"It's me, you, love - lets go"

And so it ends. The Oscars are done for the year. Slumdog Millionaire buzzes on everybody's lips, the controversies forgotten (for now at least), Danny Boyle is now a beloved of Britain, while India - well, India is probably unitedly on its feet, all 1 billion of them - wait, what am I saying - on its feet? Scratch that. They're all dancing on top of buses in the streets, that's more like it.

Yes, everyone's happy with the film's success - but I still feel the Indians are aware it has been piggy-backed on British Boyle's shoulders. Notwithstanding the fact that Anil Kapoor was not above pushing through anyone else's shoulders throughout the award season to get to the mike - any mike, be it on podiums or red carpets. And then repeating the same sentence again and again. ("This is for the children, it is all about the children, so its special because its - you know - for the children." Or "Danny Boyle changed our lives, its what he does, he changes lives, so this is what happened, he changed our lives." )

As SRK put it in an interview, the next, legitimate step is yet to come - that of an Indian produced, Indian acted, Indian film winning the top honour. When it comes to film quality, I'm thinking we're actually almost there, barring the hire of a good script editor who can spot those ridiculous plot side steps that crop up in the biggest of the films. Indeed, I can currently count recently flawless dramatic Indian scripts in one hand - Rang De Basanti, Omkara, and a most recent addition, Luck By Chance (box office be damned). What I'm not sure of, though, is 1. The possibility of a film made in Hindi (or any other regional Indian language, though even less likely) to qualify in the mainstream categories, and 2. The capacity of Indian organisation to galvanise high-stake lobbying power post-nomination. The scenario begs for attachment with the big studios, and if that happens, how Indian does a film really become then?

In light of this, therefore, the real win, that will reverberate right through the annals of Indian film history, of course, is the double whammy of A R Rahman.

Now words cannot express one's admiration of the man and his music. I was fourteen years old, in a tiny nobody town in Malaysia called Alor Setar, where my partner in crime, who used to attend math tuition with me, told me about this song she'd heard on the radio, that sounded incredible. She said it was a Tamil song, for a Tamil film, but that it didn't sound like a Tamil song at all. I had no idea what she was talking about. "Listen to the radio," she said. "They're playing it constantly".

I will never forget the first time I heard it. It was about seven in the morning, and I was in the family car being dropped off to school. I was in the back seat, looking out the window. Mum was driving. The radio DJ droned some nonsense in Tamil (the only Tamil station in the country then) and I never paid attention since he was an old crone who had no sense of intonation. Then the opening strains of 'Chinna Chinna Aasai' from Roja started. I continued staring out the window, but I was now frozen. I didn't blink, I barely moved, for I was trying to hear it above the noise of the car engine and traffic, and didn't wish to add to the noise level. My jaw slowly fell open throughout the song, and I've yet to close it back.

At the next tuition session I cornered my friend, and sang those opening strains back to her for confirmation. It had to be. It sounded so new. Like nothing we'd ever heard before. It could only be that song. "Where is that from?" I nearly squealed.

In a few weeks, I found out it was from the soundtrack of the film Roja, and that the composer was called A R Rahman. My friend bought the cassette, I had a walkman, and during homework time at the tuition we'd sneak ear plugs on and listen, algebra be damned. We did that repeatedly till the film came out a few months later, but that's another story. I still remember looking at the tiny black and white photograph of this boy, well, boyish man, on the cassette cover. No soundtrack cassettes featured the composer's photograph on the cover, this was an exception. Mind you, it was the size of your pinky fingernail next to the film title, but it was something to focus on when slack-jawed in open admiration.

The year was 1992.

Today, I am still a blithering idiot when it comes to expressing the pride I felt when I watched Rahman Sir, with characteristic shyness, say "Ellaam Iraivanukke" (Everything is for God). Therefore I beg to use the words of Simon Beaufoy, the screenwriter of Slumdog Millionaire, to illustrate the unabashed, open love affair between me and this man's music:

"I learned to stop being English about things like love. If you make a film in England about love, it's hugely complicated.... It's all about saying what the weather is like, and you're secretly telling someone you love them.... Let's be honest, it's not like that in India. India is incredibly uncynical about love. It's not a complicated thing. It's me, you, love — let's go."
— Screenwriter Simon Beaufoy on what he learned while filming Slumdog Millionaire.

Jai Ho!