Gather ‘round the grog-tub, ye miserable bilge-rats, and lend an ear to the tale of the Maestro of Madras! AR Rahman, a man who has hauled more golden doubloons from the Academy of the West than any soul alive, finds himself amidst a tempest not of the sea’s making, but of the foul, murky vapors of 'Communalism.' The S.S. Bollywood, a vessel currently leaking more ego than oil, has been rocked by the Maestro’s claim that a 'gang' of scurvy landlubbers has been spreading rumors to keep him from the captain’s table. When the winds of 'communal' tension began to howl, the Maestro didn't retreat to his cabin; he stood on the poop deck and faced the cannon fire with the calm of a man who knows his compass is true.

Now, listen close, for the salt-crusted Lords of the Northern Port have been in a tizzy. They claim Rahman is seeing sea monsters where there be only dolphins. But the Maestro, steady as a rock in a gale, pointed out that the industry’s waters have turned 'communal'—a fancy word for choosing your crew based on which god they toast to before hitting the rum. 'By the kraken’s ink!' shouted my First Mate, 'Scurvy' Sam, upon hearing the news. 'If a man who can turn a conch shell into a symphony is being blacklisted by the Northern Admirals, then the rest of us musical sailors might as well walk the plank right now!' Indeed, if the man who gave us 'Jai Ho' is being told his tune doesn't fit the 'vibe' of the current fleet, there’s a rot in the timber that no amount of gold-leaf can hide.

I caught up with Lord 'Nepo-Baby' of the Northern Isles, who was busy polishing his family’s rusty anchors. He sneered, 'Rahman should stick to his flute and leave the politics to those of us who inherited our ships!' But the Maestro’s reaction to the backlash was as sharp as a freshly whetted cutlass. He didn't scream; he simply noted that the world is watching, and that a ship divided by the faith of its sailors is a ship destined for the locker. The consequences on the high seas are dire, mates! Trade routes for melody are being blocked by political blockades. We’ve heard reports of ships carrying 'Pure Harmony' being diverted because the captain’s name sounded a bit too 'Southern' or 'Otherworldly' for the tastes of the local privateers.

Even the Quartermaster of the Great Gilded Awards, a man known for his love of shiny trinkets, expressed his dismay. 'If the Maestro stops composing for the Northern Fleet, we’ll be left with nothing but the rhythmic thumping of empty barrels and the screeching of seagulls!' he cried, clutching his pearls. The truth is, this isn't just a spat over a few bars of music. It’s a battle for the soul of the ocean. When the Maestro speaks of 'communalism,' he’s sounding the foghorn, warning us that the industry is sailing dangerously close to the jagged rocks of bigotry. And we all know what happens to a ship that hits those rocks—it provides a very comfortable home for the crabs, but it doesn't win any more Oscars.

So, as the sun sets over the Mumbai horizon, we see Rahman standing tall, his baton held like a trident. He’s not backing down from the 'gangs' or the 'communal' currents. He’s reminding every sailor from the Malabar Coast to the Himalayas that music knows no flag and no creed. If the Hindi Harbors want to keep their prestige, they’d best stop trying to scuttle their finest navigators. Otherwise, they’ll find themselves adrift in a silent sea, with nothing to listen to but the sound of their own sinking morale. Keep your powder dry and your ears open, ye scallywags, for the Maestro’s song is far from over!