Ramblings - iii

A year and a half since I last sat down to write. When I brought my computer outdoors with me, I knew subconsciously that it was to write again. I have always dreaded in my mind the next writing session. I thought I would be seized with nervousness, and thoughts would crowd my mind with my hands frozen, incapable of taking notes. And the moment would pass, as have so many other in the past, like opportunities lost, or lives that could have been lived. But now...

A balmy balmy Saturday afternoon. In a city like no other, a life being lived like any other. A chilly breeze outside makes me feel warm and happy to be inside a coffee shop with the homely smell of roasting coffee, and a strangely comforting Moroccan decor. What am I doing here? So much has changed, and yet, nothing has changed. I live alone now in Seattle, the most beautiful city I've ever seen. I see the waterfront through the glass windows. The Pacific Ocean, in some shape and form makes its presence felt in the city. Distant snow capped peaks beyond the water. What lies beyond the peaks? China and Russia on the other side. It is already mid day tomorrow on the east coast of Russia now. How can today and tomorrow exist at the same time?

I am just as clueless about the future, and just as nostalgic about the past as I was before. The essential and existential questions of life still plague me. I realize how fake my own claim of maturity is. I know nothing more than I did yesterday. Its just that I do a better job of faking faking composure today than I did in the past. I am aware of a certain bubble I live in, and how little I try to step out of it. Is this what growing up is all about? A passive acceptance of the gradually growing impossibilities in life and trying to create happiness within a well defined world? 

I guess this is why everyone longs to be a student, or a kid back again. No one can tell you something is impossible when you are a kid. The confidence that comes from not knowing the word impossible is what makes those years so wonderful. But life is not all about the past. The passing moment too is magical in its own way. How do I capture it, and make it last? Or at least, leave a mark on it and in my heart, to always remember fondly? How do I battle 'impossible', and be a kid again?

Gentle rain begins to pour. The ocean seems like a hazy promise of permanence in the distance. 

I always hope for a lightning bolt of wisdom in moments of contemplation like these, and when nothing of the sort occurs I end up feeling more lost and little than ever. I get that familiar feeling, and I prepare to leave. 

The rain and breeze will be cold, but it is only a short walk back home.

O Memory!

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.