Stuck Somewhere...

O Memory!

2011-01-22T18:24:00.000-08:00

O Memory!

Speak to me O memory, of times bygone and more,

As your old lover nostalgia slips in through the door.

The winter evening is snowy, and winds blow in cold,

Dance your besotted dance, and regale me with tales of old.

Whisper to me O memory, the name I so long to hear,

Make your soft voice softer still, for I’d like the word to linger.

And just what I wouldn’t give, to once more feel her scent,

For my senses to become, with her thousand fragrances, redolent!

Tell me O faithful memory, of the days and nights spent,

With my friends never knowing, that soon it would all end!

If we had known back then, that good times too cease to be,

Would we with our new wisdom, have done it differently?

Remind me O memory, of all that I left behind,

And why, when on thinking of happiness, yesterday comes to mind.

But love and friendship are special, for even when oceans apart,

They grow warmer still, and stake stronger claim to the heart!

Dismiss me not O memory, and think not of me as weak,

A stormy night’s refuge is all from you I seek.

The day is ever for mountains, and paths not trodden yet,

My happy past is but my talisman, from which my inspiration I get!

Ramblings - ii

2011-01-15T16:04:00.000-08:00

It is a wintry Saturday evening. I sit in the farthest corner of a small eatery, my table almost touching the large glass wall they have constructed. I mull over life with a cup of steaming coffee in hand. Outside, a city limps back to life from a paralyzing snow storm. Heaps of snow line the streets in big clusters, and all rooftops are decked white, signaling that they will defy the night and retain a touch of brightness with them. I look beyond the rooftops and see the skies darkening – of course, it is late in the evening. Progressively, the sky changes color from dark lavender to indigo. Off to my right, a splash of orange and frightening red still remains. Huge clouds lie scattered, and in the backdrop of these fascinatingly colored skies, look the darkest shade of purple ever imaginable, without quite being black.

The clouds appear quite close. I peer closely and realize they are moving slowly to my left. Why am I here? I do not know. A familiar feeling envelopes me – that of being very close to a message, as if it is almost in front of me, but hidden so I have to find it. I peer harder, and my brow furrows. What do the clouds tell us? What answers are just waiting to be discovered? What if we are all just walking blindfolded without knowing how close we are to wisdom? I become more and more convinced that there are things waiting to be learnt, in sublime moments like these. Just waiting to be learnt.

Maybe answers to life’s perpetual questions, maybe a key to unlock the vaults of happiness within. Maybe a serenity that can be grasped, to peacefully coexist with the unknown.

I do not know how much about life, or about the journeys within, but all I know is that there are momentary inspirations like these that lead us to believe there is more to life than the mere mundane. I feel there is so much to be done. If only I could know what.

I come out of my reverie and see the cup of coffee is almost drained. As I walk into the center of the restaurant, I notice the music has changed. Rihanna starts to sing - “Oh na na, Whats my name?” I smile lightly as I exit and walk back home. Nice to see I am not alone in introspecting.

2010-06-22T12:19:00.000-07:00

The Forgotten River

Once a wayfarer, aged and weary,

In the midst of an endless journey,

Upon a river, happened to chance

“A bubbling oasis!” he thought and advanced.

But he saw not the sprightly sparkling waters’ dance,

No sound of gentle rumble let him to a trance,

There was but dry and caked earth,

In the place he recalled as the town of his birth.

Seized in memory’s grip, transfixed he stood,

Reminded of youth and mirthful boyhood.

This very river had been, back in its day,

Roaring and alive, but now lifeless it lay.

How he had plunged into its waters blue!

How he had found love, calm, and refuge in it too!

How it had sheltered, fostered and prompted life,

Flora, fauna, and eager human-folk alike!

“You were all things moving, and all that was still,

And all boundless joys that could a heart fill.

In your slow dreamy course, lay enchanted infinity,

Have you forgotten yourself, my love, and even your glory?”

Greeted by silence, he turned back, dismayed,

And left, wondering why God creates, only to separate.

But the memory of gushing mirth from ages and ages ago,

Lightened his heavy tread, and made his heart glow.

Why Pakistan should have won today's semi-final

2010-05-14T19:46:00.001-07:00

So I was one of the fortunate few to watch today's T20 world cup semi - final between Pakistan and Australia. I almost stopped watching, when Australia, chasing a mammoth 192, needed 56 from four overs with merely 4 wickets in hand, assuming it to be a foregone conclusion. And how astonishingly I was proved wrong by Mike Hussey, who won it with five extra runs and a ball to spare!

But I reiterate, Pakistan really should have won the semi final today. That I am Indian, and hence a hatred for the Aussie team comes but naturally, is not a factor here.

Pakistan have the most messed up cricket board and system right now. They are banning players left and right, and Shahid Afridi was made the captain by a pure elimination policy, i.e there really was no one left to be made captain. He's about the farthest from a leader you can imagine, but there really was no other go.

No one really wants to play Pakistan anymore. All their home games are shifted and their schedule is changed incessantly in keeping with notorious activities involving the country that their sportsmen have to bear the consequences of. Not to mention that they have the worst cricketing infrastructure amongst the test playing nations. They have already lost the hosting rights to next year's world cup, and it may be very long before we see a match in Lahore or Karachi again.

Also, they have had the least quality T20 experience till now. Disallowed from the IPL, their players have partaken in only the local tournaments, which are devoid of international talent. Crucial players from all other countries have enjoyed participation in IPL2 and 3, immediately putting the men in green on the backfoot.

But in spite of this, they have reached the semi finals 3 times, and the finals twice. Almost a third time, but a certain "Mr. Cricket" had other plans.

What does this tell you? Leaving apart the dynamics of the IPL, political tensions and the infighting within the team, there seems to be something compelling about the men in green that makes you want to sit up and take notice of them, in spite of all the odds being stacked against them.

To me, they represent a team shining only due to excellent talent and willpower. Raw talent and aggressiveness. They have neither the watchful eye of foreign coaches, nor the world-facilities that the other teams enjoy. They have had the least IPL experience. But looking at India, that hardly seems to be a criteria.

Which brings us to an interesting comparison. For all they were worth, India has failed to win a single super eight match in 2 years. Six losses, despite Gary Kirsten, more than 400 collective matches played in the IPL, a talent pool of nearly 30 to choose from. Not to mention the richest sports body in the world, the BCCI. (Not downplaying the Indian team, but in all due respect, Zaheer, Nehra and co. have looked more like the Amoeba boys from the Powerpuff girls more than a threatening bowling unit.)

Raw talent and free willpower, against well oiled and financed mechanisms. To me, that is what today's match represented.

And there is something within you that wants the former to win, just to prove to the world (you, me, CA, the BCCI) that there is something primal and instinctive about the sport that never gets won over by any of the above mentioned excesses. And that it is possible to overturn odds, however high up they're stacked against you.

At the end of the day, it is about how well you play and how badly you want to win. And no foreign coach or any number of IPL matches can instill that in you. It is something that comes from within.

But ironically, Mike Hussey ended up coming to the party.

Morning

2010-05-13T12:16:00.000-07:00

And it is dawn.

Golden sunlight. The air is redolent with the smell of flowers. Lush green greets the eye as I look out my balcony. Splashing water at the pool, and I glance below. Children, unmindful of the still-chilly water, jump and wade around in the water, making a lovable ruckus. Somewhere in distant woods, birds chirp, and the wind carries those welcome noises over to me. Months of dreary landscapes and chilly winds have given away finally to this sunny blissful Saturday morning.

I rest my cup of coffee on the balcony railing. Happy thoughts come to mind.

I guess it is not necessary to have a job, or even the promise of one, to be happy on an early summer morning.

Of IPL 3 and nothing else.

2010-03-22T18:57:00.000-07:00

So the IPL carnival has begun, and all attention is diverted to the biggest cricketing event on the planet. Elsewhere, in empty stadiums and on hardly viewed television channels, a test series between a disgruntled and sulky (at having to miss the IPL) England team and Bangladesh trundles on at soporific pace, and Australia and New Zealand continue to slug it out in the other corner of the world, but no one really seems to care about all those things right now, because the moment really belongs to Lalit Modi and his million dollar baby.

Though it captures the viewer's interest so very easily, I tried to think objectively about the tournament, and here are my two cents:

What is great about the IPL:

1. Watching the old maestros still at the top of their game. (Read: Sachin belting a fiery Dale Steyn for 3 consecutive boundaries, while the latter was steaming in at 150 kmph ; Kumble outfoxing the new sensation Saurabh Tiwary in classic fashion - boy how many of those we have seen over the decades! ; Kallis yet to get out even once in this tournament, and pretty much demolishing every bowling attack in his way up till now .)

2. The exposure it gives the youngsters. Saurabh Tiwary being advised by Sachin while both are at the crease, young Manish Pandey batting with Kallis, rookie Ishant rubbing shoulders with Shane Bond and sharing the new ball with him.

3. Captaincy experience for guys who would never gain it otherwise. Dinesh Kartik, Gambhir, Raina getting a first hand experience of leading a side in a high pressure tournament. It matures them much more than anything else they must have been through.

4. It provides inspiration and awe to all the kids in your neighborhood and mine, who were previously inclined to think football and EPL are much cooler than anything cricket has to offer.

What sucks about the IPL:

1. The fact that it has become such an uncompromising format. For a true cricket lover, it is painful to see some veterans struggle to become part of the bandwagon. To watch Laxman (a master of wristy strokeplay and a class act to watch) labor to keep up with Gilly is saddening. Similar is the fate of Ganguly, who is no longer the God of the offside that he so flamboyantly was. His innings of 11, 15 and so on are not impacting the fate of his team at all.

2. Commercialization in its worst form. When Ganguly leaps backward and pouches a single handed catch while bent at an unbelievable angle in mid-air, it is something you will talk about a long time from now. A karbon Kamal catch is the last name you want it to be called, and it is irksome to say the least. When Gilly blasts one over mid wicket into the second tier of the stadium, it is a huge six, a massive hit, and all those names they call it, but somehow 'DLF maximum' almost belittles the moment.

3. Patronizing almost to the point of nonsense. When Shane Warne, with almost two decades of international experience, chooses to say "Yusuf Pathan's innings of 100 from 37 balls is the best innings I have seen till date" you feel like running over to him and shaking him by the shoulders. Come on Warnie. We know you're a man of the moment (in more ways than one, and lets not get into that) but there's a limit to it. You've bowled to Sachin in Sharjah, Laxman and Dravid on that unforgettable day in Kolkata, seen Steve Waugh bat on impossible pitches in the Carribean, and have witnessed Lara's magic from right across the pitch many a time. And yet you choose to call a 37 ball bludgeoning of Ryan McLaren, Rajagopal Sathish, Ali Murtaza and Sanath Jayasuriya the best innings you've seen? Again, come on.

4. The short sightedness of almost everyone involved. The aim sometimes seems to be merely to maximize the number of 'DLF maximums' in the game. To the point of shortening boundaries well below standard levels in many countries. Most of these IPL big hitters won't stand a chance of clearing big grounds in England and Australia. Hark back to the India- England T20 world cup match in 2009 when Ravindra Jadeja, promoted to a crucial top order spot, couldn't hit a single sixer. The 'Rock-star', (again one of Warnie's fake exccesses) couldn't clear the massive 93 meter boundaries. He went on to play a pitiful innings that cost India the match, and thereby, the entire world cup campaign.

All said and done, it is an interesting tournament to watch. Not close to international cricket, or even comparable to representing India, but enticing nonetheless. Let much be made of it, but only that much, and not a bit more.

The degrees of separation

2010-01-28T21:11:00.000-08:00

Paulo Coelho once wrote in one of his books about the word ‘normal’ and what defines it these days. It made for a good read. Just thinking along similar lines, it strikes me as odd that people would do anything to come across as ‘cool’ these days. Also, there seem to be strict rules on what constitutes 'normal'. My student life, both in Mumbai and Atlanta, has given me these insights on life:

You are considered ‘normal’, only if you:

1. Believe in conventions, and find wisdom in what the masses do. After all, there is safety in numbers remember?

2. Attend all lectures if you are in a competitive school/college, not because it enables you to understand better, but because you have paid to get there, or because you feel classmates will look down upon you if you prefer to study by yourself at home.

3. Discuss fervently all questions and answers after stepping out of the exam hall.

4. Store birthday reminders, of even the closest people in your life, on your cell phone.

5. And yet, make a big deal of birthdays. Ask for treats vigorously on others’ birthdays, and treat near ones generously on yours.

6. Sleep for only 2 hours the week before exams.

7. Like Slumdog Millionaire because it went to the Oscars, like Godfather because of the fact that it is the Godfather, and Megan Foxx because of whatever.

8. Can talk about your relationship objectively.

9.Believe that the end justifies the means, or that it is better to find rather than to seek continually – in very broad terms.

10. Believe that those your well-wishers are always right in what they want for you.

It is one thing to be normal. However, who wants only normal? There is an exclusive sub-class within 'normal', that answers to the word cool. Now you might ask, what does it take to become cool?

You are ‘cool’, only if you:

1. Show that you are a rebel. You may not be a real rebel – mind you, but showing that you are ‘anti-establishment’ is very essential.

2. Show that you are busy always. Saying things like ‘I never get the time man’ and all that gives you a kick. Take a moment and reflect – are you really that busy?

3. Go for Friday night bar hopping. Alcohol is cool, getting drunk is cooler.

4. Manage to convince people that you don’t study – and yet manage to get good marks. Remember – the trick is to merely convince – who actually goes without studying?

5. Follow football, while sucking at the actual sport, and support a team from the English Premier League with such passion that would put our freedom fighters to shame. Of course, it is cooler still to support a German Bundesliga team or an Italian serie-A team. And the coolest of all, is being able to quote at will, random players, their goals and passes from games held years ago.

6. Like telling people, that you have a penchant for sleeping really late and getting up later still.

7. Update the latest flavor of your ice-cream on Facebook, and have seven people ‘like it’ in the next ten minutes.

8. Make fun of people who indulge in the (above Number 7) by updating your own facebook status with some sarcastic comment on that.

9. Don’t show emotions, except indignation and pride.

10. Come late to meetings and appointments, with a sheepish smile. And chuckle to yourself at the losers who actually showed up at the right time.

11. Come across as ‘not what you seem’. Who wants to seem like what they actually are?

12. Make sarcastic comments about your country - especially us students who come overseas.

Life has a lot of unnecessary floss, pretense and rubbish. It is best to get rid of these, and live lives with truth, simplicity and unassuming genuineness.

Remembering the Titans

2009-11-09T18:43:00.000-08:00

The Titans

A long long time ago, I led a cricket team. Though we were never really more than a bunch of friends living close by who liked to play ragtag gully cricket, we thought the world of ourselves, and of our indomitable spirit, and we called ourselves ‘The Titans’. And what a team we were!

The Titans exist from May 2005 to roughly July 2009. We played with most of the teams from the suburbs , and played many a cricket match in those 4 years. We won from many impossible situations, when one would have thought no hope was possible, and threw away quite a few cakewalks as well. We fought with other teams, we fought amongst ourselves, we polished our skills, we grew up as individuals, we lay down on muddy grass and stared at the infinite evening skies after a victory, we looked at each others sweaty faces for belief during defeat, we bunked college for matches, we spent entire holidays on the ground thereby angering our familiess, and when no matches were possible, we went on dinners to stay connected and talked about everything and anything under the sun. Basically, we lived four entire years in the world we had made for ourselves, where we sought elusive glory and that feeling of being champions at our favorite sport. By the end of it all, we were no less close than brothers.

Coming to think of it, for the first two years, we were too oblivious to the thought that it might all end someday. We in our naiveté, somehow always thought we’d live on forever. We were, after all, the Titans, and who had ever heard of Titans ceasing to be? But our destinies caught up to us one day, and we finally realized that our dream team too, was like all things in the world, mortal. By then, there were only a few months left, and not as many matches as we would like to play, and not enough days left to go for dinner on. We woke up, and realized that it was ending. The season of lasts, was finally upon us.

As life would have it, we separated as a team. I miss the match day mornings, when the tense feeling in the pit of the stomach would make you feel like wanting to throw up, and run till your lungs threatened to burst, all at once. I miss the toss, and the little pre-match speeches, where I tried to motivate the guys while hoping I wasn’t sounding like Sunny Deol from Border. I miss the straight faces they tried to make during those moments. I miss the huddles and the ‘go Titans’ , the triumph of victory, and the crushing sadness of defeat as well.

Now, with half of us in the states studying, and the other half too caught up in the vicious cycles of life, we know that it is impossible for all eleven of us to meet once again on a cricket ground. The few infrequent meetings that still take place, are by the handful of remnants , who meet in the same hotels as before, sit on the same tables, which were once filled with boisterous camaraderie, and have vacuous conversations about the past, and how free we were, and how we won on a particular day. Overwhelmed with nostalgia, they too leave in a while, and get back to their lives. Nostalgia makes you uncomfortable after a while.

But I will always be a Titan, and a proud one at that, for it taught me many a thing beyond how to bat or bowl. I learnt to lead, too take tough decisions and back myself, to be part of a team, to face challenges with a smile, to feel fear and yet joke about it for fear of scaring the guys, to shake off defeat, and remain modest in victory. Probably the reader at this point might think I am making a big deal of a little thing, but I strongly believe this team has shaped my personality in a way nothing else could have. When faced with life’s hurdles, I still think of that team and how we briefly achieved the impossible, and I think to myself, well I’ve led the guys to that, how much tougher than this be? And always in that analogy, my comfort I find.

Fellow Titans, I hope you’re doing well. Forget not the Titans, and how golden we once were.

Ramblings

2009-09-25T20:35:00.001-07:00

I am sitting at my balcony right now. Friday 6 pm. Done for the week. It is a glorious hour of the evening, golden sunlight, pale in its fading glory casts long slanting beams of brightness amidst deepening shadows. The swimming pool, with its still water, almost smiles at me in its mute permanence. Flowers, yellow, purple and blood red, add color and romance to the scenario. There is a slight chill in the air, a slight, but ever present forewarning of colder days to come.

A rare pause in the frantic struggle.

It’s amazing how much the mind can work during moments of external serenity. What every man feels during such moments of solitude shall be special to him, and him alone. I miss the place I come from, and despite the picturesque scene before me, I feel there is some beauty in the world that just cannot be replicated.

I feel empty without the one I love. It feels as though years have passed, though it has not yet been two months.

Gentle zephyrs tickle my face. I decide to indulge in one of my favorite games, one I have played since I was a little child. I close my eyes and try to guess and imagine which place the wind is coming from. The futility of the game never dawns on me somehow.

I look up at rapidly shifting clouds in the skies, moving and changing colors at the same time. What is happiness? Is there a God? What has he planned for me? What do the stars tell us at night?

I realize that I am but one man, pondering over what has perplexed mankind for centuries. A sense of inertia envelops me, and I sink back further into my chair.

I decide not to spoil the special moment. Not knowing answers makes life worth living, and the good fight worth fighting.

If only

2009-09-02T17:10:00.000-07:00

If only

If only her face on the screen, that oh so near seems,

Lovelier still, than in the most artistic of my dreams,

Could be reached out to, and with trembling fingers touched!

If only her tresses, that to mischievous zephyrs sway,

And in their jet black beauty, many a heart waylay,

Could brush across my face, just once enough to last!

If only her eyes, that from a million miles away,

In their lasting muteness too, so much appear to say,

Could glisten with tears of joy, and not separation or pain!

If only her voice, the sweetest of sweet sounds I’ve heard,

That speaks my name in longing, from across the wide world,

Could sound the same, as when in my ears warmly whispered!

India!

2009-08-13T16:38:00.001-07:00

(The outcome of a homesick first week in the USA)

India!

Out of my window I gaze, at landscapes unseen,

At golden night lights, glitter and sheen,

And ask myself to find fascination in such,

And miss not my people and my past so much,

My heart replies, ‘I wish you had earlier known,

That beauty is useless when enjoyed alone!’

Oh sweet India, how I miss you so!

Where a hundred thousand mud lamps glow,

Land of hearty chaos and maddening melee,

Divine music, and enchanting philosophy,

Pray, become beautiful again, and pull me slowly,

Back to where, I know my heart will always be.

And all things unclean, stagnant and rotten,

About my homeland so easily forgotten,

Leaving behind only whiteness so pure,

Emotion tender to the touch, soft and demure,

And when of her I dream, and her love I remember,

It is as if a little child calls out, longing for its mother.

And a fluttering sanity, about itself is held,

By seams unsteady, and weakening thread.

Homesick the soul and turbulent the mind,

In morose poetry, a fraction of peace I find!

After reaching

2009-08-04T17:10:00.000-07:00

Atlanta. The capital of Georgia, and the city I shall grow to call my home for the next many months to come.

After many a painful farewell, it has finally sunk in that I am going to be on my own. With that hard fact digested, I have begun to get settled down in this place. Still, I miss my parents. My dad's stoic ways, and my doting mother. I miss my brother too, and all the good times I've had with him growing up, which seem like a distant dream now. I miss the one I love, and feel incomplete even amidst beauty. I miss my home, with all its unique little nuances, that I know inside out. I miss the way I felt at home there. I miss my friends, without whom life would be monotony.

But, new circumstances and new challenges beckon, and what man of him who doth not leave his all behind, to go after unseen horizons?

This is my first post from America. A lot more to come. No more personal diary type blogging though. Back to regular posts now.

Yours,

Bharath

Before Leaving

2009-07-27T05:48:00.000-07:00

I've made sure over these years that this blog doesn't become a personal diary. Although I do intend it to be a window into my life, a kaleidoscopic feel to it is what I have tried to achieve. Hence, there are little or no direct references to my personal life, and certainly no "yesterday it rained a lot" or "one movie I liked recently" type posts.

But let me just break the trend a bit. My life is at its biggest turning point now. Tomorrow I leave for Atlanta, where I'll be studying in GeorgiaTech. It promises to be a life altering experience, and I know on some level or the other, deny it though I might, things will never be the same again.

This is my last post from India. Next from the US.

Yours,
Bharath

Not apart at all

2009-07-11T00:54:00.000-07:00

Not apart at all

On pristine summer mornings that glisten with dew,

On clear spring nights mysterious, dark and blue,

On pale winter evenings, with sunshine scant and few,

With budding incompleteness, I can only think of you.

But all things in this world that threaten to crush a heart,

Life’s long lonely journeys, that oft end where they start,

Appear meaningless and inane, when at the heavens I glance,

At the stars that glimmer with the secrets of fate and chance,

I know you look at them now too, at this very same shine,

And somehow, somehow, it is like your eyes met mine!

I lean out of my window, savoring the gentle evening breeze,

That brings me your scent from afar, to tantalize and tease,

And as heavenly shades of dusk, like gentle drapes begin to fall,

I realize we’re thousands of miles away, but not apart at all.

The season of lasts

2009-06-21T05:28:00.000-07:00

The season of lasts

Soft footfalls echoing through aisles long vacant,

Laughter in peals, unexplained and pleasant,

Shreds of conversation, merry and inane,

A mere touch of love, to forever things change,

And dollops of friendship, over the years to remain,

In memories such the mind abounds,

Reveling in an empty theatre of sounds.

Pensive is the moment, melancholy the air,

As illusions of permanency, now lie threadbare,

And the weather changes on a whim, drastically,

As the season of lasts dawns for all to see.

The summer sun also shall not last for long,

It will give in too, to farewells and swansongs.

Someday ages and ages from today,

We shall forget the pangs of going away,

And maybe meet again, like the times of old,

And regale each other with tales banal and untold,

But my friend now, as the time of parting nears,

Good cheer gives way to nostalgia and fears.

And as blustering storm clouds yonder catch the eyes,

All that remain are the first rains, and the last goodbyes.

On Happiness

2009-03-01T02:12:00.000-08:00

What is happiness?

It is,

In rousing music and simple food,

The pristine joys of life to find.

In solitude to find hidden bliss,

And that elusive peace of mind.

To others, merely to do what they always do,

And not what to them they want done to.

To enjoy true company, in joy as well as pain,

To joke and be joked of, in equal forgiving vein.

To be not too careless of friend, or too wary of foe,

And judge a man by effort, not what circumstances bestow.

To be hungry enough each day, to go out, work and earn,

And be loved enough at home, longingly to return.

Money, in just the right regard to hold,

To have enough of it, but not so much to hoard.

To squander not a penny, and spend with utmost care,

And yet for the deprived, always have a little to spare.

To ponder over love, and nurse a bruised heart,

But always to love again, and go over to the start.

To hold love over lust, and yourself above it all,

To hold pride over success, and virtue above all.

To lend yourself, only to causes true,

And promise not in jest, lest a liar of you.

To lose neither heart in defeat, nor modesty in victory,

And be simple in your word, but lofty only in deed.

To excel at sport, to shoot, ride and aim,

And shrug it all away, saying ‘twas just a game.

In hard work all day long, satisfaction to obtain,

And sleep tired at night, without regrets to restrain.

PUB CULTURE

2009-01-31T18:55:00.000-08:00

The next time you hang out with a bunch of guys and girls at a mall or a club or some such place that is quintessentially ‘Modern’, beware. The protectors of Indian culture might just beat the living crap out of you, and for good measure, molest all the females present there. The price you pay for doing something that is not termed ‘Indian culture’ is horrifying. They call it ‘Pub Culture’, and I guess it’s one of the blackest sins conceivable.

If ‘Pub culture’ is so bad, why do the sons and daughters of the MPs who are up in arms against it themselves go to nightclubs etc.? Rahul Gandhi partied all night just a few days after 26/11. Sachin Pilot, Jyotiraditya Scindia, and all these scions are frequent visitors on the night club circuit.

But forget that. Why should it even become an issue? Why should ‘Indian culture’ be thrust on you? Why is so much attention given to such trivialiaties when larger security threats and economic crises abound?

That’s India for you. The land of a glorious past and an asinine present. And a future that vacillates in between.

But Of Course

2008-12-10T01:16:00.000-08:00

But Of Course!

‘But of course!’, said the veiled terrorist,

Don’t you mistake me for a nihilist,

I work by the book, and what God does propose,

I listen, follow, blast, and dispose!

This time around, on the cards is something similar,

If you’re amongst the body count, well, all the more spectacular!

‘But of course!’, said the smiling minister,

We too have plans for the sinister.

But this time around, the plan was wrong,

They fooled us all, and we played along.

Next time you’ll see the plan get bigger and better,

We’ll catch them all, hook line and sinker!

‘But of course!’, said the leader, I too am tough,

And I will proclaim with fury; ‘we’ve had enough’,

But this time around, other pressures force,

And obligations arise, and veer me off course,

Just once more, let me sound like jelly,

I’ll be firm next time, just wait and see!

'But of course!' said the policeman,

I’m perennially prepared for action,

They say I’m stern, agile and dashing,

My cherubic convexity notwithstanding.

But when disaster struck, I was off duty,

So it really isn’t my fault, blame him, not me!

'But of course!' said the citizen,

I won’t let any such atrocities happen,

For scandals I expose, and leaders I denounce,

With startling venom their misdeeds I announce,

If an allegation was a penny, and a blame was a pound,

Wouldn’t millionaires in every Indian street be found?

'But of course!', said all of them in chorus,

We’re a good team, we forecast and we focus,

We plan and we execute, and we in virtue we outclass.

So blame the system not us, why are you so biased?

We have more plans to make, and duties to tend,

And the ravages of bygone disasters to mend!

Of all things in this country senseless and inane,

Of all things corrupt, rotten and profane,

Is the word system, and the use of it in vain,

As if it’s an entity, like the weather to transform,

From good to bad on its own, to fail and perform.

The system won’t change, so get ready for the next bomb!

So Like Us

2008-12-01T02:50:00.000-08:00

People, things, and in general, circumstances never change. I realized this after watching the horror and drama unfold in my city over the past week. I say this , because I have also realized the following things: (Not a word below is false)

IT IS...

1. So like the terrorists to strike again. Trust them to never let a dull moment go by.

2. So like the metal detectors and other security measures to be completely redundant and useless when they were needed the most.

3. So like our system, to arm the railway police with merely Lathis, as a consequence of which they were among the first to run away when the carnage at CST station began.

4. So like our system again, to have NSGs only in Delhi.

5. So like our system to have the plane to carry them stationed in Chandigarh at that time, and so like that plane to need refueling at that moment, all of which resulted in a delay of 10 hours between the terrorist strike and the NSG operation commencement.

6. So like our politicians to pounce on the tragedy and play a game of oneupmanship. It is so like the BJP to allege now, and so like the Congress to refute.

7. So like our intelligence to have slept over a bulk of information that it had received over the past few months, pointing to exactly this kind of attack.

8. So like RR Patil, Mah Dty CM, to say "Small things like this tend to happen in big cities like ours. They had planned to kill at least 5000, so by those standards, we did pretty well." to the press.

9. So like his office to call and plead with the media not to broadcast that clip.

10. So like our media to ensure that was the first thing they broadcasted in glowing neon "BREAKING NEWS: RR PATIL: says..." font.

11. So like Pakistan to act all surprised and shocked, and sport a "Who Dunnit?" attitude. Yeah right. You bastards.

12. So like Manmohan Singh to sound like an economist even while delivering a speech to the world immediately after the attacks.

13. So like the Congress to take purely reactionary measures now, and sack incompetent fools. Like they had to wait for so long , and for such a failure to gauge the competence levels of their officers.

14. So like the NSG commandos to quietly finish the job and leave with minimum fuss. It is modesty that reveals greatness.

15. So like our system once again, to treat the families of those killed in the Taj/Oberoi with utmost respect, and have senior officers escort them to the morgue. At the same time, the kith and kin of those dead on the CST platform had to wait, or run from pillar to post for close to 48 hours for a chance to see their dead.

16. So like the media to have a field day and bring us live coverage of the gunfight. Like it were a cricket match.

17. So like the abysmal state of the coast guard to be discovered now. Now.

18. So like us to keep saying crap like 'spirit of the city' and 'resilient Mumbai'. Resilient my butt. You and I could be amongst the mangled bodies shown on television next time.

19. So like the media to ape the west in this hour of grief too, by labeling that day as "India's 9/11". It is one thing to call our film industry Bollywood. But to call 26th Nov "India's 9/11"? Grow up guys.

20. So like Raj Thakeray to do a disappearing act now. MNS commandos to the rescue anyone?

21. So like us to realize, in hindsight again, how petty his politics of North Indian v/s Marathi manoos really is.

22. So like them, no doubt to prepare for another strike.

23. So like us to be engrossed in the blame game again.

24. So like life in India to go on as always.

The peddler of words

2008-11-26T06:04:00.000-08:00

(A tribute to the great poets of yore)

The Peddler of Words

With wisdom quotidian, and knowledge none too vast;

With brawns pedestrian, and courage always short;

With penury as my bride, and darkness for a friend,

With aloofness as a habit, on no mortal I depend.

With manner hardly kingly, and riches none to give,

With nothing worth of mention, an obscure life I live.

Scoffing fellowmen hold me in poor regard,

Oh lonely dreamer, what are you but an upstart!

But there is something of a divine light,

In what I do by the dead of the night.

A daytime squandered and badly spent,

To acquire by nightfall an angelic bent,

To sit with frenzied papers at my table,

To pen down poem, story and fable;

A head full of ideas, a heart light like spring;

Oh slumbering fools, now the upstart is the king!

Delirious and inspired, I go on to write,

Reveling and marveling into the night!

Laughing at my humor, you rejoice in glee,

And burst into tears at my crafted tragedy,

My heroes they inspire, and my demons they scare,

My villains you hate, and for my orphans you care!

This world of no God’s, but of an upstart’s alone,

I change your life, all from my dark little home.

But I aspire not riches, those are not for me,

For a mere peddler of words is all I want to be!

Metamorphosis

2008-11-21T05:18:00.000-08:00

Another poem from 2004. One of my favorites. It depicts good old fashioned possessive love. Probably unfit today, in these times of flirting, sms love and coffee shop romance. But truly one of my most special ones.

Metamorphosis

You, always the incandescent princess,
Oh so glamorous, all very glitzy,
Me, the idiot, forever obsessed,
With you, but truth I can never see,
That you and I, are just not meant to be.
Try as I might, I can never be your kind.

Pick me, throw me, just take me for granted,
For am I not your shadow, your footsteps;
Always there, yet totally ignored?
Soon, we shall part though, as the future beckons,
Surely, into your bright world you shall disappear,
Leaving me to grope somehow, for my destiny.

But all this while, you failed to realize,
A lurking intelligence behind my dull eyes;
A will that strengthens with the darkening of the skies,
A longing, a hunger, to escape from this life;
A desire to be someone better, stronger, and bigger,
A confidence that knows its possible. And it is too.

Some years later, your life I shall enter-
No longer the shadow, no longer the coward,
And charmingly swipe you off your feet,
To carry you into the night skies above.
Long lonely years spent waiting for this moment,
Knowing, though that no price is too high for love.

So I bide my time, for someday you shall be mine,
And I know my someday is never too far away,
So my lady, don't ever think you have seen the last of me,
For I shall return, once my metamorphosis is complete.

The Soldier In me

2008-11-18T06:19:00.000-08:00

This is a poem I wrote sometime in 2004. It is raw, but I like it still, for it evinces my admiration and love for the soldiers of our land.

The Soldier In Me

Not too long ago, I was a body with no soul,
A wanderer without purpose, without a goal.
A scorned, unwanted and unhappy life I led,
Sometimes wishing I could just drop dead.
Society branded me a misfit and they laughed-
They laughed at me, and how they laughed!

Now at my country's border I stand,
Tri-colour on my chest and rifle in hand.
And finally in my life, purpose I can see.
Till I collapse and my last breath deserts me,
My motherland I shall guard, for I love her,
Yes, this is the new me, me the soldier.

Sometimes, even now, their laughter I can hear;
"He just wanted to run away", they mockingly leer.
But then, "Do not look back", the soldier in me says;
A soldier has no past, he only looks onward always.
Besides, a noble job I have, that of protecting
A billion brothers, oh what a thing to do for a living!

On some nights, when in a lonely bunker I lie,
A skeptical voice within asks, "What if I die?"
But the soldier in me always rises to reply,
'Worthy is the man who dies for a cause,
And an entire nation shall mourn his loss'.
And in that reply, my salvation I find.

Dostana, Miami, and the great Bollywood lie

2008-11-14T19:34:00.000-08:00

So Dostana will release today. People will throng to see John's abs, his butt too I believe, Priyanka's cleavage, and the sights and sounds of Miami, and the associated attractions of firangs in bikinis, songs in foreign locales etc. The movie will run, Karan Johar and his production firm will roll around in more money, people will be happy, and life in India will go on as always.

The entire thought process behind the movie must have been like this:
1. Select location based on which will sell the most.
2. Select actors and actresses based on who's hot and in right now.
3. Frame a story somehow around all this.

There is nothing wrong, or nothing tragicomic about this, except for one thing: This just isn't good cinema. For long, it is an open secret that Bollywood hides shoddy scripts and sloppy acting behind a facade of foreign locations, exquisite dresses, and of course, the skin show. But why do people fall for it again and again?

Why have all of Karan Johar's recent movies (Kal Ho Na Ho, Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna to name a few), been shot in the Unites States? Was the USA central to any of the plots of the above movies? It's not only about him. Jhoom Barabar Jhoom was fimed entirely in the UK. Aap Ka Suroor, in Germany. Did it influence the story line in any way? The answer is a resounding no. Why do bimbos like Katrina Kaif, Sameera Reddy, Celina Jaitley etc. who can't act for nuts keep getting roles in big movies?

There's a general feeling in our country that even bullshit, if packaged well enough, will sell like hot cakes. We blame politicians for being profligate. We blame cricketers on their eccentricities. Why do filmstars and film makers escape, despite wasting crores?

I'm not saying glamor and aesthetics are unnecessary. But when things are put in just to show there is abundance of money, or to hide obvious flaws in the movie, it irks a thinking viewer. The idiots, of course, continue to wallow in these superfluous excesses, like Minisha Lamba's bikini in Kidnap, or Akshay Kumar's sherwanis in Singhh is King (each of which is supposed to have costed more than a lakh of rupees) .

Grow up Bollywood. Don't dish out crap like this. Grow up viewer. Watch Miami to your heart's fill on Travel and Living if you want. Don't shell out 150 rupees for the same.

(readers, your comments are welcome as usual)

Nay, said the flower

2008-11-14T04:03:00.000-08:00

Hey. I found this in some book. It's originally a Hindi poem, but when translated, it still sends an arrow of thrill through the heart of the reader.

Nay, said the flower
Cast me, said the flower,
Not on the virgin's bed
Nor in the bridal carriage
Nor in the merry village square.

Nay, said the flower
Cast me but on that lonely path
where the heroes walk
For their nation to die.

Of cricketers and heroes

2008-11-03T04:45:00.000-08:00

The Tireless one (Jumbo) has gone. The Indomitable one (Dada)will hang his boots after Nagpur. Soon, the Immaculate one (Rahul) and the Special one (VVS) will crumble too. The Legendary one (Sachin) shall linger on for some more time, but inevitably, he too will have to call it a day. Indian cricket is at a crossroads now, witnessing the biggest exodus in recent times. The most iconic players to ever don the India whites are bidding farewell to the game.

Somehow, I cannot imagine an Indian team without the likes of Kumble, Dravid and Saurav. True, the recent inflow of youngsters had resulted in almost inhuman pressure being put on them, but they handled it with aplomb, and showed their class time and again.

I, like most guys my age, grew up watching and idolizing these players, and the most enduring of my cricket memories will be
1. Kumble bowling with a broken jaw and high fever in Antigua (2002) to get Lara out.
2. Sachin beating the living shit out of McGrath and co. in Sharjah (1998) and single handedly propelling the team to wins.
3. Saurav Ganguly and his offside strokes which were, according to me, poetry in motion. He repeatedly bisected 7 fielders on the offside and brought the best laid plans to pieces.
4. Rahul Dravid choosing to keep wickets to accomodate an extra batsman in the team, and withstanding the enormous toll on his body to become the ICC ranked No.1 ODI batsman in 2004.
5. Laxman bringing the Aussies to their knees in Kolkata (2001) and being christened 'Very Very Special'. To this day, he remains the nemesis of the Australians.
6. Kumble's test century in England (2007) and the way he celebrated when he got it, suddenly looking more like a 12 year old kid than a veteran of 37.
7. Rahul's comment in the media : "Everywhere else, there is God, but on the offside, there is Saurav Ganguly."
8. Kumble's magnanimity and humility when he remarks to the media on being given captaincy "I understand this is a transition phase and I have to do my duty and ensure the captaincy is handed in good hands when I retire shortly."
We as a generation shed tears at their failures, and jumped with joy when they played well, for we knew they were giving their heart and soul for the nation.

I wonder how long it is going to take, or is it ever possible, to respect the pugnacious Yuvraj or the fiesty Gambhir, or the ice cool Dhoni in the same way. They are great players too no doubt, but there was something about the oldies that made us idolize them and want to BE like them (I became a left hand batsman because of Saurav) .

Seniors, we love you, and shall always respect you for your immense contributions to Indian cricket. Please stay involved with the game.

Goodbye Jumbo. Goodbye Dada. And the others too. We are better players and humans for having seen you play.. You guys will always be missed.

(readers, feel free to post your fav memories in the comments section)

Words that permit

2008-10-05T00:05:00.000-07:00

Without disguise, my dream I confess,
A journey impending, a lifetime's quest
I'll be back my love, I hear myself say,
You know I won't bear to be away.
Arts to revel in, trades to master,
Secrets, stories and legends to go after.
But none of these she desires for me,
For, is not distance every woman's enemy!

And in the pregnant silence I wait,
An entire journey hanging, subordinate,
To words that permit, yet somehow tie,
A blatant truth perhaps, an effusive lie,
But gushing and straining come the tears,
Adorable woman anger, betraying her fears,
"Come back soon, and always be strong,
Be good to all, and know right from wrong.
I'll wait always, but please don't be long."

Dusk falls, and the sea stretches infinite,
Rocking my ship and conspiring with the night,
A window on the shore, and a silhoutte slight,
Shivering and crying, that memory I hold tight.
What man of me, who leaves his all behind,
Travels far, a better life to find,
Suffering too, on destiny's rocky straits
As much as the one who remains and waits!

Of Ganpati and Sean Paul

2008-09-14T08:49:00.000-07:00

So its Visarjan day today. My colony Ganpati moves along at snail's pace. I am a passive bystander at the edge of the road. I see two trucks. The one ahead has a self proclaimed DJ, and atleast four speakers, each at least 8 feet tall. There're around 200 people behind this truck. Predominantly youth, but not without the ocassional beer bellied uncle here, or the fat bottomed aunty there.

The DJ churns out music loud enough to drive you crazy. And all these 200 people begin dancing. Traffic is obstructed. Cars honking, traffic police screaming at the top of their lungs, and the DJ changing the music on a whim. Some real popular Bollywood numbers. Then comes a different beat. 'Temperature' is the song. Sean Paul's words of wisdom follow, and the crowd does a loud 'Woooooooooo' to show their appreciation for the DJ and his choice.

Anyway, for all the colony to hear, Sean Paul raps

Five million and forty naughty shorty...
Baby girl...all my girls, all my girls...Sean de Paul say

Well woman the way they time cool I wanna be keepin' you warm
I got the right temperature for shelter you from the storm
oh lord, gal I got the right tactics to turn you on, and girl I...
Wanna be the Papa...You can be the Mom....oh oh!

Not less than five feet behind all this, the second truck trundles along. A few disgruntled old men, and little kids too young to know what 'turn you on' means, trail along behind it, and above all of this, Lord Ganesha towers in all his benign and magnanimous glory. I detect a satiric smile on his face. I can't help but feel amused. Meanwhile, Sean Paul gives way to Eminem now, and the ardent devotees dance on into the night.

No freedom

2008-08-05T09:59:00.000-07:00

(With a few days to go for Independence day, I gave a thought to the meaning of the word 'free'. I came up with some thoughts related to freedom and the lack of it.)

No freedom. What does this mean?

No freedom means having to obey other people all your life. No freedom means not being able to stand up for what you think is right, and accepting ignominies and invectives hurled at you with nonchalance, resigning yourself to your fate. No freedom means being shown everyday that what you believe in and live for is insignificant and inconsequential. No freedom means getting used to that too.

No freedom means having to think twice before acting, for fear of the consequences. No freedom means inhibiting your desires and goals, for lack of belief to dream about the same. No freedom means fear of the future. No freedom means a passive acceptance of the fact that your destiny does not lie in your hands.

No freedom means being incapable of love, for love is the greatest proponent of freedom.

No freedom means doubting yourself. No freedom means fighting two wars everyday, one against the world, and one against your own self, to prove that you are right. No freedom means not knowing whether you are right or wrong.

No freedom means forcibly restricting your abilities and working capacity because of physical and mental exhaustions.

No freedom means a life lived within four walls, a floor and a ceiling, and thinking that’s all there is to life. No freedom means a life lived merely for survival, without hopes or spirit. No freedom means a life lived amidst chains, wondering about how life would be without them. No freedom means not living at all. No freedom means merely existing.

The Princess and the Shepherd

2008-07-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, our own views of princesses and shepherds gets so all encompassing that we lose sight of what is God’s will. This is a poem that shows just that.

And she enters the palace, silver anklets tinkling softly,
In the dead of the night, to her room she tiptoes,
Her mother waits in the dark, heart beating wildly,
‘Oh you little jewel, my heart bleeds for you thus,
Away you go into the dark dangerous night,
On horseback, galloping into the moonlight,
Who is it that draws you so, out of your chamber,
And into the night, who is he who makes you wander?
A prince so fine, or a man with nobility divine?’

‘Mother, his company is what my heart longs,
But neither prince nor noble he may be,
The coarse Harijan class is to what he belongs,
And that makes him not a person worse,
Or shrewder less, or his thoughts less lofty,
He has strength that makes the wrestlers shiver,
Wit and subtlety to make the vazirs quiver
He is a complete man, and mine he will be.

Oh mother! Why do you weep thus!
Is it his lineage of birth, or the bulge of his purse,
That makes him fit for a princess? Is it not his soul
And his completeness, that makes him a man whole?’
‘Oh naïve little one, what do you know, of royalty,
Of poetry, nobility, and a king’s famed ancestry,
That you seek to blemish it, with a mere shepherd
Fit only to clean the stables at our palace!’

And her bangles she breaks, weeps and curses
Her hot tears fill the night, and thus it passes.

It is morning. The jungle awakens to glory
The shepherd stands one legged, flute in hand,
And as melody divine fills the heavens, you can see
How bird, animal, and all the creatures of the land,
Surround him in devotion, as do the villagers slowly,
And as the queen spends a sleepless night, may be
The princess still thinks of him, as now he is only memory,
But the shepherd Krishna revels outside, and all is Godly.

Of Mechatronics and first showers

2008-06-05T10:06:00.000-07:00

Mechatronics is not even a word on this word processor. It is underlined red, a word not recognized in the English language. The closest match suggested, as I see, is macaroni. The stupidity of the whole thing is funny.

June 5th 2008. Outside, blustering winds and rumbling thunder, along with the enchanting prospect of imminent rain, have turned the landscape into a scene straight out of poetry. Ah. First showers.

Children come prancing down the stairs, to do a little jig, looking expectantly at the skies from time to time, children being children in all their uninhibited childishness.

Red gulmohar flowers dot the road in front of my building, and a lot more are plucked off from the tree by the notorious winds, and carried off in crazy swirls that defy geometry, and teach us more about the shapes of the world than any manmade art ever can.

And finally it starts raining. A gentle drizzle at first, then it slowly picks up until the patter on the window shed is all I can hear when I stand looking outside. Some water blows onto my face as well, wetting my spectacles. Surprised, I back off. The sweet smell of wet earth evokes strange emotions, and distant memories, which I really need not describe, for what every man feels and recollects during such special moments of proximity to nature shall be unique to him, and himself alone.

A quiet calm envelops the heart, and softly, ignites little desires left unheeded. A longing to see my grandparents once again, a longing to go down and play football like there’s no tomorrow, and come back drenched to the bone, and enter the house to the smell of piping hot tea. A longing to meet old friends, a longing to spend a little more time with loved ones than time permits, and a longing to be small and innocent again.

But, mechatronics beckons again, and sighing, I sit down to study, as there is an exam tomorrow. Such is life, for all its romance and poetry.

Letter to a terrorist

2008-05-14T07:54:00.000-07:00

I write this a day after 6 serial blasts in Jaipur kill more than 50 and wound close to 200. These blasts now leave a burning imprint in the annals of Jaipur’s pristine history, and the rustic peace of the pink city has been forever disturbed.

Mr. Terrorist, I don’t know what schedule mass murderers of men follow, but if it permits you some free time, then I hope to God that you come across this blog one day, and that you read this letter I am addressing to you. Don’t worry, it is not a hate mail. I am merely thanking you.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist. For trying to remind a nation that you exist, time and again. We as a people, are essentially happy these days, 2008 is proving to be a good year for us, and Indians from all over the world, in all walks of life are making their presence felt across the globe. We tend to forget you in such moments, just as a man in moments of bliss would tend to forget an infected wound on his foot. You have been just that to us, and we will acknowledge your presence once again.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist. For inadvertently showing us that you have relegated yourself to attacking the second tier cities of the country. Maybe you are just not the man you used to be, going after the Mumbais and the Delhis of the country. Maybe its not that easy anymore. Maybe you feel fear too. Thank you letting us know that.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist, again for inadvertently proving to be the most cohesive force that binds all Indians together. In this day of reservations, fractious regionalism, and IPL, (come on, don’t tell me you haven’t watched it yet), we sometimes forget that we’re one country, one land and one people. You have united a billion people again, and the heartache that we feel when we see the dead and maimed of Jaipur makes us forget caste, religion and creed, and all our petty bickerings. In that moment, we feel only empathy for a fellow country man, and that unites a country more strongly than anything else. Thank you Mr. Terrorist for uniting us. You have brought us together once again.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist for strengthening us again. Thank you for showing us that there is always room to become stronger. The people of Jaipur won’t ever forget May 13th, just as Mumbai will never forget July 11th, and in this day of tragedy, heart of hearts, they will feel the need to become stronger. And they will.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist for showing us just who the weak are, in this whole bargain. There were bombs hidden in cycles, and they killed women, children and the elderly alike. Mr. Terrorist, on behalf of the whole nation of India, I would like to point out that you are weaker than the most aggrieved survivor of your ghastly deed yesterday.

I do not know if you are a follower of your faith, but if you are, I don't know which God permits this. Also, I do not know if damned men feel pangs of conscience. I am not really sure if the law of 'karma' even applies to a man like you, but just so you know, on behalf of all the people of India, right from the wealthiest millionaire to the most impoverished pauper of the land, we hope you die a thousand deaths for every person you killed yesterday.

You may have snuffed out lives, crushed dreams, and maimed bodies forever. But you have strengthened more souls in the bargain than you would have ever imagined. Well done Mr. Terrorist.

The test match

2008-03-23T03:22:00.000-07:00

Pricking heat all over my body. The tshirt clings to my back, as I wipe sweat off my forehead and look ahead. The heat blurs my vision. Eleven guys standing with their eyes on me, more attention from the dressing rooom focussed on my every move. I take guard, pausing momentarily to shake the stiffness out of my arms, and tap my bat down on the muddy concrete strip ever so gently, and look ahead, in apt attention. Twenty minutes to play out, and the test match will be drawn.

Sledging, in its most rudimentary and detestable form, going on in full swing. But the proponents of that too, from all the depths of the slip cordon, pause as the bowler thunders in. Tennis ball whizzes past me. I let it be. No pain, no gain. The ball is taken adroitly by the keeper, and as if on cue, all the close in fielders erupt in verbal volleys of taunts, and snide remarks.

And on the match trundles. Last wicket to get for them. Ten more minutes to go for us. A slow leg spinner bowling. As the minutes have passed, the sledging and banter have gone down, the field has spread, and the pressure has eased off. I play one ball deftly, dodge the other, leave the third undisturbed, and pad off the fourth and fifth ones. Suddenly they have upped the tempo, and the verbal barrages are back. The temptation to whack one over their heads is too much. I beg the sane part of me for permission to do the same.

Last ball of the over. Looping slow ball, slow even by spinners' standards. Screw everything else. In that split second, I make up my mind to go for it. Advancing down the track, I hit it firmly. Oh...but was I a tad too early on the shot? And my worst fears are confirmed, I realize in the eternity between my hitting the shot, and the sound of the hit reaching my ears. The ball travels the distance, but lacks that extra punch to carry it past. And in that instant I know I am doomed. The fielder pouches it. And the fielders go beserk. I kick the gravel in anger, and swear in utter disbelief at my own naivete.

Why did I go for it? I ask myself a million times on the way back to the dressing room. Needless to say, we lost the match.

Moral of the story: Temperament is what greatness is made of.

My mom and the dream

2007-12-23T03:04:00.000-08:00

And the night sky stared at me in the face, as I stood on the edge of the terrace parapet. Blustering night winds blew my hair back (they seemed strangely longer and a lot wavier now) and I struggled to balance myself. The grisly green snake with the head of a child continued to talk to me in its squeaky voice. "Give me the ring" it hissed. "No!!!"I heard myself shout over the noises of the brewing storm. It slithered closer, and a cold sweat broke out all over me. I gripped the ring tighter. It was almost touching my toes now, and a great big tongue of lightning flashed across the skies. The snake opened it's fangs and hissed. In the eerie white lightning, I saw the ring wedged firmly between its fangs. "What the...I had the ring...I had it...give it back to me...it's my good luck charm.." I bent down to grab the snake by the throat and rattle the life out of it, when thunder broke out and a furious gust of wind blew me off balance. I fell off the parapet. The snake (back with the head of a child again) thrust it's head over the parapet and laughed at me. Weird childish eyes and infant teeth. I shivered in dread as I fell. And fell. And fell.

And woke up in a cold sweat. A dream.I realized I was wet with sweat. Shrugging off the thick blanket, (whatever happened to the winter cold, God himself knows)I jabbed at the talking clock byt the bedstand. "The time is 2.23 a.m. Have a nice day" the metallic voice crooned in a sing song tone. Like it cared about my day. I clutched my face in my hands. The green snake kept coming back to mind. Ugh. What a nightmare. I tossed and turned in bed for a few minutes and realized I couldn't sleep alone in the hall anymore.

I tiptoed over to my parents' bedroom. They were sound asleep on their newly furnished bed. The room, at that stressed out moment, appeared to me the picture of protective calm and serenity. Only my dad's snores punctuated the tranquility, but that too was something my mom had grown immune to over the years. I suddenly felt the need to sleep with them. "Ma, please can I squeeze in?"

She looked startled for a moment. "Of course Bharat", she said and moved to make room. I lay down on the edge of the bed beside mom. She moved further in. My dad mumbled something about my mom being too fat for the bed these days. "Shut up, Bharat has come here". My dad snored in reply. Mom shrugged and closed her eyes. I shut my eyes and realized no green snake could harm me now. She put an arm around my shoulders. I snuggled in further. "Bad dream?" She asked, eyes still closed, and a half smile playing on her lips. "Yes...I was on the terrace and a green snake with a child's "..."Hssshhh...just sleep now. We'll talk about this in the morning." I nodded and stopped my frantic narration. The scent of my mom's hair wafted in my nostrils. I felt at peace with the world. I planted my mom a light kiss on the nose. She wriggled a bit. I snickered and closed my eyes again.

And she drifted off to sleep. Taking her son with her. Away from snakes and other sordid beings. So what if I'm 20 years old now. I guess you can never be too old for running to mom after a bad dream.

Me and my two lives

2007-12-02T18:12:00.000-08:00

Paulo Coelho had, in one of his books, explained how people lead two lives. I was thinking about this last night, and it struck me that its remarkably true for most of us.

I lead two lives too.

There is one life in which I am forced to do all that I do. In this duty bound life, I am made to study subjects that don't intrigue me, work for a cause that I don't believe in, be with people whom I don't really identify with, and speak on things that I am not sure of myself. I smile for photographs well knowing that it's a fake smile I'm putting on. I sit and talk with people on topics like the weather, and politics, neither of which interest me. I try hard to maintain an image in society, for what, I really do not know. I make promises and say things that I'm sure I won't be able to keep. In the process, I end up lying, often to my parents, and to the ones who love me the most. I back off from decisions at times, fearing the repercussions. At times I quit the fight when I'm needed the most, saying its not really my battle, when the truth is that I am afraid. I ignore my conscience, and I hate myself for doing so. On a few lonely nights, all my wrongs keep me awake, and I feel like the biggest sinner on earth. I end up hating myself on such ocassions, and I feel I'm unworthy of all that I have been blessed with.

Such is this life.

But there is another life I live too. One in which I meet people who think on my wavelengths, and feel a special connection with them, knowing that they are much closer to me than the world will ever know. I find love in the most little and trivial things, and the beauty of the world is revealed to me. I believe in an unending and undying love, and I know how necessary that is to be happy. At times, I realize that there are certain dreams I cherish, no matter how deep within they are, and I vow to unfalteringly pursue them. I discover my soul accidentally at times, when I am writing, or indulging in any other passionate work, and on this chance meeting, I smile unassumingly, only to realize that this is the most genuine of all smiles. I stumble upon joy while looking at a chilly winter sunrise, and suddenly God reveals himself to me. I cry at times when I hear about soldiers dying, and I write about them to glorify their bravery. Sometimes, just sometimes, the path I seek reveals itself to me, only momentarily, and then it's gone, but it leaves me wise enough to know that a moment's revelation is what inspires a lifetime. I wake up in the middle of the night ocassionally, and thinking about life ,feel as if I'm the most blessed man on earth. And that's when I realize that there's no challenge big enough for a man who lives this life.

These are my two lives. I don't know if both will intertwine one day, or will continue to be as disparate. But what I do know is that I am neither good nor bad. I am merely human, trying to find the path that will take me where I wish to go.

King of his universe

2007-11-23T03:11:00.000-08:00

He was the quintessential artist. Stubble on his chin, gold rimmed spectacles hardly doing anything to hide the sadness in his eyes, a flowing white shirt, inexpensive blue trousers (the kind that people rarely wear these days), and brown shoes that didn't match at all with the rest of his outfit. A bulging folder, no doubt full of his works, and pencils of various colors jutting out of his shirt pocket completed the rest of his getup.

His eyes were sad in a very inexplicable way. I don't know if sad eyes are something characteristic of artists, or was it merely lack or work, or both, or something else. Either way, he cut a lonely figure sitting beside Mr. Ronald McDonald on the bench outside McDonalds on that chilly November evening. It was a tragicomic contrast between them, Ronald smiling away for all the world to see, and the painter, (by now I'm sure that's what he was) portraying sadness on his own face.

I myself was seated opposite him on a compound wall, just a few metres away, waiting for a habitually late friend. From time to time, he would open his folder, take out a portrait of a face he'd drawn with those wonderfully colorful pencils of his, and gaze into it. People were constantly passing by, it being a Friday evening, and McDonalds being what it is in the suburbs, there was a steady flow of people in and out of the restaurant. People would stop for a second, stare with open admiration at his drawings, and pass by on their way.

That was when I started feeling sorry. Now who on earth these days gets face portraits done? Sitting still for minutes together, that too outside of McDonalds? People have cellphone cameras, digicams, and photo shooting has never been easier. Who'd pay 20-30 bucks to see their face in color pencil shading, when Picassa and Photoshop let you do the same thing for free? He seemed at that moment, a guy extremely misplaced in space and time. There was a touch of sadness rankling within me still, as my friend arrived and we went in.

Talking about a host of other things, I forgot about him after stepping inside. Around half an hour later, we emerged outside. He came to mind at once and I looked in the direction of the bench. Surprise surprise. A young married couple had seated their little kid of about six or seven on Ronald's lap. He was looking the other way, and they were forcing him to sit still. A surge of happiness went through me. He'd got someone to draw! Beyond the kid I could see him.

The folder was open in his lap, a few pages jutting out. He was busy at work, gold rimmed spectacles reflecting the bright lights of the building. There were color pencils tucked into the gaps between his fingers on his left hand, which he'd clenched into a fist, somehow managing to hold a clipboard, on which he was drawing. With the deftness of a master, he'd switch pencils between his right and left hand without opening the fist. The child stirred, and with the stern voice you'd associate with a teacher, he told him to stay still. And continued. As I passed him on my way out, my shadow fell on his clipboard momentarily, and he looked up. As our eyes met for an instant, I realized something.

Gone was the sadness. His brows were knitted in intense concentration, and the sadness was replaced by the impatience of a man interrupted in the middle of something he's really passionate about. He was the king of his universe at that moment. My shadow moved on, and his clipboard was bright again. And the artist was back at work, drawing faint shades of hair on the portrait.

I realized I was a lot lighter at heart as I went home.

New ones from Dubai (short story)

2007-11-14T02:45:00.000-08:00

The cheap motel room in central Dubai was abuzz with activity that night. Bright lights adorned the entire setup, a few technicians ran around, a fat sweaty middle aged man with a balding scalp was shouting out orders to all and sundry. Wasim strutted into the room wearing only a long towel. With his rippling muscles, hairless chest and disconcerting smile, there was no mistaking him for what he was. "How much time boss?" he lazily drawled. "Just about done, just about done" the fat man repeated for what was like the fourth time in the night.

And in the middle of it all, sat Safina. Draped in only a bathrobe, she sat on a cheap couch beside the bed. Her eyes were closed. After getting fired from her job as a waitress a few days ago for messing up a big order, life had become very difficult for her. She'd managed to save some money, but all that seemed like a joke now considering she didn't even have a job. She thought about her life back home in India when her parents were alive. How carefree the days were back then. She shivered when she thought about the days ahead. Finding a job again, saving for her brother's college admission. At 18, Ali was at a hostel in Mumbai. She desperately needed money to get him into a college of his choice. He wasn't a bright student, but she had to do it somehow. For her parents' sake atleast. I'll do it somehow, she thought. Three years of battling it out in Dubai had taught her a lot of things. But nothing had prepared her for this.

She was shaken out of her reverie by the fat guy. "Come on girl, you can't keep the set waiting for too long. You've had your rest. Now it's showtime. Boys, are we ready?" She stood up uncertainly. Slivers of pain shot through her, and she grimaced. Just for tonight, she told herself. Wasim was beside her now, leeringly stroking her hair. Taking a deep breath, she prayed to God to forgive her for this sin. For Ali's sake. For Ali's sake. Once he graduates and takes up a proper job, all this will seem like a bad dream. I'll go back to my India, and never ever see the faces of these bastards again. God, please let this not hurt too much. "Action!" cried the fat guy. Swiftly, Wasim jerked off her bathrobe, and pushed her on to the bed. It was quite a while before he cried "cut!".

Back in Mumbai, it was raining at night. Ali shook the rain out of his hair as he reached his friend's house in Bandra. "Man, this rain.." he muttered, as he plopped down on the couch. Four of his friends were there. Cigarette smoke hung about the place. Alcohol was pungent in the air. "Say Ali, how're you going to tell your sister that you got debarred for low attendance? I mean...you'll be pushed back a year now right? And won't this affect your college programmes?"
Ali shrugged. "What she doesn't know can't hurt her. Anyway, I don't even have to tell her that. She'll start crying in no time." Saying thus, he took a puff of the cigarette. "Hey what about the porn?" Subash enquired. "Patience my man", Ali said..." I've told Husain to look out for it. He's got some new ones from Dubai it seems".

The real India

2007-11-13T03:01:00.000-08:00

So I read in a newspaper today that a man in a remote district of Tamil Nadu married a bitch yesterday. Big deal, you must be thinking. A lot of people do that right? Well think again. He married a real four legged bitch. And the article goes on to say what a grand wedding it was, and all his village was present at the ceremony it seems, complete with a grand feast at the end. Disgusted? I am.

The article goes on to say how the man Selva had in his youth, killed two dogs, and in an act of intrepid stupidity, hung their carcasses from a tree. Within a year, he suffered from partial paralysis and lost his hearing too. Plagued by health problems incessantly, it was a mighty sad life that Selva led. Until an astrologer came with the perfect antidote for all this...to cleanse himself of the sin, marry a dog. Selva agreed wholeheartedly, and hence all this.

The wedding, apparently was presided over by all town elders. They draped the bitch in a silk saree and Selva took an oath to keep his better half happy. This act was covered by NDTV, Mumbai Mirror, and all leading southern newschannels and papers. It is with great satire that this article was reported in the Mumbai Mirror. Somewhere, something is missing. Shouldn't people be disgusted and appalled by all this? Who are these 'town elders'? Does nobody in that village have common sense? Are we supposed to sit back in our couches at night and laugh at this spectacle on TV? Or is it supposed to be our morning quota of newspaper humor?

Who needs serious help here? That guy Selva? Or the prescient astrologer? Or the entire village which was a party to all this? Definitely the media too, which, in a frenzy to report, has left its own morality and brains behind a long time ago. If you threw your head back and laughed at this, you need help too.

It is unimaginable, the amount of ignorance, illiteracy and poverty in a region which would lead to something like this actually happening.

So on the one hand, we have Yuvraj Singh getting a crore for hitting six sixes in an over, we have prominent ministers proclaiming modest assets worth tens of lakhs, we have Mukesh Ambani as the richest person in the world, we have Sunita Williams lecturing in IITB about how to dream big, and we have movies like Om Shanti Om made with a budget of crores.

And on the other hand, we have a poor illiterate man marrying a dog because he thinks his health will improve. And we have a woman in Raipur killed, because people suspected she was a witch.

Which is the real India? Is our version of modern India as fake as movie stunt glass made of candy?

Maybe some things in life can't be understood. For better or worse, our country and the people within fall in that category. Anyway, best compliments to Selva and his bride on behalf of the entire country.

Succumbing

2007-11-05T05:54:00.000-08:00

(The plaintive song of a person who tries to improve the world, but gets pulled down into the muck anyway)

And I have a billion dreams with me,
The world I will change, just wait and see.

The blind shall all see, the lame shall all walk
The deaf shall hear, and the maimed shall talk.

The poor will eat to their hearts fill everyday,
And without bitterness their prayers they shall say

Poor children will go to their schools and study,
The malnutioned will become able and sturdy

No home shall be dark, no fireplace shall be cold,
Warmth in every house, body, heart and soul.

No rest for me until I shall do all these,
Saying thus, I set out on the road to my dreams.

But life plays games with me, strange games
My naivete it destroys, humbles and shames

And all the blackness in the world I fight
But its a lonely struggle, and deepens night

No more I can see in front of me, darkness is so
I can't even find my goals within me anymore

And I join the rest of the world, laughing,
At my own misfortunes, and of those surrounding,

Blind to my dreams, that lie still somewhere
In a nook of my soul, but I am oh so unaware

And a billion dreams I had with me,
But the world finally got the better of me.

OH Dravid!

2007-10-27T05:32:00.000-07:00

This one is for the cricket enthusiasts. As for those who happen to chance upon this piece, if you don't follow the vagaries of the men in blue, you are going to get turned off. Please continue at your own discretion.
They say fate plays strange games. But I thought Rahul Dravid was above all that somehow. He came across as a smart man, one of the smartest you will ever meet. The kind who doesn't talk much, always knows what he's doing, and somehow manages to stay on the right side of trouble and controversies, even in this crazed age of media espionage and voyeurism.
It is still amazing how his name was always absent in the ugly coach versus seniors spat that led to Greg Chappell resigning a few months ago. It is amazing how he never put a foot wrong throughout his illustrious career, first as a batsman, then as a wicketkeeper, and as a captain.
The world cup debacle somehow seemed to affect him more than the others. Then on, he was always criticised for not being aggressive enough. Some called him 'that 70s captain'. Though he never reacted openly to all this, it was a shock when he gave up captaincy last month, citing that he wasn't enjoying the job and that he wanted to focus on his batting.
That was just a month ago. Now, he's out of the tour for Pakistan for non performance in 5 games. A month ago, he was taking all the major calls on selections, and now his head has been set rolling by those hungry for 'youth and aggression'.
It is somehow strange that a man like Dravid could make such a big blunder. Dravid the calculated guy who let his bat do all the balltalk. Agreed he didn't perform. But it is somehow disappointing when the same barometer is not used to judge someone like Sachin Tendulkar, whom the nation forgives only too easily.
I had posted blogs on Dravid and Ganguly two months ago, saying that their careers are always intertwined with each other. Now, Ganguly is in the team, and Dravid is out.
It's back to the drawing board for Dravid. I'm guessing he'll come back strongly. He's not the wall for nothing.

Won't come back home this time

2007-10-19T05:01:00.000-07:00

(I have a thing for writing about soldiers. Somehow its more fascinating each time. This is another tribute to them)

It gets late, and off go the city lights,
So do the laughter, and the fights,
Ten thousand homes, all getting ready,
For bed time, nightdresses and stories,
A cosy little world, it thunders outside,
Dina shakes in her bed, little eyes wide,
Momma will daddy get wet? Will he be fine?
Does he have a bed and does he sleep on time?

Daddy's at the border, rifle in hand,
Shivering in his boots, but at his stand,
There's tension over the mile, bombs erupting,
Momma knows that, still, she keeps smiling,
And says daddy's a super man, he takes his rest,
And when they need him the most, he gives his best.
Dina says her prayers, and closes her eyes,
Momma kisses her forehead, and puts off the lights.

Meanwhile, daddy is in battle now, the bombs are closer
And the gunshouts louder, and now one on his shoulder.
He is bleeding now, and he falls to the ground with a slump,
A bullet in his body, throbbing, a fatal mettalic lump,
And daddy knows he's seen the last of Dina and his wife
And he's trembling now, just trying to hold on to his life,
As it slips away, he prays 'God let Dina grow up right',
And a few minutes later, daddy passes away, into the night.

Momma gets the news when Dina is at school,
She closes her eyes, and the world begins to whirl,
And she knows she can't tell Dina, some things can't be told,
You can't say daddy's gone forever to a four year old,
And so at night, the world watches TV at the end of the day,
About movies, cricket, ministers, and whats 'hot' today,
Dina is in bed, thinking her superman daddy is doing just fine,
And in the darkness, momma cries the night away,
For she knows daddy won't be back home this time.

All the warmth in the world

2007-09-26T19:43:00.000-07:00

It rained like hell that day. As if life isn't hell enough for me already, he thought. They were a group of 7, sitting inside the canteen. Piping hot tea and boisterous laughter flowed freely amongst the students, who were enjoying a half an hour break between lectures that rainy Wednesday morning. Sushant, who usually was the major proponent of these canteen visits, however, had left his glass of tea untouched that day. He was staring outside the giant windows, watching the white sheets of rain lash the green trees and marshy meadows outside. Occasionaly, a gust of wind would bend the slim trees so much that they would seem like giving away. Now and then, stray raindrops carried by the wind would find their way in to the canteen and fall on these people, bringing squeals of delight from them. The skies remained dark and gray as if they had an infinite reservoir of rain. It's beautiful outside, he remarked with a tinge of sadness tangible in his heart.

His mother had practically disowned him. After many fights with her, they had reached the flashpoint. She had told him coldly that he was an embarrassment to her, and wasn't a son anymore. And hadn't spoken to him since. Now he had never felt more miserable in his life. He didn't even have a home to go to now. It's not a home anymore, he thought. Just a place to eat and sleep. A stranger in his own house, he thought. He wasn't part of that conversation in the canteen, he was practically lost. He wondered if it was possible to live without a family in the same house as them. Guess that's what I'm gonna have to do now, he thought. Just be alone in the house. I'll be a complete man,amd excel in my studies, and get a good career going. Sushant thought. Just that I won't have a family. But will I be happy? Ofcourse you will ...one part of him said. The other simply said...but who taught you to even spell the word 'happy'?

Just then, his mobile phone rang. It was his mother calling. Hurriedly, he hushed all his friends into silence, and picked up the call, with his blood pounding in his ears. "Hello Sushant, I heard its raining a lot there, please take care and don't get wet, come back home soon or the cold will get to you". Sushant could barely get himself to talk the next few words..."Mom. don't worry I'll come back soon." "Yeah, hurry or train service will break down, I'll make something for you at home so don't eat at college"."Mom...I love you...I'll never break your heart again".

A touch of hesitation at the other end, and Sushant heard "Love you too Sushant". And the line went dead. He realized he had tears in his eyes. I'm still a son! He grabbed his glass of tea. It was still hot. He sipped it slowly, feeling the warmth seep into him. "You're practically glowing...who was it on the phone?" his friend asked.

"The person who taught me to spell 'happy'...I'm going home guys...you guys sit for more lectures if you want" he said, and started homeward. It was cold outside, and he didn't even have an umbrella. But it didn't matter. He had all the warmth in the world waiting for him at home.

p.s : I know this sounds a bit weird, but this is something that's very close to my heart right now.

2007-09-24T21:16:00.001-07:00

We all have, at some point in our lives, reached a stage of depression where suicide seems an acceptable thought. Luckily, good thought prevails, and we refrain from pursuing. But here is a look at what happens when one actually decides to go on with it. Writing it was a different experience, to say the least. Provided a scary kind of thrill. Let me know if you like it.

This way….

There is none like me, the failure amazing,
The ship of my dreams- I have watched it sinking.
A shooter who has missed every target he aimed,
Woe befall me, for my parents I have shamed.
Through my errors, loved ones I have lost,
Promises I have broken, and friendships it has cost.
God, can’t you see, this life I do not deserve-
Dogged by failure, what purpose can I serve!

So that night when the world peacefully slept,
Under the starry skis I sat down and wept
For all the dreams, hopes and the loved ones
That I shamelessly lost, but had once.
Suddenly, like a lonely vehicle up a dark mile,
An idea takes root, and thinking of it, I smile.
All my blunders and follies now no one can mend,
But this pitiful existence of mine, I can easily end.

Now, bleeding and reeling, to the ground I stagger,
My wrists I have mercilessly slashed with a dagger.
Expectantly, the serene moonlit heavens I see,
Awaiting the second chance that god will give me.
As the warm blood gurgles and drips away,
My eyes close gently, a pity it ends this way…
And the world turns a melancholy shade,

And watches in silence as into nothingness I fade.

2007-09-18T19:32:00.001-07:00

Its a known fact that I can't dance. And my dancing is a joke to acquaintances, an embarrassment to close friends and a misery to myself. I tend to avoid dance parties, for I stick out of the crowd like a sore thumb. But let me try not to let my prejudice against dancing cloud my judgement when I write about this.

Very recently, I was at a society Ganesh Mandal function. It was a hot and humid evening, and there were atleast a hundred people crammed inside the pandal put up, with a stage and loud speakers at the front. Bright lights adorned the stage, and there was a dance competition going on for kids below 8 years of age.

There were girls wearing traditional Marathi dresses and dancing to folk tunes and boys wearing jackets and trying out the 'bhai' numbers. Pretty much what you would expect from a dance competition. The audience was supportive, and stuck with the amateur performers despite a few obvious bloopers and visible stage fright. In the middle of all this, came a little girl of 6 or 7, to dance to 'Dil me baji guitar' from a recent movie.

The curtain opened, and the music began, and she began by taking off her jacket, swaying it over her head and throwing it into the audience. This, alarmingly, was greeted with much enthusiasm by the audience. A few guys at the back began dancing. Then began the dance, with her shaking her hips, and gyrating suggestively to the item number. Somehow I couldn't watch it, something was too wrong about it. Also, she was biting her lips weirdly, and I could only hope it was stage fright showing, and nothing else. The young mother of the child was egging her on from just in front of the stage, performing to a small degree most of the dance steps herself. A full three minutes later, the dance ended. The crowd was in raptures. Somehow, party pooper that I am, I couldn't bring myself to clap.

I don't mean to sound like a prude here, but what on earth happened to 'Twinkle twinkle little star' and fancy dress competitions, and all those associated cute little things about childhood? Since when did 'Dil me baji guitar' replace them? I'm telling you, I may be wrong, maybe it's just me, you may have been at that dance yourself, you may not have found anything offensive, but I just think its a bit sad that a kid of six should learn to throw off her jacket and bite her lips while dancing suggestively. It just shouldn't be this way...kids, for all their jocundity, should be just that...kids. And we have to be responsible enough to let our protective instincts take over at such times.

Then we go and cry about crimes against children and child molesting. It's a sad day for the world when kids stop being kids. I bet she didn't know the meaning of the song, or the significance of her gestures. She can be pardoned. We can't, for allowing this.

Bet some of you think I'm sounding like a sad disgruntled old timer now. Well, I don't care. But what I care about is written above. I hope I made a point.

2007-09-15T09:00:00.000-07:00

The T20 world cup had an Australia v/s Zimbabwe match on, on Wednesday night. Now who’d be sucker enough to watch that, I thought. For those uninitiated into the world of international cricket, Australia is no less than an invincible team. Zimbabwe is pretty much a minnow, beaten by all and sundry, and just about filling up the vacancies for the tournament. After being relegated from world cricket because of a poor win-lose ratio, and being plagued by political problems within, they were hopelessly out of action. Poor Zimbabweans, I thought. And all the world must have shared the same view, as evening gave way to night, and I tuned in for the match, expecting Australia to effect a merciless spanking on what is pretty much the most impoverished team in world cricket.

There was rain prior to the start of play, and the experts predicted a tricky pitch and a sluggish outfield. Basically unsuitable conditions for batting. Australia won the toss, and Ponting (captain, you’ve gotta know that!) walked with a swagger, making almost no efforts to hide his smirk. “Well, we’re going to have a bat, you know, get some runs on the board, and put them into bat.” And he complimented his statement with the Aussie drawl, which I personally feel goes hand in hand with arrogance.

Well, so the burly Hayden and the sly Gilchrist walked into bat. The Zimbabweans looked a jittery lot. Can’t blame them, I thought. That was the point I almost lost interest and switched off the TV. It was going to be so predictable.

But something made me sit a little longer. Surprise, tight bowling and hostile conditions got the better of Gilchrist. Hayden fell a little time later, so did Ponting, and a bit of near brilliant fielding sent back the dangerous Hussey. Pretty much, the Australians were on the mat. Where were the jitters now? The Zims seemed a confident lot now, and it was as if they were possessed. The Australians ended their innings after having made 138 in their 20 overs. That was 139 to chase for Zimbabwe, at almost 7 runs per over.

It was an uphill battle, but I guess the initial burst of confidence stuck through with the Zimbabweans till the end, and they rode the storm on their own fortune, and stamped a thrilling last over win on the world number one team.

Doesn’t go to show anything great. It’s the prospect of an upset that makes a match like this interesting in the first place, but the odds of that are very very less.

And it’s right when sport is not confused with entertainment, for it’s not like a Karan Johar movie, but this incident just goes to show that the impossible does, sometimes, reveal itself occasionally.

It’s stuff like this that makes you believe in all those improbable things that you’ve dreamt of. It may be a terribly difficult battle, but it surely is worth fighting for. I’m sure none of the Australians must have slept that night, kicking themselves for the overconfidence with which they had approached. Also, none of these guys must have slept either, for joy of course.

Life’s not bad. It’s just difficult. But don’t let the struggle get to you. So what if you’re up against Australia. You just gotta be the hungry desperate Zimbabwean to win. And give hope to the world.

Ramblings

2007-08-29T10:42:00.000-07:00

It's 11.20 pm. The hot stuffy August night has got to my nerves, and I sit here wanting to type something that will make some amount of tangible sense to the reader. Maybe touch a nerve somewhere within, or jerk a tear, or inspire him enough to make his hair stand on end.

That is exactly what I have set out to do, but the problem is I'm totally empty in my head right now. I try a poem. The first two lines have meaning, but don't rhyme. The next two rhyme, but I'm not exactly sure they're related to the previous two. Frustrated, I clear my screen. The discordant poem has been obviated, but my head is none the clearer. I close my eyes and think. What appealed to me recently? Nothing much worth mention. What saddened me? Again, not blog material. What thrilled me? Have to say...nothing of late. Boring week? Apathy? What is wrong with me? Worthless thoughts enter my head, and I am a slave to my own interpretations of why I can't write. With an effort, I clear the cobwebs and shut my eyes again and force myself to think.
I try a piece on the Indian cricket team. It comes out poor, and I realize the futility of the entire exercise. Writing is like magic. When you sit down to write, either you write or you don't write. There's no room in that world for a term like 'try to write'.
I shut down the computer and go for some TV instead. I guess you can't be a writer all the time. There'll be a next time though. There sure will be.

A poem penned on Independence day

2007-08-18T02:32:00.000-07:00

The Salute

They rhapsodize a soldier’s life often,

But I have lain, bathed in my own blood, shivering,

Feeling it warmly drip away, as the bullet throbs,

I have crouched in ramparts, faced death head on

And have brushed past it, none the wiser,

And none the stronger, for every time.

A long lonely battle it was on the mountains,

Survival, an uncertainty, duty, a necessity.

Plagued by hunger and cold, we have protected

Your lethargy, corruption, bickering and reservations.

Doubt assails him, when the soldier learns of these,

As to whether there is a purpose to what he does.

It is independence day now. The flag salute.

You are attending it. So am I. the national anthem plays.

You are there, but not really so, as I observe.

What plays in your mind now oh compatriot?

Have you forgotten your greed and hypocrisy

At least now, or are you still wallowing in them?

A wave of disgust hits me,

What have I wasted my life for?

Given my blood for?

Shivered for? Cried for?

Disconsolate, I come for my customary salute

A gust of wind lifts the flag up, flutters in all glory

The national anthem plays. Emotions stir my heart

The sun shines, and with it, do the blessings of them,

The great leaders of the past, and I am bathed in holiness.

For I have done my duty. I am a proud Indian.

A salty tear, runs down my cheek. I salute.

I stand erect, and I afford a slight smile.

2007-08-03T20:51:00.000-07:00

Almond eyes

The black night beautiful beckons,

Calling me out of my own blackness

With melancholy thoughts I take her hands

And walk out on the silvery beach sands.

A circus wire, where ocean meets land

I walk on it, leaving footprints in the sand.

I look back and they are washed away...

I laugh at this, and to my blackness I say

Everything is washed away, everything goes

Except blackness, that even in such moments shows.

The wind murmurs in my ears, then what stays?

It plays with me, sings in my ears, tickles my face,

And begs me to answer. And I think, with closed eyes

And she comes to mind, she, and the thousand miles,

That lie between, and to the wind I speak of her,

And of the love that faded as the miles grew longer.

The wind in reply, shoves a great black cloud away,

And an eerie white light emanates, as the moon peeks out

A full moon on the beach, and everything becomes bright.

Think not of the miles, but think of your love,

As she too is looking now at this very same moon.

Everything else might go, but love never does.

I gaze at the moon, feeling a strange warmth on my soul,

The blackness vanishes, so does the cold, I feel her scent,

All around me, my friend the wind has brought it to me,

And I know she looks at the moon, with lovely almond eyes,

At the beauty of the night, and thinks,

Not of the miles, but of me, just as I do of her,

That is when I realize love never goes.

Maktub

2007-07-31T08:35:00.000-07:00

This is for all the philosophy lovers. Philosophy as in, the real thing. If your definition of philosophy starts and ends with 'life is like an icecream so enjoy it before it melts', probably you're not the right audience for this.

There are certain words that have a ring of magic to them. To me, Maktub is one such word. It obviously means nothing to the uninitated, but once you knwo the meaning, I'm sure you'll be a bit enchanted too.

The Arab culture has an ancient belief, or rather, an archaic saying. It simply says "It is written". Three simple words that convey the most amazing meaning. You could read a million books on self improvement, or about how to deal with it when bad things happen to good people, and all that, but believing in Maktub is much easier.

It is written. Meaning no matter how horribly things go wrong, or how badly life deviates from the script you had planned, believe that if you want something with all your heart and you believe it is your destiny, then the whole universe conspires in helping you achieve it, because it is written. And if it is written, it happens.

Maybe you wouldn't be too sure about it now, but you'll see. Believe in yourself, and no matter how messed up things may seem at that moment, things will fall into place, because you believed in yourself and your destiny. And when the pieces of your life fall into place, you'll find yourself muttering 'Maktub', because you will realize that miracles do happen, but not to those who call themselves 'lucky', but to those who believe in them.

So, if you are reading this right now, and if you have a dream, go for it. Make it your destiny. Failures along the way are immaterial, because your destiny never changes. And one day when you achieve it, you will have made your peace with the universe and all its mysterious ways, for it has worked for you and your dream.

P.S: As is custom, I have someone to thank for being the inspiration behind this article. This time its Paulo Coelho. His was the book in which I'd read about Maktub in the first place.

The strange case of Rahul Dravid and Saurav Ganguly-part 2

2007-07-28T03:23:00.000-07:00

Then came the fateful tour to Zimbabwe in the end of 2005. Indian cricket saw its most public mud slinging, and consequently, Ganguly was unceremoniously ousted from the team, and banished to the wilderness of Indian domestic cricket. He's gone for life, said most pundits, giving him less than a chance in a million to come back. And so it was that Dravid became captain. His statement of "being happy" at his promotion no doubt belied his true feelings, after having waited in the wings for years. That was Dravid the gentleman, trust him to be magnanimous at all his successes.

Gone with Ganguly were most of the seniors who had become complacent, and there was a glut of youngsters in the team at once. Exceptional performances in the beginning of 2006, including historic wins at Pakistan and West Indies lead many to believe this was the revival of the Indian team.

Meanwhile, unnoticed, in empty stadiums and foregone tournaments, Ganguly rebuilt himself. The fact that the team was doing well without him must have deterred him no doubt, but to his credit, he never gave up. It was his trial by fire, and he never once flinched or shrank back.
On the flipside for the team, with youth came inexperience. A horrendous tour of Malaysia, followed by nightmarish defeats at South Africa, lead to serious doubts about the quality of these overnight heroes, and a few called for the seasoned hands again. As destiny would have it, his name was on the cards, on the selection meetings, and on the lips of every bereaved fan in the fanatic country.

When India lost all the one dayers in South Africa, that was it. Out were Raina, Kaif and their fickle promises, and Ganguly flew in. When he walked out to bat, that pompous air was gone, so was most of the arrogance, the arrogance that waved a shirt from Lords and made Steve Waugh wait, but was replaced by something grittier...his inner fire burned brighter than ever.
He looked a tired man, in body yes, but not in spirit. Atleast he hadn't given up his own fight. Dravid meanwhile was the same as ever, rock solid in his own form, and still the paragon of perfection, both as a human being and as a cricketer. As a leader though, he was a little less efficient.

I guess to be a leader, you have to be able to lower yourself to the imperfections of others and tackle them. Dravid somehow never seems to do that till date, and continues to be his own God.
Today, both Dracid and Ganguly take to the field, much the same way they have over the decade gone, and Ganguly sometimes cuts a lonely figure fielding at long on, and Dravid seems lost in his own worries, and neither can give up being themselves, which has been their boon and bane over these years.

Their story has taught me that drama is not limited to Bollywood alone. If cricket history was an epic, then Dravid and Ganguly would be characters to emulate.

They are both reaching the end of their careers now. Is there another twist in the tale? Might not be surprised if there is.

The strange case of Rahul Dravid and Saurav Ganguly-part 1

2007-07-28T02:14:00.000-07:00

Personally, I love them both. I almost idolize the former for his perfection, and admire the fighting spirit that the latter exhibits. Both arguably among the best that this nation has ever produced, have careers that have run parallel over these years, and have been inexorably intertwined with each other at the same time too.

They made their debut together at the Lords in 1996. Ganguly, ever the more flashy of the two, got to a century on debut. Dravid, a ton unlucky, missed his ton by 4 runs. That somewhat set the tones of their careers then on. Ganguly was touted for his aggression and style, and was seen as the man who could make his own luck and laugh in the face of danger. Dravid hung on too, albeit a lot less convincingly, and his was an ideal case of 'slow and steady' not impressing all. He was seen as too slow and technical, and unable to improvise most of the times, and consequently was in and out of the one day team. But test matches told completely different stories. His application and diligence was the stuff of legends, and his extreme concentration and immaculate technique became the subject of many an animated coffee table conversation. And so it was that these two players became indispensables in the team.

So Tendulkar proved he was a pedestrian captain sometime in 2002, and the reins had to be handed over to someone else. Obviously it was Ganguly, for he was the one who could inspire confidence in teammates and awe among foes. He did a few audacious things that went well, reaching the world cup final being one of them, and ventured where no Indian had gone before, like making Steve Waugh wait for the toss, and ripping off his shirt and waving it from the Lords Balcony. That was an unforgettable era of Indian cricket, and what went unnoticed behind his astute leadership was the fact that his deputy Dravid was in the form of his life, and the fact still remains that most of the victories in that period were carved out of Dravid's willow, and by his amazing decision to double up at wicketkeeper, in order to make place for an extra batsman.

It was a peculiar arrangement though. With Ganguly, there was too much drama, and the feeling that something is about to explode in your face. His flamboyance and authority is something that no other Indian captain can boast of, but he courted controversy, and when his form began to dip, talks of nepotism within the team, factions, and bickerings began to do the rounds. Conversely, Dravid continued to stay away from teh spotlight, background man that he was.

Such were these two, unaware of the sweeping changes that were around the corner.
(cont'd)

The last supper...a little known tale

2007-07-18T06:57:00.000-07:00

I’m a self confessed Paulo Coelho fan. I’ve read almost all of his books, and I wince at the criticism that most cynical readers throw at him. I think they make sense, because he does a fantastic job at blending the spiritual and higher aspects of life with the everyday stuff. And, master of words that he is, he does it with a bit of magic.

For all those uninitiated into the world of books, Paulo Coelho is the author of the Alchemist, the book that changed the lives of many people, including the likes of Will Smith and me, and though his other books have never come close to that sort of popularity, they’re intriguing to say the least. Those who haven’t read them, go do it now.

Anyway, there’s this fable in one of his lesser known books ‘The Devil and Miss Prym’, a story which deals with the millennia old fight of Good versus Bad. I really don’t know if its true or not, but I’ve never forgotten it, though its been like three years since I read that book. It goes like this…

Centuries ago, in the age of the renaissance, Leonardo Da Vinci had just conceived the idea of painting the Last Supper, a painting which shows Jesus Christ having supper with his apostles, and the painting is special because it shows Jesus, the embodiment of good, and Judas, the doer of evil (because he was the one who betrayed Jesus) in the same painting, along with the other devotees. Da Vinci had his own style of going about his paintings, and it was to seat a live subject in front of him and paint. But this style of painting often required him to go on long ‘subject hunts’. It was on one such long and arduous subject hunt that he discovered a cherubic looking church choir youth, whose face had an angelic look to it. “You’re the man for my painting” said Da Vinci. He invited the youth to his studio, and the face of that youth became the face of Jesus in that immortal painting. So the painting was half done, and Da vinci now wanted someone to paint with as Judas. He searched far and wide, but he could never see evil and avarice manifest themselves so clearly on one face, and he had all but given up hope.

He had almost given up, when he discovered by the roadside one day, a drunk drug addict lying unconscious. His face had all the world’s sinister darkness on it, and he was the quintessential dissipated evil man. He dragged him into his studio, and immortalized the features of that wasted man as the face of Judas in the painting. A few hours later, the man came to his senses, and when he saw what Da Vinci was painting, he said “Hey I’ve seen that painting before!” Da Vinci was perplexed…had some painter stolen his ideas? “Where, Where?” he shook him by the shoulders.

“A few years ago, before I lost the singing job at the church choir, a painter…was it you? Called me as a model for Jesus Christ in this painting. My memory is lulled by my intoxications now, but I believed the painter was you, and this was the very same painting.”

Moral of the story: There’s no good, there’s no bad. You’re both, and both are in you.

Birthday no. 20....

2007-07-11T03:36:00.000-07:00

(Written last night)

So my birthday will be over in an hour. The hoopla and hullabaloo has already subsided. Not that I’m much of that type. I often get a lot of flak for not being ‘up to the occasion’ as these people put it. Guess that’s not me. loud celebrations don’t interest me, nor do overt displays of birthday-pride and birthday-importance. Call me shy. Call me reticent, prudish, whatever.

And so its 11pm, and I’m looking back at the day. Raucous dinner with best friends, cake cutting with family, special moments with someone, a new shirt that’ll grow old someday, resolutions that will grow cold someday. That was the day.

I look back at other birthdays. Same scenes. What changes? A birthday is portrayed as a change inducing day. “ooh you’re twenty now. Someone’s growing.” “Good lord was it yesterday that you peed on my pants?” and stuff.

Nothing changes. I mean, sure, stuff changes. Circumstances change, surroundings change, but people never really do. The Bharat who got rapped on the knuckles by the teacher in school when he was eight, is not really different from the one who gets reprimanded by his father now for over using the phone. The Bharat who felt shivers when his name was called for oral examinations in fifth standard, is exactly the same guy who feels a ball of fire run down his insides when he approaches the results notice board. The Bharat who cried on watching Border is the same guy who merely pretends impassivity now. I used to cry in Junior KG when my mom used to go to office. I still feel the same tinge of sadness when she leaves. I desperately used to wait for 5 pm, counting down hours, everyday so that I could go down and play. Now I desperately wait for weekends to play, counting down days. See? Nothing changes.

People fake wisdom, they fake worldliness, they fake sophistication, as they progress. To show other people, or to inflate their egos or maybe something to that effect. Either ways, none of it is necessary.

If you accept that you’re the same, maybe the pangs of growing up and losing things will not bother you that much.

Retain that little kid in you. You’re nothing without that kid.

(Confession : There is a story in ‘Malgudi Days’ by RK Narayan which has a similar (read: very similar) theme to it. I loved the story. I let it manifest.

The God who cried like a baby

2007-07-09T03:09:00.000-07:00

I’m not a great tennis fan. Prior to yesterday, I just used to watch it for the short skirts, and that too was a turn off when the Williams sisters were playing. And I never quite paid attention to the Wimbledon final build up, except coming across contrasting eulogies such as “God made Roger Federer” and “Roger Federer is God”. And he proved all those crazy statements right as well. A sublime match it was, with Nadal biting at his heels all the time, threatening to lunge ahead a few times as well, and its just as well that the champion of grass continues to be just that. I pledged my unfailing loyalty to Federer after yesterday.

All through the match, the contrast between the two players enraptured me, as must have been the case with all amateur tennis fans. Nadal was the more expressive of the two, with his “Ums and Ahs” resounding across centre court, his unbridled exaltations after a few winners and his histrionics all showing us how pumped up he was. Federer, on the other hand, being completely inexpressive, rarely ever bothering to even clench his fist in aggression. A knitted brow showing a hint of worry was all he would reveal, and that too only briefly. It was as he was above the emotion showing level, and as had been my guess from the start, he did win in the end.

But what happened thereafter, surprised me. On hitting the winning shot, he threw himself on the court, clutching his face with his hands, and cried. Sobbed, even. Wowie, I thought. Now what’s with that?

All his pent up emotions rushed out, and he looked like a disheveled baby in the few minutes after the victory. And in those few minutes he revealed that he wasn’t God after all. No more a god than you or me. Just a guy who kept his cool, and weathered the storm. What’s the harm in crying after winning?

The bore well kid

2007-07-07T09:39:00.001-07:00

“Hey you heard about the bore well kid? He died today evening”

“Jeez…I didn’t even know there was a bore well kid…”

“He was stuck for fifty hours it seems. How can you not know about it?”

“I’m not exactly the 24hour news channel types…maybe that’s why I missed it”

This is the conversation I had with my mother yesterday. I don’t watch India TV, I haven’t been reading newspapers lately, and so this piece of information had completely eluded me. Until now, that is. Oh well, too bad I thought. Poor kid.

That night, for some reason I couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the thunder outside. Maybe the disquiet inside. I switched on the TV sometime around midnight. It was on, as expected. The whole episode about the boy.

I learnt his name was Suraj. I learnt he was six years old. First standard. He fell in while playing, they said. Apparently, it was a desolate area and he was playing by himself. Now that’s news, I thought. What kind of kid plays alone in a desolate area?

A little later the answer to my own question came to me. The kid who plays alone in a desolate area is the kid whose parents cannot afford him a cricket bat or a football. He’s the kid whose parents are helpless as they see their child pass his time with pebbles and slingshots. Maybe they were casual laborers with no time for him. Maybe he didn’t have friends. Maybe he wandered there all by himself on his way home from school. Maybe he was scouting for new pebbles, or had spotted a few colorful odds and ends in that desolate area. Maybe he just shrugged off his school bag and went behind a big butterfly or something. And fallen in. Must have been the longest two days of his little life. More so for his parents. I realized my eyes were moist.

The world works in mysterious ways. What kind of God allows this to happen? I cried a little that night. And I went to bed hoping Suraj awakens in a better place.

Recollections of a July 11th guy

2007-07-07T05:18:00.000-07:00

A rainy afternoon yesterday. I was in the train traveling to Andheri. It was a boring journey…uncharacteristically empty trains, a steady drizzle outside, implying all windows had to be closed, the stuffy interior of the train that bore a morose silence punctuated only by cell phone rings and the own rickety sounds of the train.

At Kandivali, a middle aged man came and sat beside me. nothing out of the normal, except for the fact that his left hand was amputated from the forearm downwards. I made the mistake of staring a second longer at his hand, and he noticed, as do all such people. He smiled. God. Embarrassed, I smiled back wanly. “July 11^th. Borivali blast” He said. I nodded, not knowing what else to do. If I’d looked away, maybe I would have missed out on this narrative. But I kept nodding, and looking in his direction, like I expected him to offer the details. Stupid me as usual.

As if on cue, he started talking. About wanting to buy a car last year, being confused about the model, going over prices, stats and features in his head whilst in the train on that fateful evening, when it happened. A concussion in his head that knocked him out. Waking three hours later at Bhagwati hospital, a poorly run government place. He talked of being on a mattress on the floor, half soaked with blood. Maybe his. Maybe not. Not that it mattered. Searing pain in his left hand, metal pieces probably. The hurt crying out. Bodies being brought in as if they were so many mannequins. Volunteers running in. Haziness in his vision. An injection. Rain battering the decrepit windows. Water seeping in. Flies on the blood. The car debate seeming funny at the moment. Nothing seeming important but the two words “I’m alive”. And wanting to be so. And then passing out, as the sedative took effect.

At this point, he realized that maybe he had let loose a little too much. Sorry, he says. Anyway, time for him to leave. Goregaon approaches. ‘I’m getting down here.’ He promptly gets up. The train lurches a bit, and he struggles to balance himself for an instant. The next instant, he smiles at me. I say…wait, what about the car finally? He laughs and says that his son will be old enough to drive in another year. I’m settling for a Swift he says. The train stops and he gets off.

The Path

2007-07-02T04:13:00.000-07:00

(A poem that'll hopefully offer solace to the restless and a hope to the wanderers)

The path

When on your journey you rest, with feet gone sore,

When the struggle seems meaningless, and with love gone cold

When none heed your call, neither friend nor foe,

And when you’re lost, knowing not which way to go,

When you know not what it is that you seek,

But it haunts you in your wakefulness and sleep

When you lose the urge to get up and go forth

For letting go seems easy, giving up, a welcome thought.

And in this moment of defeat, listen to your soul,

Your soul, the one God you believe in…

‘Oh weary traveler,

Many walk the road to their dreams

Until greed and lust befall them all.

But what you seek is special, the meaning of life,

The nature of love, and the essence of happiness.

But not to capture for yourself these secrets,

Or to peddle as wisdom to those who crave them.

You seek to assuage the storms that rage within yourself

Know this oh lost soul,

Just as he who thirsts does not always find,

He who wanders is not always lost.

Go forth wanderer, your journey awaits you

But never once should you give up on your quest.

For heaven awaits not those who find,

But those who search. And stay on the path.

You search, therefore you are.’

Why 'stuck somewhere'?

2007-06-29T02:47:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess my blog should begin first with an explanation of the title. There's this friend of mine with whom I go on long evening walks occasionally... nothing to it, just getting away from the crap of everyday life. She isn't a great talker, but when she gets talking, there's an underlying sensibility to what she says...and once she was trying to explain to me why she was frustrated with the way most of her friends were living their lives, and she was struggling to come up with a relevant phrase, and all she could manage was "They're all just....just...stuck somewhere I guess". I don't really know why, but that phrase lodged itself in my brain, and I saw this as a perfect opportunity to use it, since that's what most of us still are today...'stuck somewhere' , in some corner of our own minds, in the swamps of our own pasts, and in the confines of our own limits.

This blog is dedicated to all those who silently pray at night for freedom in their lives, and for those who have the courage to make a difference in the lives of those around them.