The Champion, the Hunted. Food for thought.

They exclaimed, “He is finished!”

They jeered, “He can never do it. Ever!”

They began writing his sporting obituary.

Each time his doubters had something to throw at him, he remained unfazed and inimitably so. He wasn’t playing for them. Why would he? It wasn’t the prospect of gaining a permanent residence‐ship at the Valhalla of Immortals, either. There was only one person he was responsible to – his own self. He may not have been considered as the present day number one, yet he was hunted. All because he seemed to fail in front our eyes. Damn the surreal expectations of us mere mortals! Statistics have a story to say, too. And so it was to be – the die had been cast; the bar, raised.

In sport, there is a “number one” and then there is everyone else. Any individual who has occupied the numero uno slot for a long time running will find it rather unfamiliar when he is deposed and relegated to being part of “the rest”. To scale a peak is one thing, but to scale, reside and rule for years together is quite another.

Agreed ‐ by law ‐ that the hunter is often better positioned than the hunted. But sport is a different habitat altogether. Being hunted year‐in, year‐out and yet never stepping off the pedestal creates a divine aura. One that shields you from the brouhaha of vagrant onlookers. It is when you are back as the hunter that you try and grope for all the faculty that had propelled you to become the hunted in the first place! Weird. Period.

Weathering a storm is quite an arduous task but repeatedly thwarting tireless attacks from the nether hordes? All that, evidently so, differentiates a contender from a pretender. The certified master and a redoubtable, but greenhorn apprentice.

Coming back to the man of our moment – he reminds us how a true champion should be. The quintessential embodiment of talent sublime, grace non‐pareil, humility profound and probably a faint streak of arrogance – to put the opposition in their place. He may be Master to many an aspiring apprentice, but he is forever an ardent student of the game who cherishes every moment of battle. One who understands that possessing a supposedly complete repertoire is equivalent to owning a drop that makes the mighty ocean. After all, it was Sir Isaac Newton himself who spake thus – “I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”

No one would sound even remotely unctuous when either of the names “Roger Federer” or “Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar” pop‐up to fit, nay, complete that earlier statement.

"BANG!" and a life lived...

*a deafening BOOM!*

*dust settling*

Throat parched, eyes blinded, ears shrill, his life flashed past...

**Aged 4**

"Bang! Die, bad men! Bang!"
 
"Amrit, now will you please put away your gun and have your lunch!"

"Mumma, I want to become an army-man when I grow up! No enemies! Only friends!" *beams the endearingly darnest of smiles that only kids can flash*

**Army training**

"Listen up lilly-livered layabout green-horns! This is a rifle! *holds it up* Not one of those musical guns you held as a brat!"

**Reality**

Men shrieking in pain,
It is war, he can't explain,
And as he lay, on the field, bleeding,
"Will I live to see all this ending..?"
He prayed, tears in eyes,
He breathes, just once. Dies.

- - -

A classic case of what started as a 55Fiction, ended up as a Drabble. A drabble, by the way, is very similar to a 55Fiction; the only difference being the word limit, which is a hundred or less. Discounting the scene descriptions (content between the asterisks), this composition runs to 99 words.

The Alchemist of precious rarity

A placard, Down Under, read - Commit all your crimes when Sachin is batting. They will go unnoticed for even the Lord is busy watching.

Another placard, ordained in Swiss colours, popular at every Grand Slam, read - Shh..! QUIET! Genius at work.

Let us do away with placards now. Words, however apt and riveting, will now have to give way to this modern-day alchemist. His bottomless, sonorous cauldron effervesces chaste melody. One who makes words swing to his seemingly ever-pervasive tunes. Annals of history await to embrace and immortalize him. Enter the tunesmith and his resonating columns. 

Friedrich Chopin wrote almost exclusively for the piano. Our tunesmith is par excellence at the keyboard. And we dub him - The Chopin of Chennai...

But the great Wolfgang Amadius Mozart composed melodies in every conceivable form - concertos, operas, symphonies, requiems... It goes without saying that Chopin held Mozart in great esteem. And our tunesmith is promptly dubbed again - The Mozart of Madras.

Let us do away with dubbing, too. For, it is a rather arduous and pointless task to liken pure genius across different eras. However much the Bradmans and Lavers behold our Tendulkars and Federers in awe, we know it is but mutual admiration and respect. Each generation springs a surprise package. We ought to consider ourselves lucky to witness feats of talent sublime and orchestrated brilliance wherever the said package sets foot. 

Our beloved tunesmith belongs to a different echelon - well beyond the archetypal melody tappers of today. Much like the artist and the warrior of sport lore, he is an elite excellence of symphonic execution. Needless to say, he is a composer with a staggering range - from raga to reggae to hip hop to Indian rustbelt folk to jungle rhythms to faux baroque, brewed with an unerring feel for melody, swing and soul.

Music, it is said, is food for the soul. An Earthly ambrosia for us mortals... We revel in reverie. When has his refulgent genius left us disappointed? Awarded or not, when have his compositions even seemed like an "also-ran" in front of a myriad others..?

That intrepid tunesmith, my brethren, is a beacon. A calibre of precious rarity, per se. It is rather unsurprising that we allow ourselves to remain entranced by this Pied Piper incarnate who, it has to be agreed, has been composing melodies of the future. To imagine that we are listening to it today, gives us much relief. A silent satisfaction. For, we have had the blessed fortune of tasting something that is futuristic. Moreover, we live to tell the tale and sing praises to his name. 

After all, we were not made to wait for another Wellsian classic (a la The Time Machine) to ruefully read, imagining when-oh-when shall we see all this live... Soothsayers! No longer, are you required to read entrails to look at the future. Augurs! No longer do you need to observe the flight and appetite of birds to aid your prediction. Oracles! No longer shall incense-fantasized, beautiful lasses serve as mediums of your foretelling. Away with such charlatans who thrive on credulity, and their Sibylline books!

The enchanting alchemist is here, equipped with clandestine concoctions and potions that breathe futuristic vibes to those alluring compositions. Search his soulful notes for a taste of the future. Embrace. You may be lucky to spot a hint in those well-knit chords...

Vibrant notes, soulful chords,

The tarot decrees – King of Swords!

A sovereign over his domain, he is the khan.

Heavens thunder, as he faces the odds,

“Rahman! Rahman! Rahman!”

---

Take a bow, OscAR Rahman, take a bow!

The Price of Freedom

I'd love to read your views on this topic.  Feel free to make yourself heard... Gratias.

Greetings one and all.

I scoured the internet for some of the best quotes on today's motion, The Price of Freedom, and the following statements appealed to me.

1. “The price of freedom is eternal vigilance” : Thomas Jefferson , third President of the United States of America
   
   
2. “A desire to resist oppression is implanted in the nature of man” : Publius Gaius Cornelius Tacitus , senator and historian of the Roman Empire.
   
   
3. “If you will not fight for the right when you can easily win without bloodshed; if you will not fight when your victory will be sure and not too costly; you may come to the moment when you will have to fight with all the odds against you and only a small chance of survival. There may even be a worst case: you may have to fight when there is no hope of victory, because it is better to perish than to live as slaves.” : Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill , Nobel Laureate, renowned statesman, historian and a former Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.
   

Profound statements indeed.

When our freedom is at stake, how do we react? We don't shirk, we don't placate, and we don't send regrets. Instead, we unleash the might of our army, our navy and our air force. Our men and women are placed in harms way; that is the price of freedom and it is often high…

It isn’t enough to desire freedom. Every human being on earth seeks freedom. However, freedom is defined in different ways by different people of differing environmental influences. Freedom means something very different to those who have only known tyranny, as compared to those who have only known freedom. For those who have lived in bondage, no price is too high for freedom. For those who have never known bondage, freedom often has little meaning.

Like life itself, which we assume will last forever on most days - we hardly appreciate freedom or life until we are on the brink of losing it. Then, often only then, do we grasp a deep appreciation for what we spend most days taking for granted. Must it come to the brink before we wise up? If so, I think we are getting close, too close for comfort anyway.

Freedom from something is not the same thing as freedom for something.

I may have freedom of speech, but for what purpose? There may be a free press, but to what end? Freedom without responsibility is misguided freedom at best.

Freedom is about choice. It's about choosing between what we want or makes us feel good and what is true to who we are as social beings and members of a global community. Freedom is about discernment and dialogue. It's about searching for the best choice that fits the truth of what it means to be in union with other countries.

Freedom is not about unilateral decisions or coalitions made up of the strongest military forces. It's about finding solutions to hunger, the spread of AIDS, displaced populations, the oppression of women, and other humanitarian concerns that have little to do with bombs and guns.

The price of freedom must not be limited to the number of lives given or those injured. The price of freedom is about living with less so others may have more. It's about listening when, as a nation, we have become so accustomed to doing the talking. It's about learning to see through the eyes of others before choosing our course of action.

Freedom is a collective movement that assumes a collective responsibility. If we are to find hope in all of this, it can only be through the renewed efforts of the United Nations to recover the unity of the international community and to take a leading role in rekindling the embers of freedom in the truest sense of the word.

Our freedom did not come free, and we know that. This dignity of humanity was earned by others at the greatest of costs. That's right. Earned. And they did not give freedom to us. They merely loaned us this marvel. It is ours only so long as we are willing to guard it jealously, to defend it, and to fight for it. We must constantly pay the price for freedom else it will be ripped away from us, as has happened to so many of the world's peoples of the past and of today.

But what is the price?

The price is caution. We must exercise these rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness very carefully. Whenever our actions begin to usurp the freedom of another person, we are beginning to destroy freedom for all.

The price is vigilance. We must be suspicious of practices that endanger freedom, and. cautious of people who promote such practices. Insidious encroachments will silently strip away our freedom little by little if we are not on guard.

The price is action. We must stand forcefully against threats - move actively against prejudice, bigotry, and unequal treatment of our countrymen. If you and I don't stand up for our rights - who will? But we cannot be hypocritical and consider that only us Indians deserve freedom. We must also be prepared to assist those in other countries. If we really believe in freedom, then it must be a belief in freedom for all people - the freedom for those of all countries to live in the way they think is best.

The price is education. We must study all the meanings of freedom - must learn when to be cautious, when to be vigilant, and. when to act.

The price is blood. We must defend freedom with our lives when necessary. This price bas been paid by many, so that we could grow up in freedom. If we also must die, it will at least be with the memory of freedom's sweetness. And the price will be paid for those who remain.

Sure. the price of freedom is high - in its cautious exercise, in vigilance, and in action - and in the blood of those who would enjoy freedom' s loveliness. But the choice is simple. To live enslaved and die, never knowing individual dignity - or to live - and perhaps die - as a free human being.

Of course, there are a lot other aspects of “freedom” which I may not have touched up on. One of them being freedom from emotions. I leave you to ponder over a very short story. 

Suppose you see a group of children playing on an oft-used railway track. You also notice an abandoned track nearby where a lone child amuses himself. You spot a train coming in the distance and you see yourself vested with the power, nay, freedom to switch the train's path. Will you go ahead and push the switch? Give it a thought. The cost of one life that knew it was an abandoned track over of a group of children..? That one life you probably choose to sacrifice may be one too many, for the track is abandoned, remember?

That said, freedom, from whatever it is, just isn't free.

Thank you.

---

Oration is something that has always spurred me. Addressing a sea of optic spheres that stare at your every gesticulation is not the easiest of tasks, per se, but I must say I have always enjoyed the prospect of addressing a body of people. After all it is the listener's loss, not mine! *smirk*

Jokes off. 

The Price of Freedom happened to be my last performance as an orator (back in university, March '08). I will upload the audio when I get my laptop fixed. You just read the transcript (of what supposedly was my first and till date only prepared/researched speech) and I really appreciate your patience in reading it in it's entirety.

That Christmas Eve...

Cold winds shrieked as they hit against the window pane. It was nearly two hours since the shop had closed. After all, it was Christmas tomorrow; and who would want to be late for home on Christmas-eve? The residential area was not near by. Not a soul stirred in the desolate road... None but one. A waif. Whose gasped breathing seemed to be a desperate attempt at keeping his young lungs warm in the biting cold.

Little Ronny stood under the light of a lamp-post which was right outside the glass window... Stood. He stood so that the exposed parts of his already under-nourished body could try and absorb some of the warmth that seemed to emanate from the nebuluous light. Ronny could not sit. The pavement was too cold for his raw bottoms. He tried to balance himself by standing on his toes. He needed all of the faint warmth that his near four-foot frame could grope for. 

It would be Christmas soon... Ronny continued to throw hungry glances at the window. Hungry because his stomach ached. Hungry, also, because his will ached. He remembered promising his little sibling "that pretty-pretty pink doll which shhmiled shooo cutely"... That doll lay right behind the glass barrier. Ronny wished he had the strength of Samson - to break the glass. Ah! The lamp-post! But suddenly he wished he hadn't. How could he steal? His dead parents would not like it. But how could he refuse his sister... He knew the pain of an unfulfilled wish. His parents could not afford him an action figure. His sister was all innocence then. She knew no material pain. But now, she had grown into his treasured possession. His little Ree. He winced at the thought of a Christmas tainted by her tears...

There was a brick lying nearby... It was too big for his little hands. Nonetheless, he decided to give it a go. A faint rustle stopped him in his tracks. He looked around. Was there someone waiting to pounce on him? Kidnap him? Or worse; arrest him and throw him in a dark gaol cell? Any plain-clothesman on duty? Ronny's little mind raced... He spotted someone... Was it the beggar? Yeah..! It was "the beggar with the red eyes"... He was towering and gaunt. Ronny feared he was up to no good. But then again... How could anyone be up to no good on Christmas? It just didn't seem right!

All of a sudden, it started raining... The rain came down hard. A storm during Christmas was pretty much unheard of. Ronny ran across the road and hid under a shade. He began to sob... Heavy sobs. He was already drenched. Little feet do not have a long stride... The soaked countenance camouflaged his tears. The sobs became a wail, which was in turn drowned amidst thunder and the fulminating clouds. Then lightning struck and the gale howled. Party-poopers gate crashing a silent Christmas.

*** *** *** *** ***

Ronny woke when the faintest of sunlight blessed the Earth. He seemed all warm... "I must be having a terrible fever. Poor nanny will have even more trouble because of me." His thoughts were interrupted by an ancient voice. "Aww, Sonny boy's awayke awre yew dearie... Slept well?" It was the beggar. Ronny trembled at the sight of those bloodshot eyes. Warmth gave way to a tingling chill... The man, but smiled. "Aye, me lad... Wan' me ol' bag o' bones to tayke yew 'ome? No? Naaw there yew gow... Merry Christmas!" He thrust a bundle under Ronny's arm. Ronny took a look at himself with his bleary eyes. A few more layers of clothing, however ragged, adorned him. The beggar reclined against the wall and watched the numb, bewildered boy silently take leave.

Day broke. News of the strong winds, the sudden rains and the devilish lightning taking out a bent lamp-post began to spread. However, there was no news made of the limp cadaver. For, a stone's throw away from the lamp-post was a bare, gaunt body lying lifeless on the cold Earth. The eyes were red. But there was a tranquil serenity about the face, which also bore a pacific smile. Upon finally being discovered, there were talks that he resembled some Saint Nicholas. Humankind is not new to gossip.

Ree would have her Christmas after all...

*** *** ***

"He wishes for the cloths of heaven" (William Butler Yeats) came to my mind as I wrote that story. It is one of my favourites...

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

*** *** ***

Here's wishing you and all your family a very Merry Christmas. May the Holy Spirit usher in times of affluence and well-being. Let us try and bring a smile on someone's face. 

Peace on Earth, goodwill to men. (I love that hymn!)

Unforgiving Africa

Wild Africa has never ceased to amaze me. The first time I came across the word ‘Serengeti ’, I was a fifth standard student- on a visit to Science City, Kolkata (erstwhile Calcutta). There has been no looking back since. I guess I have watched all related documentaries broadcasted by NGC/Discovery thus far! J 

The sun was beating down… The land was parched and vegetation was scarce. It was one of those horrid African summers in the Serengeti. And a typical day in the lives of those who inhabited the land- long, searing and unforgiving. Long- for, that’s how it would seem. Searing- for obvious reasons, the relentless sun. Enfin, unforgiving- because if you cannot survive, you won’t. Simple. Period. This held true irrespective of the hunter and the hunted.

Didja Laddé was old. She needed her rest, and was desperate for some shade- the only respite from, what would otherwise be a cauldron. Her name translates to ‘Lady of the Jungle’. And she was a paradigm of the great feline- for she had been bestowed with such features. Awe, beauty, care and strength morphed into her with such enviable ease. She was indeed a phenomenon in that brute of a land she was born into. She was the Lady of the Serengeti…

In her prime, she had no competitor among her sisters. She had won many a battle. Wildebeests, zebras et al could testify. Just that, cadavers cannot render any testimony. And her mate was no less in splendor. He was one of the finest males the land had seen. But he was lazy… It was her responsibility, along with her sisters, to feed the pride. And he would help in bringing down the odd buffalo. Of course, biological compatibility was always there. Didja Laddé mothered many a cub and the pride swelled in number.

Ah, the glorious past… Her mate had succumbed to age. And now, she was alone. Well past her prime, she had taken violently ill. The pride had abandoned her. Didja Laddé found some cessation in the form of an old, lone tree. She rested, periodically shaking her head to drive away those tormenting flies… She looked up. The moon was a faint disc. Very faint. It was early afternoon… The giggle of hyenas could be heard in the distance as they ate into an unfortunate wildebeest. Ugh! She loathed them hyenas. Those snarling, snickering thieves… What do they know about pugilism? Hyenas and lions never get along. May be Lion King was a momentary exception… But of course Didja Laddé would never accept that, leave alone knowing about it!

She had survived thus far… However cruel the ambiance was. She had been a fighter all her life. She matched whatever Nature had to throw… It was not for nothing that she was named Didja Laddé by those who had been following her life in Africa’s ecosystem that is known to play host to the world’s largest and longest overland migration.

It was evening. Soon enough, another clan of hyenas closed in on where she was… May be they were old enemies. Familiar, rather. Didja Laddé could sense an odd familiarity about them. She had been successful in protecting her kill from them on earlier occasions. But that evening, there was no kill she was protecting. But then, why were they there..? The foursome… Surrounding her… Snarling… Eerie giggles filling up the environment.

The old lady roared from where she was resting… But it was no longer the authoritative roar of a queen. It was more of a warning to ward off those foul-mouthed interlopers. She could sense the imminent danger. Escapism, however, was not known to her. She would fight to the very end. The retractable claws were ready… The Clan could smell weakness. They could smell blood. Royal blood… Revelling in royal blood was no mean feat to them. The hunter was soon to be the hunted.

The quartet closed in… Teeth gnarling, mouths salivating. You could see all the eyes glimmering in the darkness that was setting in. Didja Laddé was ready… With a leap mighty enough for her age, she took out one of her attackers. Her jaws had not betrayed her. Her canines buried into her smaller adversary’s spine…

But her overall agility was nowhere as efficient as it had been before. Indeed, age does have a lot to say. She failed to swerve away from her other assailants. Her strength was suddenly failing her. Illness was having a say too. Nature is cruel. Even the mighty have to fall, and in the end- she went; her weak growls drowned in the moonlit darkness amidst ghoulish laughs. Hyenas are known to eat away at live prey… Jaws that can crack bone as if it were a twig…

---

Am back after a hiatus. And well, am off again. I tell you- training is such a pain in the posterior! Sorry for not having visited any blog page for the past two weeks. I will do so, very very soon. A couple of certification examinations are around the corner and loads of assessments (to add to the 80-odd I have already given since August 21^st). Well, I guess that’s a rant for later. Au revoir…

My family and I extend our hearty Diwali greetings to all of you. Peace, take care and blessed be.

The dazzling panoply of a rivalry

The easel was set-up. With a colourful palette, a ready brush, a myriad ideas and a plethora of strokes in his repertoire, the artist was ready. Movements so elegant, so graceful, so profound and ever so sublime would have the audience spell-bound and rapt at attention. There was a surreal touch to his work. Oh the finesse of it all! His actions were exquisite and par excellence. More often than not, the way he would go about his job would be lucid and ethereal… For, his competitors would be left far behind gaping, seemingly tactless and wondering what had just hit them. Such was his dominance when he and his challengers took stage.

All but one. It is known that Mother Nature has her own unique way to deal with dominance. And so, it seemed only too fair that such great a talent should be bogey to someone. Enter the warrior. One who was not to be intimidated by any show of invincibility or ‘Godliness’. One who gnawed at the artists back. One who more than just troubled poetic pulchritude with a polar brilliance- puissance. Reminiscent of the tireless Heracles himself, this raging and rampant marauder was no cheap mercenary or bounty hunter. He was on a mission, too.

And what happens when irresistible force meets immovable object? A spectacle for us mere mortals to behold in awe. A wonder… A phenomenon that has to be seen to be believed. For, one of the said mighty has to fall, albeit momentarily, in an exhibition of contrasting art- however unique their ways may seem. The enchantment that holds those who witness the contest is worth every moment. These novae tend to illuminate the grandest of stages ad infinitum. The legacy left behind becomes the talk of raconteurs for generations till another equally (if not better) august exhibition of talent comes to the fore. And such narrations of prowess and fortitude are never ad nauseam!

It is a funny issue, the one we call a ‘paradox’. How beauty and monstrosity can charm the beholder in their own subtle ways. No wonder the captivation factor reaches its zenith when such wizards cross each other’s path in their quest for immortality. For, they are the exultant ones of the highest order… The elite Excellencies of execution… They reach heights which plebs and puerile characters can only dream of. Their mastery of the light and dark arts is put to a litmus test.

Spirit, they say, is indomitable, unending and unyielding. Indeed… The spirit of competition is ever-lasting and even vengeful! In a work of note- Ode on a Grecian Urn - the inimitable John Keats expressed how the seen are ephemeral and how the unseen are eternal… When Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal contest one another, Father Time may seem to have a sepulchral aura about Him and willingly takes the back seat to revel in a feast not for the eyes alone, but for Time immemorial. Moments, ephemeral and eternal, unite…

Goal of Religion...

Been a bit held up since my last post... This should have been published long back. Nevertheless, I will come straight to the point. A disclaimer- this post may seem to contradict what I have said earlier. ;) But, as I always say; discussions welcome. :)

Reflections, amidst the on-going [so called] training stuff; "All religions lead to the same goal", is a concept widely subscribed by many educated people. I feel that this notion needs to be enquired into and understood.
If all religions have a well-defined and common goal, the difference would be purely cultural (A post on 'Culture' is pending; I will publish it soon). Difference in culture is totally acceptable, to any thinking person (a la René Descartes: Cogito, ergo sum; I think, therefore I am). If all the religions have an identical intent, will there be any religious issue that necessitates a discussion? But then, what is the truth of the statement "All religions lead to the same goal"?

If ethical values constitute the goal of religion, certainly there is a singular goal adopted by all religions, the ethical values being universal. I raise questions here- should any person be religious to be ethical? Is there a need to be educated by religious scriptures alone to know what is ethical and what is not? Is it not true that any normal/sane human being is well informed about universal values? From the aboriginal in the outback of Australia, to the Zulus in Africa, to the pandit in India and to the Pope in Rome- for starters, they share at least this value; not getting hurt at the hands of  the other! That others also do not want to get hurt from him/her is also very well known to them. Other values like honesty, compassion, sharing, etc. are equally known facts. Ipso facto, they form the moral infrastructure for human interaction, not only with one another but also with other organisms that inhabit this world. This value-knowledge is born of human common sense. When there is this faculty of choice for a human being, there should be a matrix of norms known to him for making the right, rather appropriate, choice(s). If the human being is totally programmed, there will be no such thing as right or wrong in human behaviour. Without religious masters and religious scriptures preaching about right and wrong, one is very well informed about them. Therefore, ethical values cannot constitute the goal of any religion; for one can be ethical without being religious in anyway.

On the other hand, some religions take away the universality of these common-sense-born values by giving sanction to the killing of those who do not conform to their beliefs and who articulate their non-conformity. That the common-sense-born ethics are better off, without any interference by religion, is really a cause for sadness. In fact, religion should confirm the universal values as most of them do. The Vedic religion adds strength to the value-structure by introducing punya (virtue) and paap (sin) for actions that are right and wrong. Many other popular religions also introduce this element of reward and punishment. Suppose the goal for all religions is just reward or punishment, we may be able to say that all religions have the same goal despite the differences in these rewards and punishments.
Theology differs from religion to religion. The concept of the reality of God, this world and ‘you’ is again thought of differently. More often, God is looked upon as a judgmental person located in a place yonder; albeit He is considered as an embodiment of all the attributes we associate with Him. Reaching that place and living with Him is the goal. Neither the Vedic religion nor Buddhism will accept this as a goal. A devout Christian will not accept any goal other than reaching heaven as promised by his scripture. Here again, it comes to mind, what does the statement that "All religions lead to the same goal" mean?
For a vaidika (someone under the direction of Vedic instrustions) who accepts with total understanding that this world including one's body-mind-sense complex is the Lord's manifestation, any form of prayer and worship is valid. Every name and form is valid enough to invoke the Lord, the Lord being every name and form. But prayer- mental, oral or ritualistic- is karma, and capable of producing a result. The given result is not the goal of religions much less the goal of any individual even if one thinks so. The goal of an informed vaidika is freedom from a sense of limitation centered on 'I'. Can there be an ultimate goal for a human being other than this? The freedom, moksha/nirvaana, from this sense of limitation is the human goal.

The Vedas say that the sense of limitation is due to one not knowing oneself. Then, it is obvious that the human goal is Self-knowledge/realization. The theologies of various world religions do not have anything to do with this goal. They are committed to their own beliefs even though they are non-verifiable and more often than not, unreasonable. They have a right to have their beliefs which do not have any space for accommodating other religious goals. But these beliefs are not acceptable to the thinking individual. They are not acceptable to a person who understands moksha either. So, all that a vaidika can say is "All forms of prayer are valid". Being an act, karma, each prayer can produce a limited result. One wants a limited result in life too (Isn't this contradicting to saying, our wants are unending?). But it can never be the goal of religion...

I hope I have not hurt any religious sentiments here. Please feel free to correct me if I have erred anywhere. I am not someone overtly erudite with the Vedas. What I have penned down here is a result of the odd discussion I have had with people, and what I have gathered after reading various articles. Yes, I am still a confused soul… One article, I talk about Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa practicing the major religions et al, and now- this… ;)