The Sway of A Legend: Review of ‘Michael’

 

When Michael Jackson performs the moonwalk on stage for the very first time, the film cuts to a man in the audience breaking down in tears, overwhelmed. That single moment encapsulates my entire experience watching this movie. Having listened to Jackson throughout my teens and witnessed an entire generation attempt to mimic his moves, I can attest that he held a sway over us like no one else. Ever. Everything about him was larger than life: his music, his choreography, his obsessions, his tragic demise, and the devastating allegations that shadowed his later years.

The film is a two-hour journey of pure nostalgia, balancing profound heartache with immense joy; almost every scene manages to evoke a tear and a smile simultaneously. His childhood trauma, a mother trapped in helplessness despite witnessing the abuse, his profound isolation, and his eternal state as a man-child are all beautifully rendered on screen. Then, of course, there are the musical numbers - staged with breathtaking authenticity. Jaafar Jackson doesn't just play Michael; he embodies him. I have rarely seen an actor completely dissolve into a persona so effortlessly, supported by an equally stellar cast. Ultimately, Michael is a cinematic experience that should not be missed, whether you grew up with his music or are discovering him for the first time.

If I have to nitpick - as I always do - the film is not without its flaws. Jackson’s brothers are unfortunately reduced to cardboard cutouts, treated almost as footnotes in his life. The narrative also occasionally glosses over the rawest depths of his trauma. Furthermore, I found myself wishing the script had highlighted his monumental collaborative charity track, 'We Are the World,' or dug deeper into his more emotionally raw ballads. Yet, barring these omissions, the film remains a tour de force. If you haven’t seen it yet, do yourself a favor: step out and grab a ticket.

Manuscripts and Meltdowns

One of the designs I had come up with for the book cover

24 April 2026

Morning

My Publishing Manager called with the tone of someone delivering a royal decree: “Sir, I’ve sent the redesigned cover. I believe it is... suitable.” I checked it. To my relief, it actually looked like the design I had created, a massive leap forward from their first attempt.

“I’m happy with it”, I said.

“They couldn’t exactly find the fonts you had used in your design, Sir”. 

“That’s okay! I can live with it”. 

“Send an email approving it, Sir,” she replied. I did, faster than a marathon runner at the starting gun.

Moments later, she called back. “If you give the go-ahead, we’ll release the book today.”

My brain stalled. It’s one thing to *want* to be a published author; it’s quite another to actually *be* one by lunchtime. After some frantic thinking, I gave my assent.  Soon enough, I received mail and messages confirming my book has now been published, and one could place orders for them to be delivered. 

I had a reason to agree to go live immediately. April 24th is my "official" birthday (the one on the documents, if not the calendar) and the birthday of the legendary Kannada matinee idol, Rajkumar. As a fan of the man, it felt more like a cosmic alignment than a happy coincidence. 

The news went out. I urged family, friends,  and colleagues to buy the book with the subtle desperation only a first-time author can muster. Only when people asked, “Aren’t you having a formal launch?”, did I realise I hadn’t even planned a party. It had happened just over a click of the button. 

Congratulations soon poured in. Sales happened! My cousin Vivek was the first to order. My closest friend Choten received the very first copy, which felt like a good omen. When my own physical copies arrived, holding them felt magical - at least until I gave copies to my parents and decided to do a "quick victory lap" through the pages.

Now, keep in mind: I had authored, edited, and proofread this manuscript until my eyes couldn’t take any more. I had hunted for typos like a predator. Spelling errors? None. Grammar? Perfect.

And then, I saw them…..

In two different stories, I had somehow managed to swap the characters' names. My blood turned to ice.  “I’m an author now” ego shriveled into a "How Do I Delete the Internet" panic. I was certain that readers wouldn't notice the plot or the prose; they would only see that *Krishna* had inexplicably become *Raghav* mid-sentence. Ditto with Ravi and Julian. 

Those few typos became a magnifying glass for every insecurity I held. I questioned the relevance of my stories and my very ability to tell them. It felt, in that moment, like dreaming of being an author was a bit of a fool’s errand.

For the next several hours the only thought I had was, “Everyone will notice these errors; and that will be the talking point about the book. The mistakes.” My overworking brain even suggested I should withdraw the book from sales and offer refunds to everyone who had already bought it.

Thankfully, the world disagreed. A colleague called to say the stories moved him so much he wanted to buy a copy for his boss at the Ministry. A friend messaged: “I just read the first story. It rings so true.” 

Good sense (and a bit of exhaustion) finally prevailed. I didn't flee to the mountains or halt the sales.  The book has since sold over a hundred copies without a single firework or ribbon-cutting. Even my harshest critic reached out to say the writing was "fresh and highly readable," comparing it to a famous author. I took that with a massive pinch of salt (possibly all of the salt in Indian Ocean) but it felt good.

Writing might be easy, but finding acceptance is a marathon. Validation is the fuel that keeps us writers/authors going, and these reviews have given my dreams the wings they needed. Even if Krishna is occasionally Raghav, the heart of the story remains. 

And, here are the links to the book, if you are interested to grab a copy for yourself. 

https://amzn.in/d/0gkOwwBA

https://notionpress.com/in/read/petals-and-paper-cuts?book=published&utm_source=share_publish_email&utm_medium=email

Petals and Paper Cuts: An Intro

We all carry dreams; some are as clear as day, while others remain tucked away in the quiet corners of our hearts. For as long as I can remember, mine was to become a published author. While other boys dreamt of flying planes or hitting centuries on the cricket pitch, my world was filled with word-weaving.

The journey was long. For years, I wrote and discarded drafts, hampered by a sense of perfectionism that was often my own worst enemy. It wasn't until I discovered blogging in my 30s, and the freedom of publishing without a gatekeeper, that I truly found my rhythm. I even found some appreciation for the pieces I wrote that encouraged me to write further. The dream took wings again. 

I later promised myself I’d publish a book before I turned 50. I even paid up for self-publishing one. Life had other plans, and that milestone passed with the pages still empty. During and post-Covid, social media allowed me to experiment with "bite-sized" tales - a phenomenon that was also influenced by fellow-writer friends. To make up for the delay, I’ve included 55 stories in this debut—one for every year of my life.

"Petals and Paper Cuts" is now a reality. You can find it on Amazon, Flipkart, or through Notion Press. If you pick it up via the publisher, use the code NEWREAD for a 20% discount. I look forward to your honest thoughts; every bit of feedback helps me grow.

The Brownie Summit!

 

The Himalayas are indifferent to your plans. They sit there, ancient and massive, while your own skeleton decides to stage a mutiny. I had chosen to travel to Nepal despite troubles with my wellness. The first day was a whirlwind tour across the various UNESCO world heritage sites in Kathmandu. I had promptly uploaded some pics and videos on social media. 

"Are you in Nepal?" the screen chirped. A dear friend had messaged seeing the Boudhanatha video; he didn’t know my plans. 

"Yes!"

"Any plans to trek?"

The question stung. "Not this year," I replied. I didn't mention how much pain I was in lest he rubbed me hard about growing old. I just gave them the casualty list: back, foot, ankle. The holy trinity of trekking disasters.

My friend, never one to miss a chance to twist the knife, suggested my injuries were a karmic revenge for traveling solo. I responded with a string of digital profanities. He laughed it off, but I was already drafting my comeback, however weak it sounded. I told him I’d be back next year for the heavy hitters. I was going big: ABC or EBC - Annapurna or Everest Base Camp. 

"I’m doing DBC while we speak!", he fired back.

I blinked. I’ve read the maps. I know the circuits. But DBC? I searched for a technical acronym, expecting some obscure, hardcore ridge. "What’s that now?"

"Hahaha! Death By Chocolate! 🤣🤣"

I looked at my phone, then down at my taped-up ankle. There I was, nursing a bruised ego unable to currently conquer the world's highest base camps, while he was summiting a mountain of ice cream and brownie bits. I could only grimace!

Sparrows and Society

I returned to my hometown for Dyavara, a community festival that anchors the families of our common descent. It was the festivities on my mother’s side; my father’s side had celebrated it only last year. I had taken a day’s leave, a small concession to ensure my presence - partly to honour the tradition, and partly to forestall the quiet disappointment of my mother and her siblings. My father had arranged a vehicle to take us to Vemagal, the ancestral seat of my mother’s side, where they gather to worship Beerappa - a form of Shiva known to us as Beeredevaru, or the Sanskritized Beereshwara. My father’s side worships him as Mylaralinga, a name that whispers of our forefathers’ migration from North Karnataka, following their sheep toward greener pastures.

Dyavara is a rare rhythm; it occurs only once in nearly a decade - every nine, eleven, or thirteen years - never on an even number. Invariably it happens right after Ugadi, the Kannada New Year, and just before the summer sets in. It is a vital congregation for the Kuruba community of Kolar and Bengaluru. It is a practice I haven't seen echoed in Mysore or beyond. It’s possible similar practices are followed in North Karnataka, but I am not aware of them. 

Vemagal used to be a small village. The landscape, however, is changing. It has matured into a sprawling urban settlement. Rapid industrialization has claimed the farmlands; soil has been traded for sites, and green horizons for commercial establishments. My uncle, Raja Mama, sent us a digital location pin - a modern necessity to navigate the maze of new constructions and kuchha (unpaved) roads.

After the exchange of pleasantries and a heavy breakfast, we visited the temple. Upon our return to the house my uncles had rented for the rites, I noticed something quiet and remarkable. In the corners of the house, the owners had fashioned nests out of paper and old book covers. Inside were hatchlings - tiny, noisy sparrows.

The photographer in me stirred. I captured the parent bird intermittently feeding the open-mouthed chicks. When I showed the footage to the family, a wave of nostalgia swept through the room. "I haven’t seen a sparrow in years," one remarked. My botanist aunt wondered if it were indeed a sparrow! Others reminisced about seeing them everywhere in Bengaluru decades ago. I was reminded of Dr. Sálim Ali’s autobiography, The Fall of a Sparrow. In my own childhood, sparrows were our housemates, nesting in the gaps of our tiled roofs. We woke to their chatter. But when we moved into our own home - a "better" house with a solid concrete roof - the sparrows vanished.

We only seem to notice things once they are no longer visible. Be it sparrows, or wildlife, or trees and plant biodiversity. We wake up when it’s too late, and wring our hands helplessly.  We lament the "concretization" of our lives, seldom realizing that we are the ones pouring the cement. 

As I began my early journey back to the city for work, the parallel between the birds and the Dyavara became clear. The festival was not well-attended. Several key members of the younger generation were conspicuous in their absence. Many of us didn’t know others participating in the festivities. What used to be a whole community living together for days under the skies with their carts and tents had now transformed to living in rented houses with their families, with little connect with others at the venue. With the shift away from agriculture and the pull of urban career paths, the congregation has thinned. Even the daughters of the lineage were few.

In our pursuit of material security, our relationships have become shaky - weathered by neglect. We find it easy to label others as "materialistic" while refusing to see our own reflection in the glass. We put every connection on the back burner because "attaining" something concrete feels more urgent than "being" someone present. If an event doesn't widen a professional network or bring in "moolah," it is often dismissed with a sharp, "What’s in it for me?"

In the old days, Dyavara was more than a ritual; it was a social architecture. It created networks, fostered alliances, and promoted a harmony born of staying together. Today, we come together perfunctorily to worship, but we no longer stay. We miss the warmth of connection when we face a crisis, yet we refuse to build the bridges necessary to sustain it.

What we have done to the habitat around us, we are doing to the habitat within us. We are letting our diversity - ecological and emotional - perish, all while wondering where the sparrows, and the people, have gone.

Outgrowing Perceptions

 

It began with a frantic phone call from an old friend.

“I need some help, Sudhir,” he said, his voice laced with that familiar parental anxiety. “Actually, it’s not for me—it’s for my daughter. She’s stuck on an assignment about ‘entitlement, privilege, and agency.’ It’s the eleventh hour, and she’s struggling to bring it all together.”

“When is the deadline?” I asked.

“This evening. She’s jotted down some points, and they seem fine, but I’m worried they aren’t hitting the mark. Can you step in?” He began to lecture me on what he thought the essay should say and the points she should avoid. I cut him short. “Just send me her notes,” I told him. “Let me see what she’s actually thinking.”

While I waited for the documents to hit my inbox, I decided to call the girl herself. When she answered, her voice was thick with sleep—bleary-eyed and exhausted. For a cynical moment, I wondered if she was even taking her studies seriously. I brushed the judgment aside and got to the point: “What exactly do you need from me?”

“I have all these notes, Uncle,” she said softly. “But I can’t seem to find the thread. I can’t turn them into a story. Will you help me make it coherent? I have to submit it by tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “We’ll get it done.”

A few minutes later, the file arrived. I opened it expecting to do the heavy lifting—prepared to redo the entire piece, rearrange her logic, and perhaps discard her amateur observations to start fresh. I settled into my chair and began to read.

Then, the world shifted.

I wasn't just reading a student's notes; I was being schooled. I realized instantly how profoundly I had underestimated her. Her observational skills were razor-sharp, cutting through the comforts of her own life with extraordinary clarity. She didn’t shy away from the truth. She dissected the privilege she carried—her parents’ status, her caste, her inheritance—with a merciless, matter-of-fact grace. She saw the clockwork of discrimination and the subtle, quiet ways women are disempowered every day.

The girl I had watched grow up had vanished. In her place was a beautiful, thinking adult.

I couldn’t wait. I called her back immediately, not to offer "help," but to tell her how proud I was. I told her how wise she sounded—far wiser than I had been at twenty-one. I was nowhere near that sensible or observant at her age.

I called my friend next to tell him how blessed he was. He took the kudos with a humbled laugh. “You know, Sudhir,” he admitted, “I wasn’t even aware of my own privilege until she pointed it out. She’s made me realize just how entitled my own life has been.”

We often look at the younger generation and see only the "cushy" lives they lead, the comforts we didn't have. But then, they turn around and shatter our perceptions, proving they see the world with a clarity we often lack.

It was a lesson I was terribly proud to learn.

Killer Tunes…

The Big Man’s estate was glowing, a palatial spectacle of fairy lights and red carpets that suggested a royal wedding, even though there was no occasion at all. It was luxury for the sake of luxury. He was showing off his silver, possibly hoping to curry his next promotion from the higher-ups, the guests of the evening. 

As the evening deepened, the "cool" drinks began to do their heavy lifting. Inhibitions dissolved into the humid air, and suddenly, the "talent" emerged. A makeshift stage became the focal point for a parade of guests eager to impress the bigwigs in attendance.

One young man stepped up, radiating a terrifying level of confidence. He launched into Kishore Kumar’s classic, ‘Mere Naina Saawan Bhaadon..’ and proceeded to dismantle it with relentless zest. I looked toward the exits, half-expecting security to bolt the doors to prevent a mass stampede of guests screaming ‘Bachao! Bachao!’ or perhaps to protect the singer from being mauled by a purist.

But no. To my horror, the crowd erupted in raucous applause. Mediocrity, it seems, is quite popular when served with premium scotch.

Just as I thought the auditory torture had peaked, the microphone was snatched by a man who didn't just sing Stevie Wonder—he belted ‘I just called to say I love you’ with the subtlety of a jackhammer. He was followed by a lady whose rendition of ‘Dil toh hai Dil..’ was so cacophonous that I lost all aitbaar (trust) in the human ear’s ability to filter noise.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I leaned toward my neighbor and muttered, “Kishore would be turning in his grave right now, saying he’s actually glad to be dead.”

The lady next to me didn't skip a beat. “And Stevie would be wondering why he’s blind and not deaf,” she chipped in.

Her friend, sipping her drink coolly, added the finishing touch: “Lata would be delivering her choicest gaalis to these mofos!”

We stood there in a small, cynical circle of sanity, bonded by the shared trauma of hearing the legends murdered by the very musical notes that made them!