Hatikvah

Blink

2011-01-08T22:05:00.000-08:00

Last week, as the year ended, we finally sold off our Zen. 10 years of memoirs went in a stroke of marketing genius as the automobile was sold for 80% of its purchase price after a decade (I must hasten to add that the aforementioned marketing masterstroke was my dad's and not mine).

The formalities completed, we handed over the keys, and walked off. However, like the Taj, you really must glance back for one last look at your precious.

Blink!

It was dusk, and a single ray pierced through the arched dome of the adjacent Gurudwara. The light perhaps obscured my sight, but I thought I saw a li'l kid at the side of the wheels, excitedly prattling to his father who steered the vehicle through the gates of the temple after the ritualistic offerings.

A shock of hair, he surveyed the knobs on the dashboard with wondrous delight, the colours amazing his senses in a way, his future years wouldn't hold his sway...

Blink!

The li'l kid seemed to have grown up a li'l bit. He was nervous. He had a match at college.Would he be able to play that one innings of glory. Or would a stupid short pitched delivery elicit a ridiculous and oft repeated pull shot to end at deep square leg. The bowler charged in after being cover driven for a boundary. The delivery was short...

Blink!

A billion screams emerged from those six friends, as they crammed in the boxy interiors of the car on 31st. night. Sweat, bad jokes about the driver and anticipation of new beginnings drove the car forward. We didn't know where we were going. We didn't care. Times, when the journey mattered, not the destination...

Blink!

She looked gorgeous. Everything in the car stared at her. Everything but my eyes. First date. First drive. Who'd have known that beauty was effervescent...

Blink!

The kid was now an adolescent. More. The Zen now was a friend, a peer, a guide. It listened with the patience of a counselor as the growing up sauntered with his heart's tale. The ones, no one would know. From campus interviews (the heartbreak and rejoices) to the future unknown (fears, apprehension, hope, courage), people, life. The Zen listened.

Blink!

A new threshold in life opens. One adventure has ended. Another is about to start. This one for life...

Blink...

The sun-ray had disappeared! So did the Zen!

Somewhere along, I saw a familiar li'l boy peer through the windows as my decade long friend made way into another life.

Blink...

India Shining

2010-09-11T03:42:00.000-07:00

As narrated by a friend:

Sometimes, its all about grassroots. Amidst the bonhomie of frivolity, sometimes, a sojourn to the basics can be refreshing alike a spring gushing before a parched throat.

Deepika was your everyday copywriter, with an admirable command over the language and the vanity to match. Hailing from a flourishing, and traditional Rajput family, she was your archetype Indian youth, caught between two worlds - One of a plagiarized lifestyle of the West, and the other, of her own, most of which she couldn't make sense of.

All of that mattered little to her as she revved her hatchback to overdrive on a solitary Jaipur street, emptied as much due to the heat, as owing to the weekend that consigned everyone to their abodes. Content writing could be demanding, with the best of the efforts falling flat on the quirkies of the client. Deepika, a psychology major, remained unfazed by the demands of her job. She was one of those rare few, who enjoyed her assignments, for her creations allowed her the luxury of the illusion that her writings were, in a small way, a contribution to a nation that was, in itself caught in two worlds of its own.Today, was however different. A grimacing Deepika was still contemplating the points of refutal to counter Soumya, her friend's argument over the concept of India Shining. It wasn't going to be easy, as the latter had quoted facts and figures that painted a damning picture of the nation, much of which was actually true. Patriotic fervor can only stand so much against reasoned debating.

Drat, she thought, as the lights turned red, just as she approached the C scheme intersection. Glancing around, she could almost catch a glimpse of Vasundhara Raje's ministerial abode. Neither she, nor the world would know that the political scion would have to give up her official residence shortly, and kick up an avoidable storm over a simple kiss a few days down the line.

A knock on the window shook her from her reverie. Craning her neck, she observed, with studied indifference, the street urchin, peering curiously into the dashboard of her car while making a fervent plea for the alms she had no intention of doling out. Instead, her interests were more piqued by the Porsche that had just pulled up besides. Sleek, elegant, jet black, it housed an apt set of hands and legs munching gum behind the wheel. The dark glasses turned towards her, and a casual smile exchanged lips over the shock of hair of the urchin.

By this time, the urchin had realized that Deepika wasn't going to resemble the sweet old lady who had given him an ice-cream alongside a 10 rupee note a few hours back, and decided to try his luck with the Porsche driver.

Deepika was still marveling at the automobile, as the urchin made his way to its window, when the young lad behind wheels lent out and spat out the gum on the street. Seconds later, a disgusted Deepika encountered an even greater shock, as she distinctly heard the urchin remonstrate the guy in the Porsche,

"Sharam nahin aati...(have you got no shame?)"

The lights had turned green by now, and as she sped away, Deepika smiled for the first time since morning.

She had to tell this to Soumya, India was still shining...

The Little Bird

2010-09-09T01:40:00.000-07:00

...the little bird disappear over the horizon.

28/05/2010

I jumped into the waiting super deluxe express from Tatanagar, the silent behemoth beckoning my journey that I'd prepared for all this while. As I made my way through the mass of appendages, my mind lay in the wonders of my destination - Calcutta.

It didn't seem then, that this journey would ever be plausible. Raised in Jamshedpur, I was expected to follow my father's heels in the steel making chambers of the Tatas'. Truth be told, they had changed our fortunes, alike a majority of the 1.8 million residents who eked out their living from the many enterprises that Tatanagar played host to. Fate, however had other plans. A chance encounter in a theatre with a friend forced me to take on a dancing role and my mentor was in the audience, taking a holiday from the hustle bustle of Job Charnock's city. He was scheduled to leave the next day, but before he left, he left his number and a note to call him. 2 years of mind numbing efforts later, I was finally headed to Calcutta to participate in the World Latin Ballroom dance contest. I smiled at the irony. An ordinary forger's son, grooving to beats he plausibly would have never heard of, but for the insistence of a perceived stubborn friend.

I stared down at my legs, hardened and tempered from the countless hours of practice, the muscles flexed at tendons, a work of art. The very legs, that would carry me across the dance stage to the victory podium, along with Shruthi, my dance partner, I reminisced as most juveniles do.

A shrill whistle from the train's engine cut across my reverie. It was gliding past the picturesque landscape of Jharkhand border. Soon, very soon, I'd be in West Bengal, I thought, and even sooner, with some of the best dancers one could ever hope to see. The countryside glided by, in a blur of green and turuqoise. The rustic portrait of the state spread itself to the extent my sight could behold, and the golden rays of the great orb lent a halo to that pristine sight. A dusty lane snaked itself across the meadows, carrying with it, a cyclist headed for his destination, with a bag of knick-knacks slung across his shoulders. A mother hurriedly gestured to her kids, splashing about in the nearby puddle, the little shrubs swaying to the wind with a grace I couldn't hope to emulate in my moves. Amidst all this, banners of "Long live Mao Tse Tung" and "Marxism is the cure" adorned either side of the verdant panorama.

And then I saw the little bird. Black plumage, with little white stripes across its wings, the golden beaked creature glided across the empty sky. It was the first time, I'd seen a bird of so diminutive a size, glide across. It didn't have the majesty of the eagle, but it soared with a sense of promise that made my insides come alive with ecstasy. The sight of that little bird across the sky, spread out and free, seemed to hark a vista of hope, of luck, of joy, of freedom, of victory.

And that's when it struck!

The thousand screams that chorused with the crunching of metal, couldn't have known moments before, that the fish plates were loosened, the rail lines removed and that weeks after the accident, the Maoists would go into a denial mode after being accused of derailing the express. It all seemed pointless now.

As I managed to raise my battered head amidst the mangled wreckage of the derailed express, and over the thousand promises of pain, my body made to me, the last sight I glimpsed before passing out was that of both my legs were blown off below the knees and between them, I saw the little bird disappear over the horizon.

The Good German

2010-05-22T09:59:00.000-07:00

Dr. Klaus Thannheauser, at six feet three inches and commensurate broad frame embodied the typical German, but for the smile that seemed out of sync with the neighborhood and one that endeared him to me instantly.

I met him on a business trip, wherein he graciously offered to host me for a weekend, and drove me through the idyllic surroundings of Dortmund, Duisburg and Hannover. Somewhere along the drive, I realized, that I'd become as immersed in the fascinating tales of this towering German, born one year after the World saw the second of its biggest wars, as he took me through his formative years and the potpourri of his experiences.

Like any other of his kind, Dr. Klaus grew up in a state of deprivation that Germany was subjected to, in the post war aftermath, as his father attempted to put together the business, that had been dismantled by the machinations of evolving global politics. Herr Thannheauser Sr. was a strict guardian and insisted that all four of his children ought to undergo vocational training that would hold them in good stead in the new World.

Young Klaus had other ideas, and talked his father into letting him go to the United States to work the way he wanted to. I wondered what must have been the deliberation swirling in the mind of his father when young Klaus propositioned thus. A young German, wanting to go, in less than a decade since the end of the Second World War, to a nation that had contributed significantly in the destruction of his own Fatherland.

He relented, as must all Fathers do, and handed young Klaus a cheque of $500 for the next whole year that he was to spend in the U.S as emergency money, and waved goodbye to the steel blue eyes of his ward with the parting words of wisdom ,

"Remember Klaus, hunger is not an emergency!"

As I looked into the eyes of the old man peering across the steering wheel into the sun-kissed gravel, I saw the same steeliness that was forged by the wisdom of his father five decades back. It was so obvious, that he almost didn't need to tell me, "Soumya, it was such a moment of pride for me, when I brought back that cheque and told my old man, that I had made it on my own" (his father coolly said "Oh, well done!" and tore off the cheque in two and went back to his pipe"). "I believe, I'm a better man for those hardships that I endured".

My last question to Dr. Thannheauser was how did it feel like, being in a nation, that had brought his to its knees, and was, in some way, responsible for the hardships that he had to endure during his upbringing. His response smacked of an optimism, that was like a zephyr in an ambiance parched of any freshness.

He said, during the War, his father's best friend, a Jew, fled the country. Five years, after the War was over, his father could track his friend down to London, where he discovered, that his friend had lost his wife and all his relatives to Hitler's depravity. They met up, and vowed, never to let the hatred of the War percolate to the next generation. "Soumya," said the would-be-Septuagenarian, "the greatest battles between the good and evil are usually fought within and we need to ensure that the former prevails".

Fittingly, Dr. Klaus married an American, and went on to expand his father's business in a manner that didn't require him to tell his son,

"Remember Christopher, Hunger is not an Emergency..."!

LSD - A noxious high

2010-03-25T00:51:00.000-07:00

Voyeurism is ubiquitous. Its ubiquitously reviled in public and applauded in the solitary confinements of our mind. With LSD, DB (Dibakar Bannerjee) turns the former on its head. For once, a theatre full of moviegoers succulently smacked their lips and cheered full throated at seeing some of their own thoughts, if not their lives being played out on the giant screen before them. DB doles out his ode to the Devil without garnishing it with the moral turpitude, for he knows we sold out our souls long back, to even care. This nation needs prime time entertaintment, not a bohemian discourse in morality;

The film has been hailed as a masterpiece by some sections of the critiques and more. I'm hardly surprised. After all, we are the same nation that eulogized the makers of Kaminey as India's Tarentino. Whether this is a reflection of an all pervading sense of mediocrity, or the brazen imprints of a colonial hangover is a subject that merits a separate post. Personally, I found LSD to be a good experiment, brilliantly enacted, and suitably dumbed down for the popcorn audience to enable them a mirage of being participants in an alleged intellectual pursuit of the abstracts sorts.

So, what works? For starters, Bollywood has rarely experimented with digital cuts from handheld camcorders (so what, if there are about a million masterpieces at FTII and other such places. They will never see the light of the day because the normal paying public want to see a few jokers masquerade as actors who are in turn directed by effeminate directors doling out coffee and filling their coffers).

What can be commended beyond reasonable doubt is the pedigree of the performances. The actors (and actresses) fleshed out the characters under the aegis of a director who knew exactly what he wanted. And so, we saw pitiful angst,heartfelt innocence, disturbing rage, forced betrayal, shaken morality, vexed insecurity, touching abstinence, naked lust all rolled into one potpourri called LSD. Boy, sure suffices to give a high...

Which brings me to the one question I walked out of the film with. What was the whole purpose? Was it to entertain? Was it to shock? Was it to comment on the nature of our society and the devious turns our own lives are snaking towards? Did we not know of the casting couch saga, or the Miss Name-whatever-City scandal, the brutal cocktail of money and carnal delights, the horrific repercussions of adolescent rebellion in marital affairs and so on and so forth. Isn't society's very existence today, a putrid testimony to the deviants portrayed on screen? Where was the scope for debate?

About 3 decades back, a certain genius named Satyajit Ray directed a masterpiece called Agantuk. Ray's story questioned the society of that era. It however, did so, with a debate that compelled the viewer to deliberate upon the the nuances of civilization. LSD is a freeway headed towards a straitjacketed destination of the director's view of our society. Dark, Darker, Darkest; No light at the end of the tunnel. Not even Sidhu's light of the approaching train.

Now, even for a cynical Bengali, that's transgressing the ethos of objectivity. No commentary is complete unless it leaves room for debate, for deliberation and for acceptance. With LSD, I missed an opportunity to exercise my now almost extinct grey cells. It seemed almost vapid.

Was it a good experiment? Undoubtedly! Was it good cinema? Maybe! Is it a masterpiece? You gotta be on LSD to even suggest that...

The Grass is Greener...

2010-02-23T23:14:00.000-08:00

The searing pain in my legs screamed at me to stop the rigour I was putting them through, as I trudged along the roads flanked by the evening sun en route my jogging trail. I ignored their pleas and drove myself harder, notwithstanding the thousand promises of agony my body made me. At the end of it, as I lumbered off, I saw him...

I was never a chiseled hunk, but when I couldn't survive for ten overs on the cricket due to sheer lack of stamina and finally failed to cover a yorker on off stump owing to the fact that my expanding girth constrained my stance, and thereby the ability to get the bat down on time, the unpleasant truth dawned upon me. I'd become a slave to my indulgences, and banishing that slavery was going to be a long, arduous path, snaking endless kilometers up and down the Yewr mountains flanking my twelfth storey abode at Thane, Bombay.

So, there I was, hauling myself amidst grunts up the road that eerily mirrored a sine curve, though unfortunately displaying more crests than troughs. My breath came in shallow bursts as somebody seemed to suck the oxygen from the atmosphere and every step was an embarrassing reminder of just how much ground, I'd left to gain. I could almost feel the fat in my chest and midsection voice their displeasure at being disturbed after being catered to for ages by dint of my culinary extravagances.

As cliches go, all bad times come to an end (they just seem to last way longer than the good ones do) and so did my tryst with the mountain that evening. As I walked off, weary after a jog that'd be considered amateurish by any regular on that track, I saw him.

He appeared a laborer, to my judgement at first sight. A shock of unkempt hair bore witness to his toils as it was matted with the dirt and filth that so abounds at construction sites. The sweat glistened off his brows as his eyes perched atop his forehead to catch a glimpse of his son hoisted over his shoulders. He rocked the little boy gently, as he took careful steps towards the hawker his son was excitedly gesticulating towards. A packet of flavored ice and a few coins changed hands as the lad feasted on the delicacy. His father surveyed the toddler with a sense of pride of being able to purchase him a moment of happiness, something, I suspected, wasn't an everyday occurrence.

The kid, unaware of his father's pecuniary status, demanded a second helping, at which those proud shoulders drooped. He'd run out of means to avail the next round of smiles for his son. A few words passed his lips as he cradled the boy's slanted countenance, and on turning around, caught my eyes. It was the first time I saw him in entirety. A mass of brown muscles slithered across his lithe frame. His endless slog had burnt off the last sliver of flabbiness that so dominated my subcutaneous layer. I'm sure he never hit a gym, didn't know what crunches were and certainly didn't follow the 4000 INR/month diet that my consultant had recommended to me. And yet, he had everything I craved for. He could, at that instant, easily scale up the mountain twice over, that I'd struggled to merely jog across, if it could buy him the extra scoop of flavored ice for his son.

I wondered, what he thought of the figure I cut. Dressed in tracks and fancy sports shoes, I'd my Sony Walkman strapped to my ears and sported a Kenneth Cole watch that was shimmering in the dusk. Did he envy my relative fiscal suzerainty? Could he see beyond the package and read my desire to achieve the fitness that would never desert him.? To be able to lead a life, where watching ones son feast on a mound of coloured ice was a source of paramount joy. Or was it a case of The Grass Forever Being Greener on the Other Side?

We sauntered away in opposite directions, my mind meandering to many a memoir each bringing with it fond reminiscences that made me feel distinctly closer to life. Of times, when I thundered down the tracks with a ball in my hand and fire in my eyes, of times, when I could bend my body to my will, and not the other way around, of times when I first learnt to cycle away, aided by my father as he hoisted me on his shoulders after I expectedly toppled over! It didn't involve a Kenneth Cole Watch, a Sony Walkman or the fancy boots that I currently wore. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming wish, that just for once, that unknown father knew the magic of the moment he was encased in, and just for once, he didn't feel, when he looked at me, that the grass is greener...

My Name is Khan, Khan from the Heart

2010-02-14T11:38:00.000-08:00

First things first! I'm no Shah Rukh fan and I'd no sooner like Karan Johar than mix my favourite fruit punch with a liberal dose of canary poop.

So, this afternoon, I went for the noon show of MNIK aided by a juicy epilogue of a review from a dear friend in whose opinion I've reposed considerable value in the recent past. It took only a couple of scenes to dispel that opinion, not in its entirety, but enough to blunt the scathing sheen I'd let myself be quoted with.

To begin with, what could have been improved in the movie. Atleast 20 minutes could have been trimmed off in sub plots that only deterred from the crux of the movie. Somehow, there was a glut of messages the director endeavoured to communicate to his audience and it doesn't always work. In this case, it didn't work for me. Khan's compassion was evident, without raising him to superhero status. Also, it seemed, atleast to me, that while the movie, amidst various other tracks, tried to question the notion that An ordinary man can't meet the President Of The United States, it ended up reinforcing the very notion by showing Khan meeting POTUS only after displaying his compassion tantamount to his supernatural ability to fix a village just by gesticulating with his appendages. Also, Mr. KJo, Muslims around the world don't exactly have to prove their innocence by informing the FBI about Jihadi outfits (as don't Jihadi outfits discuss their indoctrination in the open environment of a mosque). Ideologically, it was a BIG drawback within the film. As a viewer, I felt that the movie attempted to show that a Muslim can be considered innocent only after managing to discover an extremist coterie or something equivalent. Its a sad reflection of the world that we live in. Somehow, we just can't see without our rose tinted glasses.

What was good about the film. Plenty! How I wish, SRK imbibed few aspects of autism in all his future projects. It cuts out the histrionics to such admirable levels. MNIK is a stark illustration of this point. His Asperger's Syndrome is like manna from heaven for us viewers who know the Star's capability to act when he's not busy declaring to the world that he's the moniker of all eyes, which usually happens nine out of ten films. Well, this was the tenth one. The syndrome didn't allow him to ham, and while the expected overacting did seep through in a couple of scenes, they were thankfully juxtaposed with ample flashes of brilliance. Watch out for the scene when he breaks into a shy giggle after being proposed by Kajol, or the one, when he declares to a church about his personal tragedy with muted grief. The eyes do all the talking and that's when you know that you have a good actor in your midst. Kajol is back after a hiatus, and how. (I'm a tad biased for her, so please excuse any excessive praise herein) The actress packs in a sincere and endearing performance as Mandira. Its not her best, and to be fair, it'd take a bit to go one better than DDLJ or Dushman, to name a few, but she gave her best to the role. I've heard comments from many a corner stating that she went over the top towards the end (She screeches, someone said). Well, the screech came at a time of intense personal angst, and I wonder how many mothers would react differently in the situation, her character was cast in at that moment. Go, watch the film to know what I'm talking of. The support cast does a decent job, albeit having very little to do. The music scores, and the two melodies - Sajda and Noor-e-Khuda are lilting gems in a casket of ornaments. A lot has been said about the cinematography. I have, to the contrary, seen far better work, even within Bollywood (Black and Kal Ho Na Ho being two examples that I can quote from the top of my head).

Someday, and hopefully before I meet my maker, Bollywood will appreciate the power of subtlety. It has, so far, managed to butcher brilliant ideas on the alter of melodrama. MNIK suffers from this syndrome but thankfully not to the extent that epic disaster titled Rann did. It could have been a sensitive film that would have connected with the audience had it stuck to its original premise of expressing the torment of Rizwan Khan whose simplicity is brutally massacred by a world increasingly dominated by the evil of prejudice and radicalism. That having said, it was nice to see KJo emerge from his candy floss romance and attempt, sincerely if I may say so, to mesh insightful cinema with commercial entertaintment. Its a long journey, but as a viewer, I came back gladdened with the knowledge that the first steps have been taken...

An Evening with the Bridesmaid

2010-01-20T21:06:00.000-08:00

Last week, two incidents of monumentally tragic proportions occurred. Firstly, Jyoti Basu, having been reduced to a condition that remarkably mirrored the State he ruled for 5 terms in the office, breathed his last. Last I heard, a grand total of 4 bleary eyed visitors thronged the hospital he was admitted to. Of course, they had been misinformed that it was the venue for Neetu Chandra's upcoming photoshoot for Kingfisher's 5000th. calender.

Secondly, I had to go shopping with the bridesmaid of a dear friend for a wedding that was finally on its way after about 5 reschedules (the last one was called off because a giant anaconda had somehow made its way up the bride's dress during a trial run, and she did not feel it, given the weight of her dress. The alert designer noticed, what seemed like a tail sticking out of the would-be-bride's, um, backside and I'll let your colourful imagination figure out the rest).

I digress!

Emerging from a shopping spree with the bridesmaid is like being released from the Auschwitz... preferably unscathed. Its also a mathematical improbability.

Those of you veterans who have already been exposed to the delights of this task, which includes chasing the traffic cop halfway across the city for locking your car whose shadow had crept into the no-parking zone by about half a millimeter while your shopaholic companion blissfully figured out the mysteries governing the choice between the 4593th. and the 7456th. gift that you had encountered in as many shops, would know exactly the kind of day I had.

No, seriously! It has its advantages too. For starters, after the shopping spree is over, if it gets over, you become a peerless city guide. An experience like this makes you familiar with every nook and crevice of the city that you otherwise thought existed only in Iraq or Somalia. It also let's you know, that your pocket can be rendered lighter in about a million ways from as many different shops.

You also can successfully stake your claims to the highest echelons of diplomacy. Trust me, it takes something to survive the salvos fired by the bridesmaid - Why can't we book the Versailles for her honeymoon (note - her honeymoon); How would this tiara gel with the six hundred and fifty four pieces of jewellery that she's going to wear on the day; the merits of tying a red ribbon atop a gift measuring 3.5 X 5 inches as against a white one (if memory serves me correct, she spent half an hour conjuring about four hundred reasons both for and against the argument, and finally looked up at me with those big watery eyes for a solution; I deflected the crisis by pretending to be afflicted by a bout of hernia); Why can't you develop some taste (a question that propped up almost everytime I meekly suggested something that she hadn't seen or went below her budget) e.t.c e.t.c;

It isn't that pre-wedding shopping seems long. It is a long drawn out affair, almost as long as the list of people who think Shah Rukh (K)ham can actually act. For starters, the very thought of deciding upon the probable gifts sends the bridesmaid into a frenzy good enough to have every energy pill manufacturers scurrying for cover. By the time, anyone realizes the impending disasters, two aspects emerge with epigrammatic clarity - One, she has thought of a plan for the day that is more complicated than building the next generation hydroelectric dam, and Two, Her budget necessarily exceeds that of building that dam;

Any feeble attempt of dissuading her and you might as well administer yourself some cattle prods. Hell hath no more a fury than a bridesmaid questioned (on her choice and budget of gifts). In fact, the Q & A session that invariably precedes the actual shopping reminds me of a certain Shut up and Bounce number by someone who intended to pull the Indian retail market out of recession by going out shopping singlehandedly.

The Shut up order was for us followers while she Bounced ideas off us numbskulls. Of course, it was a smoke and mirror monologue, for she attached as much value to our opinions as Sherlyn Chopra does to wearing clothes that actually cover the body beyond three triangles.

So, while we achieved the minor miracle of deciding upon the gift in the relatively short span of 4 weeks' time, it unfortunately left us with just one day to actually buy the coveted gift whose value would have successfully outranked Guam's GDP...for about the last 10 years put together. Its one of those moments in life, when you wished Spielberg's Back to the Future machine was a reality. It would have been so much easier to have just pushed her off the cliff by travelling back through time.

I digress again!

I will not go into the details of the day. Suffice it to say that it could have been successfully remade as the the sequel to The Longest Day and that Amnesty International would have had a field day making a case representing me. I was however curious about the ophthalmic powers of my friend, the Bridesmaid in question. It was staggering to note that while she could point out about a gazillion deficiencies and distinguishing points in about as many samples of the gift we were searching for (a diamond jewellery in question), to the perfectly harmless naked male eye, they all seemed absolutely identical...and purposeless. Of course, the real horror began when she commenced debating the demerits of each of those distinguishing features, wondering which one to let go. After that, I thought, it ought to be mandatory for all diamond shopping obsessed Bridesmaids to be, if necessary, forcibly shown Blood Diamond in the hope that it might act as a deterrent against choosing from an insanely large number of probables. Or maybe not. For all you know, they might just decide to join the RUF.

By the time she was finished (with her shopping), so was I. Physically (Blisters, the size of the fauna shown in Avatar formed all over my feet), academically (why can't you understand the geometry of diamond cuts; Pardon me, the only cuts I ever understood or admired were the ones on Scarlet Johansson's you-know-where), emotionally (you are so insensitive, hurrying me while I choose between the colour of my 1.5 inch hair clutchers - that will never be seen by anybody except those who'd unobtrusively peer on her scalp right in the centre of her head) and most frighteningly, financially. Someone should have warned me in a manner similar to what Di Caprio's Danny Orchard says to Jennifer Connelly's curvaceous Maddy Bowen in Blood Diamond - "In your world its all Bling Bling! But out here, its all Bling Bang huh..."! Same case with me. In the bling of an eye, bang went my savings...since birth.

All bad times end, however! I suppose, though I would have been tempted to disagree after looking at the groom at the marriage venue the following day. He looked about as cheerful as the inmates in the Khmer Rouge camps but I'd finally managed to squash the empathy button in me shut. After all, I'd just emerged, if only barely so, from a shopping holocaust. The marriage was a relatively pleasant affair. The Bride and the Groom actually got married without their families managing to kill anybody from the opposite party. Someone suggested that the capital invested in the marriage would have yielded better returns from a Fixed Deposit, while another came up with the idea of feeding all guests canary poop in place of the assorted victuals, thereby utilizing the savings on a gala honeymoon, but those were minor blemishes on an otherwise calm and eventless evening.

Perhaps, as retribution, the Bridesmaid in question offered to drop me off to the airport on the following cold and frigid morning. It was a gesture that almost undid her excesses merely 48 hours previously. Until...

Until, she decided to unleash the worst for the last! As I was about to hop off, half mind on the watch and the other half wondering the best one liner to inquire about any possible further rendezvous, she stared deep into my eyes and asked the killer query, "Was I looking fat yesterday..." (My advice to all those innocents faced with such a query - Flee the State as I did then, and pray that your flight is on time as mine was ;-)

Mr. Barack and President Obama

2009-12-11T07:33:00.000-08:00

(Reflections on President Obama's Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech. The text of the speech can be read here)

There have been many a stirring speech at Oslo in the past, but this text lays testimony to the two personalities who converged to join the pantheon of peace prize winners. These two personalities were Barack and Mr. Obama.

History, would perhaps have the onerous task of judging these two. President Obama, sworn to uphold the principles of a nation warped by the excesses of his predecessors, and Barack - the man whose alleged unfailing personal moral compass would perhaps beckon the advent of a liberated future.

Its too early to comment on the impact Mr. Barack Obama would exert on a world his political ancestors mined for what they believed to be a self-righteous cause, but his speech resonated with the clarity one would hope from the head of a nation state that has many wrongs to right.

The intent stated in the speech would not be a bad start!

The President exuded a refreshing sense of humility by acknowledging that the award was ill-deserved and served more as an incentive towards performing the tasks expected off him than a reward for having executed them.

What was additionally heartening was Barack's candid confession on the rejection of the instrument of War. A war - holy, just, hot/cold is reprehensible, however glorious be the acts of its participants and his three step ideology aimed at minimizing the brutal onslaught every war brings alongside it, is laudatory.

What was disappointing was President Obama's defense of America as the underwriter of the world's security or upholding the non-existent efficacy of that defunct organization - The United Nations.

The U.N, for the uninitiated, was formed to prevent wars after the last great onslaught by the Axis. From its inception in 1945, the U.N has had little to cheer. Hardly surprising! It has comprised of nation states which have systematically abused its very tenets and silenced the protests against oppressions reigned in by the despots on its civilians.

The President gloated over the fact that there hasn't been a Third World War! I couldn't have agreed more Mr. Obama. As I'm sure that you would find it hard to dispute that for all its efficacy, the U.N did nothing to stop your nation from marching into a foreign country and massacring hundreds and thousand of civilians, and ruining its economy for good measures. It did nothing to stop the Khmer Rouge from obliterating its citizens in alignment with Pol Pot's (a CIA creation) back-to-the-primitive-era policies and to say nothing of the genocide in Rwanda. These are footnotes in the conscience of the U.N, but gauntlets of shame thrown at the psyche of the world by the depravity of a handful of individuals. Shame, because, the world turned its face away and pretended to not notice.

Barack's initiative of outlawing torture and the closure of Guantanamo Bay torture chamber (only the misguided would call it a detention camp) are apt responses to President Obama's blatantly falsified declaration of America's non-involvement in attacking democracies. Since the last Great War, America has been documented to have attacked no less than 40 countries under covert ops or outright invasions. One wonders that would this have not been the perfect platform for the President to have acknowledged that it was time America relinquished its divisional measures and harked back to the qualities of liberty, friendship and enlightenment as proclaimed by that statue perched near the Hudson River.

For all its Presidential constraints, this speech however, belonged to Barack the man. With remarkable humility and simplicity, he tugged at that conscience that refuses to be decapitated within us, he acknowledged the weight of sending young Americans, not unlike you and me, to the face of near certain death against his will and reminded one and all of his commitment towards building a future worthy of our capabilities as against our immoralities.

A world will wait with anxious trepidation in the hope that it was Barack and not Mr. Obama who was conferred upon with the Nobel on that hallowed turf!

Travels I - In the Land of Machines...

2009-10-27T07:59:00.000-07:00

(Warning - Long Post)

Watching the countryside glide by in a motley hue of Grey and Green, I would have never known that we were cruising at a speed of 220 Kmph., had the speedometer of the Merc. not shaken me out of my torpor. "Welcome to Germany", I told myself, as the road snaked past the bucolic landscape of Dusseldorf on to the charming little town of Herten, a mere 150 Kms. away.

Apart from the enormity of the feeling that this was my first visit abroad (and the fact that Europeans drove on right hand side of the road, as opposed to Indians), remarkably little had been unsettling. The stopover at Dubai suddenly made me realize that coffee could cost 420 INR (after conversion) and that a Lamborghini drew in as much crowd as did a filmstar. But those were minor blips, in an otherwise, serene and eventless journey wherein I gobbled up about 4 movies during the 8 hour flight from Dubai to Dusseldorf since the air-hostesses on board the Emirates resembled their Indian counterparts, and hence, failed to entice me (it must be noted, that I had a similar effect on them).

Satyajit Ray had once described Dusseldorf as a city painted on a canvas. My first impression of Herten was along similar lines. Our hotel served to be the microcosm of that impression. It was a ranch styled cottage, garnished with multivariegated trees and the earthwork was strewn with leaves not unlike what we witnessed in that epic disaster titled Mohabbatein.

Castle Park - Our Hotel

The rooms were spartan, and the only object that caught my attention was a copy of the New Testament that proudly lay perched on one of the burnt wood tables of our room. The television was irrelevant as we neither followed the language nor had the luxury of time to peruse channels. A quick shower however sparked my astonishment. People actually drank from the wash basin. It turned out to be a savior, for Germans, by habit, had their water spiked with gas, and even the Abgas (German for without gas, and I'm not going to bother with the umlaut) had a fair sprinkling of carbonated water to give it a soda feel.

Herten reminded me of a time that had actually gone by. It was also a land of mystifying contradictions. Here was a place, which featured an avalanche of, what would be high end vehicles in India, that ploughed on with dispassionate nonchalance (sample this - in the first two hours of our visit, we , unsurprisingly, saw more models of Audis, Volkswagens, BMWs, Mercs, Citroens and oh yes, even one Swift DZire than we would in a month in India) and alongside, featured bicycles straddled by all shapes and sizes furiously skittering the Autumn leaves as they pedalled towards their rendezvous point. Here was a place that featured cars designed to pack the whole family in it along with the essentials for subsistence, and alongside them, ran the Smartcars, whose creators obviously hadn't taken into consideration people of my size, while designing its interiors.

But above all, what stood out, in its impressive majesty as well as humility, was that, the riches notwithstanding (its one of the most expensive places to stay in Germany), the people therein had refused to relinquish their rustic appeal. It was actually a wonder for me to see a car stop to let the passers by cross the road, and cheerfully wave to them, as he sped by; see mothers strap their pinklipped crimson cheeked blue eyed toddlers to their backs, as they swished on their purple bicycles on a biting Grey evening (in five days, we saw the sun twice, for about 5 minutes each); to see cottage styled villas have angels and carved metal butterflies adorn their doorsteps and frontages respectively, whilst an Audi TT or a Mercedes would be strewn across, with almost vulgar abandon, on the lush green manicured garden; to see the Germans huddle together with their beer in a bar cheering themselves hoarse over a Bayern Munich victory or curse them with an almost Indian-like intensity over so much as a draw (we saw both); to feel the single golden ray of the sun beam itself across a desolate European sky on my face on a blustery cold morning; to admire the cozy interiors of our hotel featuring simple artwork and tireless order that only served to emphasize upon the unwavering discipline of its creators; to eavesdrop on the whistle of the wind, as it blew across that tiny little town which had, somehow, managed to remain in a time warp to pay homage to its roots, and yet, synced itself with the luxuries of our world.

A typical German House in Herten

The Germans pride themselves on the merits of precision and system, and both were on offer in bountiful. I've never seen such rigorous discipline that was only heightened in its impact by the seemingly unassuming manner of its execution. It seemed, that if god was a planner, he had restricted himself (I'm not a sexist, this is only for the sake of simplicity) to places like the one I was in, while deputizing the Devil to plan for the place where I was born. From simple lane discipline to an assembly line at a factory, the Germans were systematic to a fault. They were robotic, and it sadly reminded me of the price we've had to pay for our brilliance, for here was bunch of people, who made the simple decision of collective improvement, rather than individual glory and hence, adhered to a predefined system with a diligence that would have shamed our flamboyance, had we been humble enough to admit it. We have much to learn.

Being a vegetarian has its advantages in India (the probability of a non-veg. dish going abysmally wrong, especially in monsoons is almost twice that of its vegetarian counterpart). In Europe, and especially in Germany, wherein language is a major hurdle to overcome, being a vegetarian exposes you to its commensurate miseries. As I was to discover, the concept of vegetables simply didn't exist, and when it did, horrifyingly comprised of a very liberal dose of brinjals and carrots (somehow, the idea of an omlette cooked from Ostrich eggs and garnished with brinjals didn't exactly set my imagination or taste buds on fire). However, the presence of Darjeeling tea in the middle of Germany did bring a smile and a small illustration of globalization to my being (it was the best tea I've had in a long time). Our hostess was a fiery and yet, courteous lady, who spoke a smattering of English and German and befriended my mother on the first morning as we left for our work. On our return, my mother was full of tales of how Mariann (the lady in context) had proceeded to regale her with tales of her husband's (the hotel owner) incompetence. Certain things, I suppose, transcend beyond geographies and cultures.

In the five days that we parked ourselves at Herten, a regular feature would include long walks along the German neighborhoods, admiring not the grandeur of the structures, but its delicate preciseness. We came to understand and soak in the polite courtesy of the Germans, that was warm and aloof at the same time, the antithesis of a stone Mermaid and the Store of Sevens perched together, the ornate rose structures before the Deutsche bank, the lavishness of King's Alley at Dusseldorf (the costliest street in Europe), and the simple countryside of Herten and the many tiny differences that stacked together to fashion our cultures to be so radically diverse, and yet, perhaps complimentary.

On the final morning, as we lay dozing on Air Berlin, the aircraft taxied with bone jarring efficiency towards the same destination, where my dreams had already wafted to - Roma!!!

God must have been a manufacturer

2009-07-09T21:24:00.000-07:00

God must have been a manufacturer (and his quality control needs a major overhaul - aptly stated in Abhijeet's blog). No, I'm not saying this because humans seem to be churned out of assembly lines these days, but simply because of a curious parallel I've noticed in these two entities.

The manufacturing sector in India, ones that especially draw their tenets from the old school of thought (about 95% of them comprise of this sector) display a peculiar masochistic feature that is particularly difficult to explain. If a work can be done in an easy way, they will necessarily adopt the alternate route. Almost as if, a person who has not been done to death hasn't done his job. One has to only look at the triumphant smile of the supervisor as he watches his subordinates trudge of weary and haggled after a day's worth of mindless drudgery to know what I'm talking of. And no, he'll never put in his two cents worth of mind to increase the efficiency of the process and reduce the burden of his people.

Ditto for God. A perplexing query struck me yesterday. Just why on earth, did he/she go through the entire trouble of creating us, that too with varied degree of (im)perfection? What's the point of creating us and then supposedly looking down and shedding tears on the degradation of his children? What was the purpose? Simply to give us an experience? Why? Doesn't make sense. One could obviously agree that maybe he didn't create us at all. Maybe, we are a biological accident, but that is so difficult to believe. There must be a billion nucleotides in our body interacting with a cohesion, even the most advanced supercomputer couldn't dream of achieving and that can't be an accident of nature. Somebody designed this to happen. Now, why on hell's name would that person want to do this? What was the business plan?

To start off with, what was the point of the life and death cycle if at the end of it, we were meant to get out of it (please terminate us towards Salvation)? That effectively means, that this life is not a gift. Its a vehicle, which we must drive as per the rules and voila, we get to alight...for good (much like the US vehicle license test). Trouble is, that the rules are hardly clear.

One remembers Al Pacino's iconic dialogue in The Devil's Advocate. "See, but don't touch; Touch, but don't..."; Hang the chap who invented the concept of free will. Its the most confusing piece of thought, I've ever come across. If everything that happens in the world, is but a reflection of our choices, then surely destiny must be a scurrilous and insignificant term. And yet, there exists around 6 billion people in this planet with as many different lines of thinking coupled with an intransigence that can safely account for over 90% of the current problems our planet is facing. So much for free will.

If god didn't exist, this all makes sense. But if he/she did exist, then I sure would love to know, what was the purpose of creating this human race, especially so with their innumberable infallibilities and inequalities. Like that manufacturing supervisor, it would have been so much better if we were all born equals (in every way), or better still, not existed at all since that's the end goal anyway.

Any Answers???

Well Done Pakistan!

2009-06-21T10:40:00.000-07:00

Cricket has a strange way of thumbing down its detractors. Nothing epitomized this more than the two teams who squared off at the hallowed turf of Lords on the evening of 21st June 2009 for the World T20 finale. One, bloodied by a civil strife that has earned itself the inglorious sobriquet of being a commensurate end to a decade long of human sacrifices. The other, just a little more than a month back, must have been wondering if they would have a country to go back to, should they ever leave it. As if, it were not enough, these were the very individuals who were victims of the horrific incident at Lahore where cricketers came under fire, this time from real bullets and effectively pushed back Pakistan's chances of a hosting any home series to the stone ages.

And yet, they were there, shoulder to shoulder, head to head, man to man! Pakistan and Sri Lanka, at Lords (how I wish it was at the Gadaffi or at Kandy), at this hour, have proclaimed to the world, that Cricket would tower over all, and should it be besotted by the evil machinations of depraved souls, it would, by its inner cosmic brilliance, that we otherwise know as the human spirit, triumph over such dastardly acts with characteristic panache.

Sri Lanka started off as favourites, alongside South Africa after the poster boys of the games were sent packing. West Gayle Indies kept the Caribbean Calypso humming whilst Ireland demonstrated how a ragtag bobtailed, but committed outfit can upstage the best at the highest stage. However, no one, not even their most ardent supporters would have given Pakistan a ghost of a chance to qualify for the semis, let alone get past them. Their preparation was chickenfeed compared to the kind of practice other teams had received at the international arena and it was by and large accepted that the only green at the World Cup Semi finals would come from the South Africans. The thought gained ample credence with their first match and while Younis Khan didn't exactly meet Yatzhak Rabin's fate after the latter's fatal handshake, he realized the full fury of a nation dismayed at the F word. Somehow, they stumbled, whined, dropped catches, fielded abysmally, spoke in Hindi and Urdu at presentation ceremonies and yet managed to get to the semi finals, surprising aficionados before exploding into an array of brilliance that has defined Pakistan cricket's soul. Be it Gul's rapier like thrusts at the death or Afridi's vaunted batting abilities, South Africa would rue the fact that once again, when it mattered the most, individual brilliance laid low all the previous hard work that they had put in.

And so the supremely disciplined warrior met the brightly plumed Phoenix rising from the ashes. I can't recall when was the last time, I'd followed a cricketing event that did not feature India, so keenly (probably the '05 Ashes).

Dilshan discovered the law of averages catching up with him, as his favourite scoop shot landed in the fielder's hand before a run had been scored, instead of over the ropes where he intended to send it. Match on! Like his team, Abdul Razzak was back after a hiatus, and he expressed himself alike a performer who needed to remind the world what a loss his absence had proved to be. The opening bowlers came steaming in and by the end of the Powerplays, four of Sri Lanka's feared top order were back in the hut...er, dugout.

Enter Sangakarra, and Lord's was swathed in sheer class and mesmerism of his batsmanship. While the Men-in-Green kept it tight, Sangakarra shepherded the innings with an elan that would have probably prompted the great Sir Neville Cardus to say, "Is this really happening, or is it a Midsummer's Nights dream?" He found an Angel(o) in Mathews and the duo plundered 59 in the last 5 overs to give a fighting total for the bowlers to defend.

It was not to be. This was to be Pakistan's day and nothing, and nobody was going to take it away from them. Pakistan, never really had understood the merits of teamwork. They have however, more than made up for it with their individual brilliance (unsurprisingly, most of them have come against India). The first of it, today came from one of their openers - Kamran Akmal. The Sri Lankan bowling attack would give any team a run for their money and win nine out of ten times. Today was the tenth time! The opening stand of 48 in seven overs gave Afridi the perfect pad to launch his onslaught. He reserved himself for delivering the knock out punch and with uncharacteristic restraint, displayed a facet of his game that can restore his image of being the feared batsman that he once was. The Lankan bowling gave nothing away and on the field, they swooped upon the ball like hawks on their prey. This wasn't a finale to be remembered for breathtaking strokes, endless sixes, booming drives and ridiculously impossible totals. This climax was ordained by sheer grit, tussle and ultimately the passion of one triumphing over the tactical error of the other.

Two moments were game breakers in the Pakistan innings. Both were engineered by Afridi, and it was as much a testimony to his skills and belligerence as to his emerging maturity as regards the game. With the asking rate creeping up, thanks to some restrictive bowling, Sri Lanka called upon that old Wizard, Muralitharan, to knock the stuffing out of the opposition. In a rare moment, it was Murali, who was taken apart by Afridi as he blunted the master bowler, depositing him over midwicket and then scything past extra cover. Its a tribute to the Lankan attack, that throughout, they didn't loose their grip on the match, any assault notwithstanding, upto the last three overs, where the requirement was still 26. It was here, that I felt, that the Lankan Capt. committed the greatest blunder by giving the ball to Udana, especially as he had overs left from Jayasuriya, whose final analysis read - 2-0-8-1. Afridi tore into the greenhorn's inexperience, and the latter in the face of such a relentless hammering, succumbed by dishing out juicy full tosses that were also deemed as no-balls. By the time, the over ended, Pakistan had the match in the bag, with only 7 to get. Malinga, who had rocked South Africa in the World Cup two years back was called upon to do an encore, but ended up with a delivery down the leg side that left the formalities to be fittingly concluded by the Maverick who went by the name Afridi.

It was important for Pakistan to have as much applied the ointment of victory on a nation craving for some achievement, as it was to have exorcised the ghosts of the defeat at the hands of India two years back. Against all odds, the bubbling bunch of ill-matched and temperamental world beaters came together to tango in a rhythm that saw them get the better of a Lankan team that was the closest thing to perfection. The image of Afridi's outstretched hands, as his team mates ran out, endeared itself to my memory, as I realized that I was about to say something, I'd never envisaged myself to be capable of - WELL DONE PAKISTAN!

April 2010 beckons...

Death, Be not proud

2009-02-08T10:16:00.000-08:00

I read Tuesdays with Morrie on a Sunday and I finished it in one session, a testimony to a brilliant piece of work. However, that is not the subject of this post. The book unearthed a memory that was cocooned in my mind for the last decade. A memory that, like others of its time, shaped me as the person I'm today.

I was never into "days". To me, the idea of correlating a particular day to any person (father's day, mother's day e.t.c) seemed to inflict an insult on the remaining days of the year. As if, they didn't deserve the privilege of the love we showered upon our dear ones (a reason, why I believe that every day should be alike a birthday, never mind that you run the risk of being broke by sunset). Gammy, my best friend, was typically my polar opposite and infuriatingly better than me, an aspect that split over on to our debates. She never failed to remind me, that for those unfortunates, who never had even that one day, these occasions were like an oasis amidst the ceaseless cruelties of life.

It was Mother's Day and I knew how much it meant to Gammy. She had lost her own mother before she completed high school, and I knew the duo shared a relation that transcended the realms that words can contemplate, or comprehend. Listening about her mum, made me realize just how much strength the lady had channelized into her lovely daughter. Quiet, dignified, and a gracious aura, that's what engulfed her. She was my first lesson in death, and the first time, someone taught me, that death was a subject that could be spoken and discussed at length, that it was not morbid, that it was the greatest equalizer, that it taught us how to live, how to be strong and most importantly, how to feel alive. That afternoon, I drew her close to me, and whispered the silliest (and extremely sincere) query I could come up with - "You miss her, don't you?" For a second, as Gammy stood transfixed, I was horrified at the utter insensitivity of the question. She, however, calmly retorted in as many words - " Yes, I do. But I've spent 16 great years of my life with her and I've learnt from her for all these years. She lives through her lessons. It'll suffice for this lifetime". Trust her, to put forth the most profound of the thoughts in a manner so simple, that it heightened the aura of the moment. I've learnt many aspects concerning attitude from her, but that day, Gammy had transcended even herself.

Two years later, Gammy died. Five months after that, a friend came to visit me, and in due course of our conversation, asked me with equal sincerity "You miss her, don't ya?" I guess, I knew the answer to the question even before I was asked. "I spent two great years with her mate, and she taught me a lot more than I could ask for. She lives though her lessons. It'll suffice for one lifetime." I replied, knowing that Gammy would have approved of the answer.

Almost three centuries back, the celebrated poet John Donne wrote a poem whose concluding lines still throng the memories of the elites and the plebeians. Gammy knew what those lines meant, and after she went, so did I - "Death, thou shalt die"!

The Palestine Post

2009-01-10T08:23:00.000-08:00

"Tonight, you don't go..."

Shimshon Lipshitz's daily routine on that cold night of February 1948 was subjected to an unusual intervention by his wife, who had glossed over every detail of his household for the past eighteen years. Her trepidation stemmed as much from premonition as it did from the knowledge that the half an hour walk that Lipshitz was scheduled to undertake was, like hundreds and thousands of fellow Jerusalemites, prey to Arab sniper fire. Yet, her words beckoned him away from his greatest source of pride. Since the day of its inception, Shimshon Lipshitz had never missed a day as the chief printer of Zionism's foremost English language newspaper north of Cairo - The Palestine Post. Even Lipshitz mustn't have realized the epoch making era he lived in, as he deftly assembled blocks of lead that served to record the remnants of a history whose violence was rivalled by the resurgence of its characters. Tonight, as his pride drove him towards the three storey red stone building that served to be the Post's headquarter, his wife's gaze lingered on, as if to personally guard her love from enemy onslaught.

Two miles away, Abou Khalil Genno lit a cigarette near the village of Shofat, on a ridge north of Jerusalem. The cloak of the night had shrouded his identity, safely wrapped underneath the British uniform he had managed to procure from the two deserters who were about to aid him in an endeavor for which the trio had been specifically handpicked by the Mufti. As the British prepared to move out of Jerusalem, the Mufti had contemplated terror bombing to drive the Jews out of their promised land. Tonight, through Abou and the British deserters, the Mufti was poised to send an indication to the Jews of Jerusalem of the price they were going to have to pay for obtaining their Promised Land. The truck with its load of TNT which Abou Khalil was going to drive to its intended target lying two miles away saw one extraordinary sight. A group of black robed women, rushed wailing out of the shadows. They chanted some ancient indecipherable incantations, mumbled a verse from the Koran, and as a final act of blessing, splashed the wheels of the departing vehicle with a bowl of goat's milk.

Ted Lurie, the chief correspondent of the Post was crossing Jaffa street, when he saw a British police truck go lumbering by, smashing the concrete on the turn to bits. "Sure is in a hurry to get somewhere", thought Lurie as he crossed Zion square and made his way to Ben Yehuda street. As he was about to step into a roadside cafe, the explosion caused by Abou's TNT laden British truck, ripped into a deafening roar, sending Lurie sprawling to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he rushed to a nearby phone to find out what had happened. To his chagrin, the number to the Post was busy. Furious, he dialled twice and then hung up. As he started to dial for the third time, the truth hit him - "My God"! He exclaimed. "They have blown up the Post".

By the time, Lurie had reached the headquarters, flames licked the debris. Almost the entire frontage had disappeared. The building which had served to document such memorable eras in history seemed to have itself been consigned to history, as onlookers stared in disbelief. Locals rushed in to cater to the wounded and cleared the dead bodies. Amidst the bedlam, Lurie's wife tugged his sleeve - "Ted" she asked, " what are you going to do about the news"? "Are you crazy" asked an incredulous Lurie. A moment later, he realized that she was right. The Post was more than a paper. It was the voice of a race that refused to buckle under the many persecutions it had been subjected to through the annals of history. He set up a temporary newsroom in a nearby apartment. Within hours a printing press was located. Two of his reporters rummaged to find any remnants of the carbons for the night's stories while their girlfriends retyped the scraps that were salvaged. By six 'o' clock, faithful to its daily rendezvous with the people of Jerusalem, the paper was on the street. Not even the excesses of the Mufti's terror tactics could blot out the proud logotype of the bedraggled, but unconquerable news paper. The Mufti had not succeeded in his major goal. He had demonstrated that, while he was capable of penetrating the city, he could not silence its spirit - The Palestine Post.

Shimshon Lipshitz had one of his eyes blown away in the blast. Typical of the man, he returned, his remaining eye bolstered by a magnifying glass, and like the Post, his indomitable spirit saw him place the blocks of type that announced the birth of an independent Jewish State later that year.

Another World Exists

2008-12-23T07:31:00.000-08:00

My name is Anil Das. I was featured in the 22nd. December '08 edition of India Today. I however am no celebrity. I am neither a prodigy, nor a uber cool member of the GenZ that is poised to lead India to her epochal heights. I am not a pacifist, and I don't understand terms as esoteric as socialism and capitalism. I am, but a twelve year old worker in a dingy little working class dhaba in Bhowanipur, South Calcutta. I work overtime, often upto 17 hours unceasingly, in a lugubrious ambience, stirring endless pots of tea for the laborers of Calcutta's U-rail project. I have never known a school from inside. Likewise for kindness, warmth and love. Ever. Sometimes, my thoughts wander over to the bucolic settlement of my village at Midnapore, wherein my mother is slowly succumbing to her battles with her ailments and my siblings are desperately fighting starvation.

I'm very happy today. I have been rewarded. The tea stall owner came and promised me that he would give me Rs. 40 instead of the Rs. 25 that I make. I am happy. My eyes are shining as I vigorously stir the tea. Maybe, some day, if I work this hard, I'll set up my own dhaba. Maybe, some day, I'll be able to feed my siblings and treat my ailing mother. Thank you God, for helping me earn more money for my family....

Another World Exists!

A conversation

2008-11-27T19:08:00.000-08:00

The following is an actual conversation I had with a friend following the terror attacks. It gives an insight as to just how much we lie paralyzed within our own thought process. A classic example of the malaise afflicting us (mind you, this is not pointing fingers at any one person, but an exposition of the lacunae in our thought process).

Me: you guys ok?

Friend: fine buddy, how r ur folks in Mumbai?

Me: dad is ok, mum is in A'bad.

Friend: ok nice, seriously man, this city is growing from bad to worse.

Me: yeah, I know!

Friend: shootin in broad daylight is just the beginning.

Me: it’s just not the city…

Friend: security is f@#$ed up.

Me: it’s the whole nation…

Friend: yeah u r right.

Me: no, it’s not the security, it’s us…

Friend: it is the whole nation.

Me: we are messed up.

Friend: y do u say dat......

Me: tell me something, why on earth would some security agency bother, when we ourselves are going to forget about this incident (as we have forgotten all the previous ones) in the next fortnight…

Friend: what can we possibly do to change the situation (This is exactly the thought that cripples us to submission); cmmon man, the incident of the 92 blast, the riots are still fresh in my mind...

Me: well, for a change, we can voluntarily bring the city to a standstill demanding from the Govt. our right to live, yes, the scene is still fresh in our minds, but what have we done about it; have we demanded an elaborate security measure, have we bothered to join hands with each and every mumbaikar, to give thumbs down to the Govt. for their ineptitude; no, we haven't, and so, we continue to get mowed down.

Friend: for dat, we have to gather people n stand together.....which probably will never happen (and since everybody believes that same thing, it never happens)

me: exactly, that thought process has already killed us, coz we believe that it won't happen but imagine, if all of us believed that it is possible…

Friend: I know it is possible......

Me: then, the situation does a volte face…

Friend: I need support I can’t do it alone (and so we wait, each for the other's support, whereas none arrive)

Me: no, you need to give support, all of us need to give support than just sit and twiddle our thumbs and wait for support to come...

Friend: hmmmmm…

To be quite honest, it’s not the government, or the fact that we are ‘common people’ that is lowering us into a morass of helplessness. It’s just that the current scenario calls upon us to relinquish the joys of our cushy ambience and take up the responsibility of holding the government accountable (After all, who would want to take up a crusade against the machinations of the state after a ‘hard day’s work'). Each one of us will need to devise our own modus operandi of contributing to each others’ safety. It’s about questioning, and if necessary, demanding transparency in matters of security. Why can’t we know precisely the roadmap that the govt. has undertaken in order to ensure that 26th. Nov. never repeats itself? (Revenues allocated to training, surveillance equipments, resources etc. Not the details, mind you, for that would be unraveling the information to thwart those plans). Why can’t I go to a park bench and enjoy a lazy evening without being perturbed by the thought that am I sitting under a nuclear warhead? It begs scrutiny, not of the government, but our own dilapidated psyche, which would do well, by recognizing that a little love, an iota of empathy, a tiny bit of quest for accountability would save us from sharing the fate of those 150 odd unfortunates, who were consumed in an inferno of spite, terror and worse of all – neglect.

A Wednesday

2008-11-27T07:59:00.000-08:00

As a kid, Project IGI-I used to be my favorite computer game that had me hooked on to it for time immemorial. There were 15 stages to be cleared, with the last stage unsurprisingly proving to be the toughest. After one more of my innumerable failed attempts, a computer literate friend of mine introduced me to the world of cheatcodes. A quick application revealed that I could not only have unlimited power but also immobilize my enemy wherein I could pick them off at will while they would remain powerless to retaliate. Years have gone by, and while I cleared the last hurdle in my then-favorite-game (as a loyalist, I never applied the cheatcodes), the scenario has eerily come back to haunt us in real life. Bombay bleeds once again as its innocents are stripped off their right to live, while they remain defenseless, immobilized by some 'cheatcodes'.

As I write this, I realize that I have lost count of the precedents to the current mayhem dancing along Bombay's alleyways. However, if anything is more scary than the near-holocaust scenario in India's economic capital, it’s the disturbing knowledge that the greatest concern that would afflict the common man's psyche tomorrow would be whether Yuvraj would make it to the national test side or whether Lindsay Lohan would emerge a shade better than Britney from her rehab (depending on loyalties). Rajdeep Sardesai put matters in perspective when he enquired about the English cricket team departing (before suffering the ignominy of a possible whitewash) in the wake of the recent attacks. My, my! Imagine our plight. The whole of India has been robbed of the chance to watch Veeru pile on the misery on a few club side English bowlers on a Saturday morning. Now, isn't that a national tragedy?

The event brought some simple questions up for glaring scrutiny in my muddled thought process. Questions like, "Who is to blame for this?" Is it the terrorists? Oh come on! We are trying to be rational over here. Those chaps would be without a job (and 72 virgins if their training tales are to be believed) if they weren't spraying the streets with bullets. Is it the Government? That's an interesting one. 24 hours after the attack, the PM issued a 'strong condemnation' statement, adding for good measures, that the attacks were an event to 'destabilize the nation'. Excuse me Mr. Prime Minister! With due respect to your unending gold laden resume (that I still respect and admire), we are no yokels to interpret the sight of a police jeep filled with 'Deccan Mujahideens' mowing down innocent civilians as an endeavor to beseech the Nobel Peace Prize. What we would like to know is exactly what have you done to institute countermeasures against such barbaric acts? Your prime opposition, after having taken his usual potshots at your party, has appealed for communal harmony (imagine, of all people, him, talking about communal harmony). As if the whole diaspora was incomplete without the communal angle. What was sickening to note was their itinerary which granted Mumbai their blessed presence on a Friday, after the current engagements with the terrorists had reached their logical conclusion. It seems that Mr. Advani was scheduled to visit the city today itself, but opted to postpone the visit at the behest of the PM’s request (that, it gave him a perfect shield to stay away from an event that could remotely be of harm to his physical being was entirely a matter of inexplicable coincidence). But, unfortunately, even they aren't the answer. They are, well, politicians and no adjective would so succinctly sum up their inadequacies as their own profession.

So, who is to blame? I remain numb, searching in a vacuous sphere within me, until, in an impromptu seizure of horrifying clarity, the revelation hits me. It’s all of us who did not die in those blasts. It’s our collective nonchalance that wrote those cheatcodes that condemned the hundred odd (and the 500 odd before them in the last couple of months) to stay immobilized in the face of gun toting madmen. It is our refusal to share their plight that has boosted the confidence of those deranged fanatics to strike at will, knowing that we will remain spineless in the face of such dastardly provocations. They know, that tomorrow, "Mumbai will again be up on its feet (never mind that the world has been yanked off beneath those feet) and indulge in its daily routine of driving out Biharis/Assamese and all non Marathi-manoos whereas the rest of the country will laud its spirit". They know that no matter what, the common man will not rise above his rhetorical platitudes and coerce the powers-to-be to set up a dragnet that will effectively obliterate the very notion of an attack on its existence. They know that the average Indian, with all his excess of intellectual and moral refinement will once again fail to empathize with the loss of a fellow Indian who has lost a near and dear one. It’s because, the hundred odd who died in yesterday's attack (a mere blip in a city of millions) were not my husband/son/father/mother/brother/wife/daughter and so it’s ok to give lip service and get back to Ekta Kapoor's serials (or the erstwhile Splitsvilla - Ironic choice of names, isn't it?). And so they strike, merrily, almost carefree, without breaking a sweat, comforted by the knowledge of our insouciance.

It’s interesting to note that the divisive forces tearing away at the crux of our stability never seem to affect these 'loony tuned madmen'. I wonder, for a bunch of religious fanatics, how come they never seem to have problems with their faith? Or caste, creed, region? Ever heard of a terrorist being thrown out of Laskhar-E-..whatever because he was not a local from that region. How about reservations? 80% recruitment based on whether you are from a particular geography, caste or creed. Rest 20% on merit i.e. when they measure your viciousness against the U.S or its allies (sadly, India is bracketed in that category). It begs curiosity to imagine if they have a 'godmen' amongst them. No sir. No such nonsense amongst such 'backward people'. Single minded, dedicated, focused and ruthless they remain in their pursuit of 'avenging their brothers and sisters' whereas we relentlessly continue to desert ours.

A friend asked me, "But what can we do? We are after all common people". I ask, why we can’t declare in one voice, “We want our right to live restored? Why can't we force the government to establish a security force that will fight this war on terror, and make no mistake - It is a war, on equal terms. How is it that every time there is an attack, some group or the other claims responsibility (while others altruistically relinquish theirs – “hey, that wasn’t us, that was XYZ Mujahideens. We gotta get better and achieve more body counts next time in our endeavor”) but never once have any agency from our side claimed responsibility for thwarting an attempt to dismantle national peace? Yes, our beloved democracy would perhaps suffer, but isn't that an insignificant price to pay in exchange of being able to roam the streets without being paralyzed by the fear of being reduced to a severed arm and a limb and a mass of mangled flesh?

I hope, in this lifetime I get an answer, so that the question may not haunt my next generation. As I conclude, a small news trickles by - "Bollywood fears loss of revenues due to terror attack". A few million of INR less in the coffers of some poor billionaires. Sigh! Maybe Saif won't be able to take Kareena to Haiti to celebrate the New Year. So much for empathy...

Liz

2008-11-22T03:29:00.000-08:00

I couldn't have timed my MBA worse. Its placement weeks and exam schedule, almost conspiratorially clashed with the Indian marriage season (I have always been perplexed as to why humans, specially Indians, unlike other species seem to have a wedding season but no scheduled mating season) and I missed what was arguably the most important event for that year - Liz's marriage...

I met Liz when I was a little boy and she was a beautiful girl, albeit only a couple of months senior to me, and by that logic, little. In all these years, only the "little" part of it has changed. Liz still remains gorgeous, or at least she was when I saw her last year. Back in the little years of our lives, when our ages had just barely reached double digits (and the only concern in our lives was how to emerge a winner in a game of gully cricket), Liz was a revelation as she scurried along the alleyways of our quaint little settings with the agility of a rabbit and the grace of a gazelle. It was her smile that I still remember vividly, for she seldom needed much motivation to break into peals of laughter that would quickly invade the stiffness we guys used to possess and the whole group would subsequently indulge into a merry banter without a care in the world.

I was strangely attracted to Liz for it was an association devoid of the boy-meets-girl romance types. We were a witty lot, with me being additionally chivalrous in letting her get the better of some of our verbal skirmishes but for two people who shared a vast expanse of their lives with each other, we were inexplicably distant, as if restrained by some invisible constraints that never allowed us to be closer than we were. Be that as it may, Liz was special, for she formed a pivotal section of my childhood. We had shifted our residence and the only reason I'd go back to our old place would be to meet her family and those weekends would simply pass in a blur as Liz, her brother and me would tee off on a variety of topics, that ranged from the conventional gossip to career choices that none of us were clear about at those times (I have subsequently discovered very few individuals who are yet clear about their career goals, which makes the acceptance of a lack of clarity that much easier). I don't know how many guys have ever pretended to be an astrologer to hold a girl's palms, but I can guarantee that it’s pretty effective, or at least it was in my case. Sometimes, the most puerile moments of our childhood becomes the most cherished memoirs in the coming years.

The first time Liz and I went out on our own, was when she was going to tell me that she was in love. Booh Hooh? Not really. I was never in love with her, but I somehow felt that I was going to miss a friend (it’s entirely a measure of how good Liz is that till date, I have never felt that she is away) and right from the time the alliance was cemented, I drew flights of fantasy of her marriage. For some unknown reason, I always imagined Liz walking down the aisle of a magnificent church in a traditional Christian attire, and I would be her best man, never mind, till then I had never attended a wedding, much less a Christian wedding.

Nothing that I imagined came true as far as Liz is concerned. The aisle, the Church, me as the best man, never happened. In time, I realized that it was irrelevant, for all my fantasies stemmed from one single desire - to see her happy and smiling, which I know she is. There is only one last thing for me to do as far as Liz is concerned. That is to let her know that she has been one of the most special friends I've ever had and that, it would take an exceptional person to command even half the feelings that I have for her. In a way, almost cruelly, I can see the brighter side (if one can ever exist) of not making it to her marriage, for it left my imagery of Liz unaltered. In the palace of my imagination, Liz is still walking down the aisle, resplendent in a traditional attire towards her marriage, with me as her best man.

Dasvidaniya

2008-11-21T21:13:00.000-08:00

I went to watch Dasvidaniya after some colleagues specifically warned me against viewing a film that dared to explore a subject as morbid as death. I must confess that Vinay Pathak was the sole reason for inspiring such bravado and he mercifully helped me retain the modicum of hope I continue to harbor for Bollywood (I mean, they did come out with Dostana, didn't they?)

Contrary to all the feedback I'd received prior to the film, I found it reveling in life. It was a splendid exposition of living our dreams while the clock ticks away to its inevitable showdown with the greatest leveler life has seen - death. It made me wonder, just why are people so fascinated with death for its certitude lends a certain level of mundane halo to its aura. Its life that one should explore in all its reverie of uncertainty. Its life that should pique our interests, for its in life that the "Amar Kaul in all of us thrives".
The film explores the life of Amar Kaul, a decrepit soul bludgeoned into submission by the forces that be of life. The final straw comes when "a minor stomach problem" translates into a terminal case of stomach cancer giving him only three months to live. The deadline should have been the knockout punch. Instead, it invigorates him to take on life with a zeal that knew no equal. So, Amar embarks on his ensemble of wishes (which previously comprised of repairing geysers and getting all vegetables except for turrai - whatever that means) that takes him on a foreign trip to meet his best friend, fall in love with a Russian courtesan, buy a new car (with a payback of three months EMI), take up guitar classes to play for his mum (who promptly summons a witch doctor when she learns of Amar's condition), pour a bottle of cold drink all over his boss in an act of unparalleled defiance and a few more whose beauty lay in its simplicity.

The film scores in numerous areas, notable among which are the performances from the lead and the support cast as well as a well written script but what takes the icing is the foundation of its thought process. The inherent message, that life is beautiful and we only need to stretch our thoughts beyond the humdrum of our own interpretation of 'success/fun' to realize the simple joys in watching the sun come down and feel the caress of the balmy breeze on our faces. As Amar quotes poignantly from the balcony of his flat overlooking a magnificent view " You know, I took this flat for this view thinking that every day, I will come back from office and stretch my legs while sipping on to my evening tea. In all these years never once have I been able to do so. I came to this balcony to take my towel and all I noticed were the stains therein. Now, I sit here every day and watch the fountain come up and the kids frolicking in pure bliss. Life can be very beautiful".

I couldn't have agreed more!

The Banquet Hall View

2008-10-18T11:56:00.000-07:00

I once saw a Venus Fly trap. That, it’s a carnivorous plant, however fails to detract an onlooker's attention from its captivating beauty. Those violet tendrils snaking from its interiors execute a graceful arc, almost Victorian in nature, & puts to shadow its murky intent of trapping any unsuspecting insects in those cushy pods.

I was struck by the conflicting nature of the interpretation of an image and the truth that lay miscast beneath. It was the case of judging an alligator by the handbag made from it. Its apparent beauty would have never provided an inkling of the viciousness of the beast. Most of us sadly remain contended with the impression garnered from the handbag. They remain satisfied with a banquet hall view of life, one wherein comfort meets intellect and between the two fashion a world that apparently highlights the pinnacle of our progress.

Six years back, a tragedy shook the nation and six years hence, its repercussions, amongst other things, lifted that banquet view from my eyes. I would not get into the analysis of the right and wrong, the accused and the misrepresented of Godhra. We have had ample evidence of that, thanks to the likes of Tehelka and others. If there is one conclusion that can however be solidly evidenced from all reports, it is that the truth - the cold, factual, absolute truth has been banished in a dark corner shorn of any identity and recognition. Nobody would lay their hands on it in an era of Goebbelsian propaganda for each has a motive, allegedly far higher than adopting an orphan called truth.

What I however would like to highlight are two factors - namely, the media assuming the right arm of anarchy, and the state of a nation whose collective conscience could do with a much besought wake up call.

The much touted media of our nation could perhaps do well to revisit the roots in which its principles lie enshrined. The tenets of just and equitable coverage of events have been dispatched with such impunity that it makes one wonder just how sinister must the underbelly of such a system be, that could coerce an institution so mighty as the media to submission. In sync with the powers to be, they fanned the rage emanating from the smoldering ruins of an express train in 2002 by publishing graphic images and fanciful tales that could churn the knots of the stomach of even the most hardened veterans. What followed was unsurprising. 2000 Indians, mind you, not Muslims, Christians, Sikhs or Hindus, but Indians were massacred. 2000 lives were extinguished in an act of unparalleled savagery. Surely, no God would have permitted this. Surely, no conscience would have tolerated this. Then, how is it, that we, as a nation, one that is apparently recognized as a tolerant and progressive one, can live with this in our conscience?
Which brings me on to the second factor emerging from our "tolerant ambience".

I once walked on a street in Mumbai that served to be a microcosm of what Indians have become today. One side of the street sported a mansion of a hotel, resplendent as much in its splendor as in the ostentation of the guests thronging it. Across the other side lay a shack of hovels with rickety people scuttling about them and gathering fuel for their waiting chulhas. The stark antithesis of the two worlds lay in the utter lack of acknowledgement each had for the other. I suppose, while this particular case could perhaps be excused owing to the existing paradigms, what puzzles me the silence that seems to choke every sane mind in the face of events of the likes of the Godhra tragedy.

From brutal gang rapes of members of a community (Orissa) to daylight massacres of dalits (Khairganj), from inflammatory speeches that incite such blithe acts to the barbarism of its executions (everywhere) , the covers that clouded the shimmering hatred of each group (Its shameful to realize that we have degenerated into being just "groups") seems to be coming off and every ghetto is giving vent to their collective rage. We have seen all this and in what can be perhaps the most appalling transgression of justice, have chosen to remain silent about it. We chose to blind ourselves to the savagery of the state's machinations and in doing so gave the dogma "see no evil" & "hear no evil" an entirely new meaning, one, that its creator would have been profoundly ashamed of. Let no soul overlook the fact that when stripped of the layers of justification every leader, religious and/or political has applied to such dastardly acts, they remain in its basest form, remnants of the primeval human wants & needs satiated at the expense of innocence as well as, on a holistic basis, the progress of the state.

And yet, hope springs forth, alike a lonely geyser spraying atop a rocky plateau. In pockets, from outrage at the spurious claims made by the Nanavati commission, to the hundreds of unknown faces working tirelessly to apply the balm of love and care on those mutilated wounds, inflicted as much upon the psyche as on the skin, that nurse faint hopes of seeing the light of recognition or justice. We need to bolster these endeavors, for in a society that tethers on the brink of insanity, these acts of altruism are sonnets of peace that still bind the tag of civilization to our identity. And maybe, in the process, knock the banquet hall view of life off our eyes...

Gladiators

2008-10-18T11:50:00.000-07:00

The Roman Colosseum might not be there, but those 22 yards defined a battlefield which bonded us in many a fascinating tussle over the four years of engineering. It was all adrenaline in those days, but four years hence, as I look back, those exploits on the cricket pitch spoke aplenty about the characters forged over time of these five men.

A Bhavsar - (If the Oxford weren't already in vogue, they would have had a separate name for commitment) In a team full of 'Indians' (all flair, little substance), he was the rare Kiwi, the black cap of the team. The site of Aby swooping down on the ball at long off/on (he normally was at long on) was in itself, a wonder to behold. With him, you could feel the momentum of his thrust, as if some invisible source of power had turbocharged him towards the little round object hurtling at him, though in most cases, it would be Aby jet setting at the ball. One of the safest outfielders, I don't remember him ever dropping a catch (as much as I never remember ever having taken one). One might wonder, so what! Aby is just your good cricketer. Wrong! What made Aby so special was his commitment. He wasn't a natural cricketer. With an ungainly stance and a flawed technique he probably wouldn't have lasted a minute on the pitch, but what he lacked in flair (thankfully) he more than made up with his commitment. He reminded us, especially me, of how much more we could contribute given our natural flair. He never took his outfielding for granted, always concentrating, always "on the ball". Cricket shapes characters, but here's one, who shaped cricket. With his chutzpah in absentia, Aby till date reminds me, that -"its not what you got, its what you do with what you got that matters".

H. Gadhvi ('Keeper' of our fortunes) - I never knew whether to be raging mad at him or be amazed by his attitude on field. He is the guy who, in the last over, with eight runs required for victory, would hit a six of the first ball, and then not be able to take a single for the next five deliveries (only a wide from the generous bowler earned us a draw).

Gadhu was the nerve centre of our team. As a wicketkeeper, he was the quintessential chatterbox & while he never said "well bowled" to a wide delivery (most of them came from me) unlike Wasim Bari, he kept the spirits up with his witty comments that flowed ceaselessly. I remember once having my jaws hanging down at a catch pulled off by him. It was a good length, outside off-stump delivery (probably from Turkz) which the batsman edged to first slip that was not there. All of a sudden, gravity seemed to disappear, as I saw Gadhu turn parallel to the ground and in mid air, pluck what must have been one of the best catches of that tournament. It was a good effort, but what made it extra special was that, the person who pulled off the stunner weighed at least 20 stones at that time. It didn't matter. Somehow, for these chaps, they seemed to be playing with their minds rather than their bodies, and no fetter could shackle them, when they really, badly wanted to do something. Gadhu did all this, but he did it with a smile, & a jauntily cracked joke. The 'keeper of our fortunes' has now had one catch that he would latch on to, for the rest of his life, for Mr. H. Gadhvi is now the proud father of a little cherub and that's a prize he mightily deserves.

K Mehta - (Nobody played the square cut better) - Not even Turkz came close to Gabba's (no reference to WACA) square cut. I saw him play plenty of those as I was usually at the other end, wondering how he conjured up a charm of such beauty & power. The feet would move parallel to the crease, the bat chopped down at a graceful arc and his stance, when seen sideways, was more akin to a ballet dancer than a savage stroke maker & the only sign of the ferocity of the stroke lay in the ball dashing away to the point boundary (sadly it was blocked by the stadium or else Gabba would have had far more runs to his credit).

In the last final that we ever played in college, I remember Gabba getting both his feet in air & viciously cutting the deliveries outside off to the point boundary (this was played on a different ground & it did have a point boundary). He was a stylist, and there was a certain amount of grace in the way he knelt into each stroke which both endeared him to me as well as made him an object of envy. The other factor that made him indispensable was that along with Aby, he cordoned off the long off region with impeccable outfielding. With these two around, you could safely bowl half volleys for most of them would end up in either of these bloke's hands. Tall, handsome & style personified, I only hope Gabba knows how good he is, for that would bolster his 'score' even further.

T Chauhan (the best, by a long distance) - I got Turkz only once in a match (internal)& that remains my most cherished memory on the pitch, one that even eclipsed an innings where I somehow managed to carry my bat through. He was an assembly of some ordinary parts that summed up to something extraordinary. Turkz always gave me a hint of vulnerability, an impression that he could be prized out, but after four long years (& even after that) he remained one of the most difficult batsmen to dislodge. I loved his technique, especially as a he defended. Everything seemed copybook. Front foot to the line of the ball, head knelt in the direction the ball was meant to go and no daylight between bat and pad. Ah, I still savour the memory. Turkz's cricketing exploits are well chronicled in the sheafs of our memory but recounting them would be pouring old wine in a new bottle. He engineered, what was probably the best run-chase in the college at that time, a feat I don't remember having been equaled. With half the team gone & over eighty runs to get in a little over 8 overs, Turkz played a blinder. We got home with a delivery to spare and the hero of the moment came back unfazed for it was business as usual. Turkz was probably a bit of a British on the pitch - 'never too elated in victory or despondent in adversity'. I never saw him gloat over his achievements. He probably dosen't even remember half of them (frankly, it would require some effort, coz he had so many of them). From plucking one handed stunners on the boundary field to bamboozling batsman with one that 'moved away', Turkz did it all, and he did it quietly, unobtrusively. He was a gentleman, prizing out batsman almost apologetically, as in batting he seemed to coax and cajole the ball to where he wanted them to go. I sometimes wondered what made him so good. While I don't have a concrete answer (genius can never be explained in mere words), I would surmise that his strength lay in his mental sturdiness. Like Aby, his application and dedication to his craft orchestrated a master at work, an impregnable defence and a champion performer. Turkz taught me more about 'playing the game' than anybody else did & I still learn from him. Mate, didn't we once say that "life's like cricket" & if that be so, I'd like to see one more innings like the one you played against FAU, just for old time's sake!

A Acharya - (Iceman) - The sobriquet was famously gifted to Steve Waugh for his ability to absorb the pressure and nobody would dispute giving 'the Captain' (of our team) a similar brand. He was the leader and in all these years, there never has been a better captain witnessed by me. He, alongwith Turkz, outthought, outmaneuvered, outlasted, outfought every opponent who came their way. Sample this:

With three odd runs in the last over to defend, Captain comes on to bowl...and pins the batsman in the other end. The shocked faces of our opponents reflected the magnitude of his achievement.

In a match, when Turkz was down with injury, Captain stood firm against all attack and ultimately finished the match with a single over mid off. The rest of the team had collapsed around him as he hurtled towards an inexorable victory.

Ten required off the last over with the no. ten batsman at the other end - a late cut followed by a pull, a tap for two towards point and match is over - another miracle fashioned by the Captain.

The Captain reeled off one champion performance after another and yet, his steely resolve to give each match his everything never wavered. He was respected as the first among equals and till date, his exploits on the pitch remain one of the most talked about subjects in our get together. More importantly, in a team of mavericks, he earned the unquestionable loyalty from each of its members and only those, who were a part of that team can gauge the extent of this achievement. I could only dream to perform like him, but it was more akin to a 'Midsummer's Night's Dream". He lives his life, the way he played cricket - uncomplicated, tough, fair and always to win, and that is what endears the Captain to all of us. There could have never been a better leader of those blokes than you Captain. Keep it up and keep it going!!

Its been four years, since I passed out from Engineering and yet every little incident on those 22 yards is as fresh in my mind as if it were yesterday. In times to come, I hope to teach my kid about this great game, but he would be lucky to have such wonderful comrades like these five men, five gladiators, who taught me more about the game and life than anybody ever did.

Nobody Gets the Girls

2008-10-18T11:49:00.000-07:00

My first post ironically has very little reference to the fairer sex and by that logic its title could well be pronounced as a misnomer. However, for all you Russell Crowe fans, allow me to transport you to his movingly delightful portrayal of John Nash in the film 'A Beautiful Mind'. Like Archimedes, who gained enlightenment in a bath tub, bless him, the relatively contemporary Nash was illuminated in a bar with his friends vying for the attention of some fairly attractive 'long legged things', with each one figuring out the best route to outdo the other. That's where the first draft of "Game theory" emerged (at least as per the film) as Nash carefully outlined the consequences of a combative approach, explaining to his less imaginative comrades that for their own sake, if they co-operate, they were most likely to end up with a partner each in their arms, albeit for the evening or else nobody would get the girls.

Nash revolutionized a whole generation and his theories found its applications not only along the entire yen of science but also in our daily lives. V. Raghunathan, in his book "Games Indians Play : Why we are the way we are" has outlined the curious psyche of the Indians with Nash's Game theory framework. It was an interesting read, more so, as I saw it unfold before my eyes one fine day in Bangalore. The essential premise of the book states that we might as well co-operate with the people around us, not for some greater good, or moral righteousness, but simply to ensure that we are benefited to the maximum. The book draws our attention to a rather amusing fallibility of Indians of falling prey to the lure of a short term gain and ultimately losing out in the overall diaspora. The traffic in Bangalore epitomizes this in probably as brazen a fashion as can be imagined.

It would take an individual of exceptional calibre to overlook the malaise afflicting Bangalore's physical infrastructure and unsurprisingly, we seem to be having just those geniuses planning the city's roadways. The influx of private vehicles into the heart of Bangalore's roads implores the town planners to broaden the roads or introduce flyovers, both of which are conspicuous by their absence. But what is a bit ludicrous to observe is that people themselves contribute generously to their potpourri of misery. At a circle where we were held up, the width of the road didn't allow any room for outmaneuvering anybody. The quickest way out was to ensure that we all fell in a single file and waited for our turn, but lo, no sooner that the signal turned green that all hell broke loose with vehicles exhibiting the Bangalore Drift (sadly, it was neither fast nor furious) and turning their machines at impossible angles, they ensured that in a few seconds the road displayed the worst of the traffic jams. I sat there amazed, for I knew that this wasn't a case of bad traffic sense. It was simply the urge of "overtaking the next guy" and forgetting that in the process not only would they block their own exit but that of the hundred vehicles behind them.

We are so busy "overtaking the next guy" that we completely forget that he/she would also be thinking about the same thing and in the process, nobody wins (in Game theory terms, the payoff matrix has lose/lose for both individuals and extrapolated it applies for all the people in the ecosystem). Are we that insecure to see someone "go ahead of us" (even in a traffic), or are we that fiercely competitive that we feel let down if someone else even remotely comes close to being benefited? I do not have an answer, for, by experience, I know that we are an intelligent race, but perhaps we tend to put on our "horse's blinkers" a little too soon and that shrouds the overall gains in an impenetrable veil. I suppose, that is why there is such a lot of emphasis on "team spirit" for we unsurprisingly parade our individual brilliance in a group effort, notwithstanding that brilliance posing as a hindrance to the overall progress of the team. In fact, at times, I feel we are a little too brilliant for our own good. Maybe, a fallibility in our skills and talents would have made us hostages of our peer's support and maybe, we would have then been a cohesive unit, albeit not a flamboyant one.

You were right Dr. Nash. In India, Nobody gets the girls!!