sheer magic.

There's something about the sarangi that allows it to bypass normal channels (of being processed by the brain) and finds its way straight to your heart. (insert predictable pun on marketing it to the West as heartstrings)

And those tablas. How does Rahman make them sound so unique? Remember the brilliantly placed tabla bits in Kilimanjaro? I'd developed a sort of aversion to tablas as I got increasingly frustrated with the tedious dinkchak beats in hindi music through the 90s. But under his helm, they seem to have their own quirks, their own character almost. The flourishes in Tum Ko have a mind of their own as they stop and start without warning. If that interlude hadn't knocked you breathless yet, Rahman throws in (or simulates) a panflute for good measure. Out for the count. I could play this song on an unending loop just for this interlude.

Her tremendous vocal depth carries the song along to the end. The way each line is completed without allowing it to taper away, the way the full depth of her voice kicks in as it hangs in the air for a fraction of a second longer than you expect it to... makes me wish I'd learnt music just to be able to appreciate it better. And to know what to say :)

So beautifully layered is Phir Se Udd Chala, that listening to it is a bit like watching a video of someone peeling an onion in rewind mode. (Sans the disturbing image of tears going back into your tearglands, of course)

The soul of the song is in the Kashmiri chant. Innocent, sweet, unhurried. Rahman takes his own time to get the song on its way. First the guitar riff wraps around it closely followed by Mohit Chauhan's breezy vocals to kick off a process of adding layer upon layer. And with each new layer, a sense of urgency creeps in and Mohit's singing starts gathering momentum - almost like a plane taxiing on a runway before takeoff. A female voice tells you where the exits are ("Teri ore") - ok, sorry, couldn't resist!

Aaaaaannnndddd... take off!

Once off the ground, the percussion takes over from Mohit to provide the perception of acceleration, while he eases the throttle preparing for cruise mode with his Tu tu du's. And just as you decide to push your seat back, pull the in-flight magazine and think about calling the stewardess for a bag of peanuts, the Kashmiri girls return to inform you that your flight has reached its destination.

Whaaaa... Heyy.. No fair!

Indigo waves splash across canvas from the guitar strums. Purple blobs of passion pulsate from the shehnai. Light blue wisps of the guitar (reminescent of the Piano bits of Himalaya) waft ever so softly, encircling them both. The shehnai assumes a chirpier tone as bold pink strokes swish across.

The soaring shehnai fights to render the horizon with a soft glow even as the guitar deepens the blue almost to a black. A chime sweeps across, dotting the darkening canvas with little sparkles.

What you are left with, as you look on with a contented smile, is The Dichotomy of Fame.

Or a twilight sky.

As Suresh had put so beautifully in his review of Rockstar, Rahman's melodies are so shockingly radical in their structure, that your brain tries to find a hook, a groove, a pattern from the previous line, anything to cling on to. Something to provide stability to your musical orientation as you blindly bump into unexpected instruments, sudden silences or the last note you'd expect at that point.

Your brain frantically searches for something familiar to regain equilibrium. And that is probably why the first listening of a Rahman soundtrack is usually an exercise in trying to find out if you've heard that tune in any of his songs before. Once you recognise a similarity, your mind is instantly at ease. You venture into discovering the song with renewed courage. Five listenings or so later, you forget you'd even established a similarity with a previous song. And that it is actually quite different from the previous song.

"Discovery of a Rahman song" should be scientifically studied some day :) But let me not digress any further.

What I'd mentioned above is exactly what I went through with Aur Ho too. The 30 second promo had my ears prickling. After about 5-6 seconds of apprehension, my brain attempted to pull a rabbit out of the hat. Could it be "Mudhalum mudhalum nee mudivum mudivum nee" from Thaiyya thaiyya? No wait.. Bhanjar hai sab bhanjar hai from Mera Yaar Milade Saiyyan (Saathiya)", it said, "Yes yes, that's what it sounds like". And almost instantly my mind felt lighter. 30 second teasers are the best gifts you could give a Rahmaniac, it's almost like net practice!

The full version is an absolute treat. As Alma Ferovic's hum/chant twists and glides its way in, the stage is set for Mohit Chauhan to exhibit his versatality yet again. There's a quality in his voice that lends itself beautifully to express pain. In Khoon Chala (RDB) it felt like a helpless lament. In Aur Ho, it fluctuates between a numb acceptance of pain and a determined cry to break away from it.

The trance-like quality of the Aur Ho chant sends a shiver down your spine. Well, at least it did to mine! The line "Meri bebasi... ka bayaan hai" assumes an anthemic nature as Alma's humming steps up a notch in fervour. Sufi Rock, it may be, but that doesn't stop Rahman from making a flute weave in and out to accentuate the emotion.

You wouldn't want to listen to this as a single in isolation. The haunting soundscape and the brooding menace in the vocals fill you with disquiet. But the pensive silence that would follow could be even more unnerving.