When Selvi came alive

In his compelling collection, Lawley Road & Other Stories, R. K. Narayan narrates the highly poignant tale of Selvi, the leading classical singer of her day. The subject is accustomed to the adoring applause of celebrity audiences, and yet immune to it through her piety to music. Following a renunciation of the spotlight, she restricts the expression of her art to a daily saadhana, witnessed & cherished by a handful of Malgudi commoners. The descent from exclusive chamber sessions at her estranged husband’s plush residence in upscale Lawley Extension, to impromptu rehearsals in the verandah of her late mother’s humble dwelling in decrepit Ellamman Street, fails to tarnish the quality of music.

Art breathes in its own inspiration. Dispossess it of the big stage. Divest it of adulation. Yet it remains resplendent, adorned by its inherent effulgence. It was a happy coincidence that I read Selvi in the car on my way to watch 2 artists grace an occasion more modest than their habitual realm. It has been second nature for Rahul Dravid & V. V. S. Laxman to parade their gifts in the rarefied echelons of international cricket. It is also to their credit that their relationship with domestic cricket (since they graduated to higher honours) wears proud commitment and goes beyond random dalliances. It was one such tryst with the Irani Cup in 2003 that gave me an opportunity to watch them forge a memorable partnership in flesh – one that didn’t win them as many accolades as their triple-century heists at Kolkata & Adelaide against Australia, but no less memorable for me personally. It was a game that saw most of their peers follow their example and embrace domestic cricket. Indeed, Rest of India, led by Saurav Ganguly, was pretty much the Indian Test XI save for Sachin Tendulkar who captained the opposing team, the Ranji champions Mumbai.

The first 3 days saw one of the most delicious contests possible - Anil Kumble bowling to Tendulkar – playing out to near empty stands at Chepauk. Neither man bested the other, but their gratitude for not having to lock horns in an international game was reinforced. Twin half centuries by SRT & a substantial first innings lead for Mumbai meant RoI had to get 340 on a wearing wicket to lay their hands on silverware. They got 50 of those by stumps on day 3, but lost both openers Virender Sehwag & Sanjay Bangar. Dravid walked out the next morning amidst enthusiastic cheering from a healthier Sunday crowd for local boy L. Balaji, and quickly banished Ramesh Powar over long on for a couple of sixes. The nightwatchman’s resolute defiance nearly lasted through the session, but altogether progress had been relatively slow. Laxman took guard with the misery of a 53-ball 5 in the first knock hanging over his head. On the other side of the luncheon interval, both men blossomed. Leg-spinner Sairaj Bahutule looked to exploit the rough. In a twinkling exhibition of decisive footwork, Laxman repeatedly met him on the full and the expanses at extra-cover & midwicket lay enslaved to a sovereign whim. Dravid stayed crisp and efficient against the faster men Ajit Agarkar & Avishkar Salvi, combating the short stuff with the fierce cut and the regal pull in all his majestic glory. Powar came back for a new spell with an over that was bookended by 2 4s and 2 6s. The former brought Laxman his half century, both full tosses caressed away. The latter took Dravid from 88 to 100, in a manner that would go on to become synonymous with Sehwag. On each occasion he danced down the track flouting open impertinence to the challenge, and thundered the ball into the Royal Sundaram stand high over the bowler’s head. A stalwart of Indian cricket had shown an upstart his place. After tea, Laxman relegated even Dravid to spectator, uncorking one champagne stroke after another. The promise of a glorious hundred wasn’t honoured though, Bahutule pooping his party one short of the landmark. That was my cue to leave as I had to catch a train back to my college in Vellore. As I haggled with an autowallah near Buckingham Canal, Chepauk went up in a groan that could only have meant Dravid’s dismissal.

With my hair standing on end, I wondered what the forthcoming season - featuring important tours to Australia & Pakistan - would have in store for the partners-in-crime. Dravid had started the season with a legitimate claim of being India’s finest. Six months later, he would end it undisputedly as the world’s best. 3 double centuries in 9 Tests, each one successively higher than the previous, would propel his Test average from 53 to 58. Laxman would also score 3 Test hundreds, and curiously, 5 ODI hundreds that winter. His 99 that day had been scored at nearly run-a-ball.

I got an SMS from my father as the Yelagiri Express pulled out of Central Station. I learnt that Ganguly & Kumble had steered the Rest home after a mini-collapse. I was also informed that I had left Selvi behind, my copy of Lawley Road & Other Stories having been forgotten in the car.

TUSKY

Kaju Feni

I can get Virender Sehwag out. Don’t laugh!! I bowl slow loopy spin, unsullied by skill, confidence or malice. Think Jeetan Patel, think Jason Krezja, think Paul Harris, Simon Katich and Suraj Randiv. Catch my drift? Don’t think Saqlain or Murali. I’m not that good. If I was, the scorecard would say “Sehwag not out 200”, not “Sehwag out bored by Kartik”. Oh if he was a strike away from a 100 or its multiples, I’d back myself more!

The day Sehwag made his Test debut, I got thrown out of a JEE Physics class. As Prof. Ananthan chastised me, I did some quick math. On a wing and a prayer that SRT was still batting, I could be back home in time for the opening day post-lunch session of the India-South Africa Test at Bloemfontein. On a lightning fast surface, with Pollock & Co. spitting venom, Tendulkar blitzed his way to a coruscating century of incandescent brilliance. As Ntini and Nantie Hayward bowled short to attacking fields, Sachin unleashed the upper cut to devastating effect. At the other end, a lookalike quietly took his first steps under The Master’s watchful eye, but would go on to construct a career free of His immense shadow. It wasn’t a defensive knock from Sehwag by any stretch of imagination. The upper cut was emulated, and some scorchers were punched off the backfoot. But it was probably the first time in his fledgling first-class career that he was part of substantial partnership, and not its star. It would most definitely be the last.

A few weeks later, Sehwag taught Sachin a thing or two about tackling Nasser Hussain & Ashley Giles’ negative bowling tactics. Then came the 2002 Champions Trophy where he could do no wrong. Even as his scintillating strokeplay set the tournament ablaze, it was a nerveless display of off-spin bowling that took the cake. It brought back memories of Tendulkar’s final over in the Hero Cup almost a decade ago. Then, as now, the opponents were South Africa, the occasion, the semi-final of a multi-nation tournament, and the result, a miracle victory. In the meantime, Sehwag was converted to an opener in both forms of the game. It was a no-brainer in LOIs, aimed at maximum utilisation of his natural game during field restrictions. To do so in Test cricket, reeked of desperation to fit a precious talent into a side with no vacancies in the middle-order. Everybody knew that one of these two investments would pay rich dividends. Few could have accurately picked out the blue chip. Along with making Dravid keep wicket in LOIs, it was one of Ganguly’s boldest moves. Dravid’s sacrifice ran its course out with the 2003 World Cup high. Sehwag’s promotion was crucial to India’s ascent to the top of the ICC Test rankings.

Everything about Viru screams out for limited-overs stardom. And yet the man himself swears by the longer version. The relative regard in which he holds the different forms of the game is manifest in his career stats. He prides himself on being an exceptional Test batsman, when all big hitters seem to be going the other way. Mind you, I would too, if I could score at a run a ball and average more than Dravid and fractionally less than Tendulkar. He has scored 21 Test hundreds, and yet maintains he doesn’t care for centuries. Of course he does, not as a personal statistic, but as part of a bigger picture in how it impacts his team’s chances. As much as plays the charade of perverse pleasure in missing major milestones by a hair’s breadth, his gumption for big knocks is readily apparent. You might bat around a score of 100 by Dravid for a total of 400. Sehwag could be back in the hut after a ton, and India could still be 120/1. Paucity of bowling resources makes it imperative for Viru to bat longer, and yet score at blistering rates. In giving a weak attack sufficient time to take 20 wickets, he has been as much a fifth bowler as he would if he rolled his arm over more often to deliver his vastly under-rated off breaks.

When the Fab Five clench a fist, Sehwag sticks out like a sore thumb. The rusticity of a Vishal Bharadwaj in an age of popcorn rom-coms and clichéd chic-flicks. The insouciance of playground slang in a tradition founded upon textbook grammar. The travesty of Kaju Feni in a cellar of vintage Bordeaux. The scandal of Tandoori Chicken in a Tam-Bram meal. It is the nature of his game that deters us from bestowing greatness upon him like we do on Sachin & Dravid. And yet, when his case is backed by no less than Ian Chappell, you know it’s not just hyperbole. Of late, a century seems to be there for the taking everytime he steps out in whites. It is an extremely close call to pick Dravid ahead of him as star of the noughties. He has played some of the finest Test innings of the decade; 2 triple hundreds and another that almost was, all 3 knocks at a strike rate that’s once-in-a-lifetime! There was the classy double against a rampaging Mendis that showed him at his controlled best (not if you believe the strike rate though!). When Andrew Strauss declared leaving India almost 400 to get in a little over a day at Chepauk, Tendulkar found catharsis for the heart-wrenchingly narrow miss a decade ago at the same venue. The difference; he walked in at 6/2 in 1999, and at 131/2 in 2008, of which Sehwag had bulldozed 83 in 68 balls.

The man talks like he hits; straight and hard. Everybody thinks Boycott was a boring batsman and knows Bangladesh is crap. Few would say it on air and walk away caring a damn for the consequences. As incorrect politically, as he is technically. When Sehwag and Dravid put on 410 for the 1st wicket, one could almost see Dravid’s speech in his pocket. Sehwag said he hadn’t even heard of Vinoo Mankad & Pankaj Roy, let alone their record for the highest opening partnership! Street-smart and extremely canny, he doesn’t do diplomacy; not quite General, but a fine Subedar-Major. Charging his team along, leading from the front, invariably towards victory. After all, Viru will forever be associated with Jai.

TUSKY

Dreams

Dream your dreams so high,

Let no one pull you down,

Dont let the world reach

That place, call it your own.

Forget the world and what they say,

Just let go of the noise

Then you will see the beauty

You will see the dream rise

Make it sacred

More sacred than a shrine

Go there when you need strength

Go for peace of mind

Dont let them touch it

Or even have a peek

Dont ever listen to them talk

Of what you "were meant to be"

Decide for yourself,

Stick to your dream till the end

Its not they who will be you

When you have broken dreams to mend.

Divs

India Burns

Immersed in darkness

Lonely roads to trudge

Time cannot heal

The scars of an unforgotten grudge

Coz love can stay no more

Hatred engulfs all

Humanity forgotten

By sapiens big and small

Reason is a blur

Reasons don't affect

The fuhrers refuse to listen

Coz hysteria overrules intellect
The plebeian look on

As insane demons declare

War among brothers

Some sane heads bowed in silent prayer

Impervious to pleas

Stoic hearts don't melt

Sanguinary minds

Fuel riot, to instigate threat

The air tastes of sorrow

As the bereaved bury their dead

Crushed are virtues

As hypocrisy lifts its head

In the name of religion

Are sown seed of hatred

And from the chaos arises

A question of dread:-

WERE THE SACRIFICES ALL VAIN

OF MARTYRS OF THE PAST

WILL THERE BE A DAY

WHEN MOTHER INDIA BREATHS HER LAST?



Written in memory of the riots and wars that rocked our country.. Divs

MEMORIES

Spring is in the air,
The flowers are in bloom,
But the heart wilts
Awaits an impending doom
A mist hangs around
In there sadness seeps
Cold and damp surrounds
The lonely heart weeps
Echoes come back
Of memories far away
Cherished Thoughts-
In distant times they lay
Tears stream down
Join the rivers of sorrow
How sweet, How Bitter,
The reminiscence of yesterday,
The dreams of the morrow
Roses have thorns
They prick it bleeds
Has it not to be borne.
For the fragrance so sweet?
And so this sorrow
Is nothing but that thorn,
So great is the joy
Of remembrances of the times bygone

Divs

Comesum. And then some

I have a bizarre memory association paradigm. A. R. Rahman conjures up images of Pataliputra colony in Patna, where I first heard Rukkumani Rukkumani. The music of Dil Chahta Hai fills my nose with the odour of turpentine, as we had our flat whitewashed around the time the movie was released. And watching Jerome Taylor bowl the other day was a throwback to a small eatery at the Bangalore City railway station.

It is the First law of Engineering that study vacations are anything but. Well, maybe except for the Electronics guys. The study break preceding the 7th semester exams was a milestone. It was to be the last time we would be required to pretend to study together; feelaaya weinn... sorry Gary, just could not resist! A bunch of us decided to immortalise this seminal occasion with an experience without which no Engineering education is complete – a holiday in Goa. It seemed the ideal way to bust stress from the said studying.... okay, pretending, before we diverged on our individual Satya ki Khoj to change the world, or a more earthly quest for naukri, chhokri and a higher degree (In case anybody is keeping score, yours truly is barely holding down the first, zilch on the other two).

First stop on our trip to hedonistic heaven: Bangalore. We trooped into the Comesum restaurant located on the landing just off the footbridge between platforms 1 & 2 to tackle hypoglycemia. The TV set above the cash counter was tuned to the Champions Trophy 2006 Australia-West Indies game. Gilly had just departed for a workmanlike 92, leaving the Aussies 5 down & 50 odd to get at about run-a-ball. With Michael Clarke & Mike Hussey in the middle, the smart money was on them. But Australia was a side we loved to hate.

Funnily enough, Clarke & Hussey could never get out of jail against some clever bowling by Chris Gayle & Marlon Samuels. After 4 overs of classic cat-and-mouse, with 29 required off 24, Dwayne Bravo was brought on. The gay abandon in his cricket always makes for compelling watching. The lukewarm paraanthe, raajma & daal chaawal on our plates all but forgotten as Bravo-to-Clarke had our undivided attention. Bravo’s repertoire of slower balls had already assumed a celebrity of its own, but would he give Clarke one when it was so painfully obvious? The first ball of his spell had loosener written all over it, or so we thought! Even as the batsman prodded forward (SUCKER!), Bravo had already moved to his left in anticipation, to take a fine return catch and complete a dismissal that stood out for its chimera. We didn’t know it then, but the best was yet to come.

Jerome Taylor resumed duty at the other end. A barrage of full wide deliveries kept the Aussies down to singles. Then Hussey banged into Taylor and they exchanged malicious stares. Murder in the air! Taylor looked like he was going to wipe the floor clean with Hussey. Straight & full on off stump. Bull’s eye! Cya later Hussey! I don’t remember how the bowler reacted but there certainly was some high octane fist-pumping and backslapping at Comesum. New man was Brett Lee, so the Aussies weren’t out of it yet, but the Windies definitely had their nose in front. Taylor charged in for the final delivery of the over with all eyes riveted on the TV. If we wanted to sneak out without paying, this had to be the moment! Straight, good length, frrrreaking fast, it was the thunderbolt from hell. Lee rapped on the pads even before he could jam his bat down. The Windies went up in appeal but a sense of theatre wasn’t lost on umpire Rudi Koertzen. We unleashed a torrent of profanity. An orgasmic delay followed, before the finger went up. The ten of us let out a roar ever so primal, and shook the dumbstruck proprietor out of his reverie. He recovered enough to realise that we had abused his hospitality well beyond business hours and proceeded to shoo us out. That Taylor would come back and finish off the hat-trick by cleaning up Brad Hogg in the first ball of the 50thover seemed almost pre-ordained. For the record, Australia fell short by 10 runs.

We walked out of the station with enough inspiration to persuade the impossibly lazy auto-wallahs of Bangalore out of inertia. Over the next week though, that exhilarating hour spent at Comesum would be forgotten in a hotchpotch of sun & sand, beach football, Goan seafood, Bacardi breezers and millions of goofy photographs.

Tusky

Wishes

I wish you were the early dawn
so i could wake up to you
I wish you were the moonlit night
so i could sleep with your thoughts on my mind
I wish you were little drops of rain
so i could trap you between my palms
I wish you were scented wisps of breeze
so i could feel you tousling my hair

I wish you were the blue skies
so i could reach out to you
I wish you were the green grass
so i could sense your presence all around
I wish you were a bud
so i could watch you blossom
I wish you were the stars
so i could gaze at you all night

I wish you were the song of the nightingale
so i could float with the melody
I wish you were the rustling of the autumn breeze
whispering sweet nothings into my ear
I wish you were the tolling of church bells
so i could feel your vibrations
I wish you were the strumming of guitars
so i could tango

I wish you were an illusion
so i could dream you
I wish you were a prayer
so i could chant your name all day
I wish you were christmas
so i could be merry
I wish you were my soul
so i could live on.........

Tusky

Period beauty

My life on campus was bookended by 2 ICC World Cups - flagged off & wrapped up by the best & worst Indian WC campaigns of my lifetime, respectively. Being a fairly average student, there was no way I could have completed my course in the duration between 2 T20 World Cups, so you may safely assume I’m talking about the 50 over variety. It was a good time to be following the Men in Blue, and be proud of them too. It was a period when Indian cricket challenged stereotype and broke new ground. Overseas victories, foreign coaches, 3-pronged pace attacks, clinical finishers, agile fielders, verbal chutzpah – a few of them rarely seen in Indian cricket, the rest never before. And also, for the first time in more than a decade of unquestioned supremacy, India’s premier batsman no longer answered to the name of Sachin Tendulkar.

Writing a tribute to a great Test cricketer in the space between the IPL and the ICC World T20, may seem like bad timing, and an anachronism. Rahul Sharad Dravid can never be accused of the former, but the latter bears considerable veracity in his context. He stands out like Khadi in the age of denim. Yeoman, but not Superman. In a men’s hostel, you could always tell whether he was batting or not, from the noise coming out of the TV hall. The room which could rival Woodstock for chaos otherwise, resembled a Zen monastery when our man took guard. It is such a pity that his early dismissal, would be cheered with great enthusiasm, for it invariably meant the arrival of Tendulkar, even when the latter’s trough coincided with Dravid’s zenith.

Perhaps his body of work is so highly steeped in the cerebral, that it cannot be appreciated by those of us blessed with a lesser ken. Anointed “The Wall” very early in his career, the sobriquet was a double-edged sword; at best, a grudgingly allowed encomium, at worst, a grossly unfair euphemism. Stonewalling may have been his calling, but it certainly wasn’t his mojo. Unlike his contemporary champions of the long haul – Kallis & Chanderpaul – Dravid is beautiful to watch. The enchantment of his craft unfolds with the elaborate flourish of the bat as it describes a perfect arc and stays poised for battle at the top of the backlift, innocent of sex appeal and yet pregnant with period beauty. A focused countenance betrays precise calculations to decide the fate of the delivery. The bowler might be dignified by a response if the probe is deemed meritworthy, or simply ignored if the questions are an insult to a highly superior intellect. He wasn't born to play to the gallery. He serves a higher purpose, that of soothing the senses. Call him boring, call him a geek, and I'll call u blind, nay, stupid.

It is set in stone that almost every major Indian victory over the last 10 years has seen a sizable contribution from Dravid, if not a stellar one. But think of all the big individual scores and massive partnerships that Indian batting of recent vintage boasts of, and you'll find that most of them were mentored by Dravid. Not only has he starred in one of the most successful Indian batting line-ups ever, he has been its engine room; and Statsguru will back me up on this. Neither Tendulkar nor Laxman have put on more runs with anyone else than with Dravid. The Ganguly-Dravid axis is second best to the Ganguly-Tendulkar combine, but not by much. Sehwag and Gambhir bat exceedingly well together, but their separate associations with Dravid have averaged higher than their opening sorties with each other. 7 century partnerships with Gambhir, 9 with Sehwag, 10 with Ganguly, 11 with Laxman. And no other pair in 133 years of test cricket has put on more century stands than Dravid and Tendulkar (17). It goes to show that while SRT's sparkling constructions of the 90s stood lonely at the top amongst depressing ruins, Dravid is blessed with the unique ability to inspire his peers, sometimes to the extent of lesser men bettering him. Never mind the Fab Five, he has saved & won matches with fringe players like Wasim Jaffer, Dinesh Karthik, Deep Das Gupta & Sarandeep Singh for company. Of course, he is capable of playing last man standing too, as borne out by his classic over-my-dead-body heroics at Sabina Park.

His exemplary selflessness in agreeing to keep in LOIs to accommodate the 7th batsman, so very central to a highly successful strategy adopted by Sourav Ganguly, is well docuemnted. Then there's the small matter of his world record 193 Test catches. And I haven't even begun to gush over the paragon of virtue and epitome of probity that he is.

Some things in life are timeless. Classical music, gourmet food and period beauty never go out of style. You can add Rahul Dravid's name to that list.

The Veteran of CATs

Once in a way life decides that you do not have enough excitement… and it throws you in the centre of a typhoon. Right now I am standing right in the midst of one…
Ok so ill start from where things usually start – the beginning silly!!! For four long years I have been trying my hand at what I think is India’s most Hyped Exam the Common Admission Tests (more popularly known as CAT). This year it actually was hyped with all the hullabaloo about the test going online. And predictions of the demise of the new online system even before it were given a chance to prove itself.
My track record began in my final year of college; I really did not know why I was giving the CAT except that I had to “further my education”. Fancy term it seemed then. So, I gave the exam without bothering too much to find out about the admissions. Obviously I bombed!!
The second time, I joined ABB at Bangalore, and I still wanted to “further my education” only this time it was just for fun. I tot I’d give ABB a try to gain some experience which counts, so I gave the CAT a light hearted try.. and surprisingly did quite well (Not well enough for the IIMs of course) but well I was kicking myself for not applying to any of the colleges. At that time experience that counts did not seem such a good Idea after all.. and the year dragged on.
I wonder if happens to all fresher, I was bored, yes too soon you may say. But two years into the job and when you are doing work which you think anyone with a basic knowledge of excel and math could do isn’t all that exciting is it? So, this time round I decided to give it my best shot! To further my education no longer seemed to be a fancy term or a light hearted trial. I dutifully did research of B schools, listed out ones I would be interested in and applied to each one of those. And I studied with respect to the exam too! Well… as fate (or whatever you call that abstract thing) would have it; this time once again I bombed not only in CAT but in all the other exams too…
Year four, I was a veteran now, a seasoned CAT writer.. I was doing pretty well at office; at least I had a better profile now! But still somewhere lurked the desire not to give up. That’s when life shrugged and dropped the next bomb.. There are only so many surprises that life can throw at you! CAT 2009 going online!! Thankfully the other B schools still considered the paper pencil test quite adequate for them. This I vowed was going to be my last shot, and hopefully my best. It’s funny you know, no matter how much one prepares; the best just does not seem good enough. All other B school results started rolling in..I was nowhere in on any list. The CAT result was the last to be declared, and of course was the most awaited. The number and types of rumors floating around made me wonder why there was a dearth of innovation in India.
The results were finally out. I was elated!!! Not bad on the border line of can be - cannot be. The uncertainty was unbearable! I even went to extent of changing my Gtalk status message as “Hanging on to the last thread of hope”. The IIMs of course were out of question. A month rolled by… I started doubting if I would make it anywhere… The Score was not good enough for MDI or IMT… So I gave up all hope.. I was kind of Shattered (that’s what my status message read).
It was a usual day at office. Not very eventful till there behold was a mail which read “Dear Divya Catherine Francis…. Congratulations! My heart leapt for Joy, Literally!!! Overjoyed, excited, thrilled, exhilarated, exalted all seem pale compared to what and where I was. Cloud 9 seemed too close to the ground..It was as if someone had just swept me off my feet and placed me on the moon. After a while the excitement did subside, and I went into a lower level of better conscience, but still am very much in the centre of a typhoon as I await my Interview. Please guys pray for me!!!

Citius Altius Fortius? No thanks

At last count, the 2008 Olympics were embraced by 11,028 athletes from 204 countries. That's about 10,900 more than the number of athletes that would be in action if all the top cricket teams of the world were engaged in battle at once. So cricket at the Olmypics? Does the IOC need us? And do we need them? Yes I've heard the quips, it would be India's best chance of a medal. That's not fair to Messrs. Bindra, Paes, Vijender, Rajyavardhan & Karnam Malleswari. But hey, cricket at the Olympics. Really?

What is so enduring about the Olympics? For every Carl Lewis, there is a Betty Cuthbert to teach us what the human body is capable of in the face of adversity. For every Jesse Owens who stood upto racism, there is a Jackie Joyner-Kersee who broke down the combined barriers of colour & sex. And there is Nadia non-pareil. How many of us can name a cricket "alpha-female?" To say that there aren't any is to be ignorant of a Diana Eduljee, reputed to be unplayable by Sunil Gavaskar, no less. It took the sister of a regular follower of the Ask Steven column on Cricinfo to remind us that while Sachin Tendulkar may have been the first man on earth to score an ODI double century, he certainly wasn't the first cricketer to do so, having been pipped to the post by Belinda Clark 13 years earlier. It is sad that the women's game is not given its due in terms of support of recognition. It is the single biggest reason why cricket does NOT deserve to be an Olympic sport.

All this talk of having T20 at the Olmypics bothers me. Who would you send to Cannes? Adoor Gopalakrishanan or David Dhawan? If at all there comes a day when cricket dresses in Olympic colours, I'd want it to wear white. When nations are competing for the highest quadrennial prize, it is the highest form of the art that ought to be on display. And yet it is not practically feasible to schedule a Test championship in a 3 week long Olympics. Heck, the ICC hasn't ever been able to squeeze in something remotely close to one. And so international cricket remains unique in crowning its world champion in all formats but the toughest one. I'd rather not have my favourite sport at the Olympics than see a T20 gold rush. We already have one of those by the way, it's called the IPL.

Cricket, along with the Telegraph & the Railways, is perhaps the most enduring Imperial legacy to survive the sunset of the empire. And that makes it one of the most prominent Commonwealth sports. So have it in the C'wealth games by all means. The experiment that failed in the KL 1998 Games deserves another chance. Delhi 2010 would have been an ideal platform, provided Sheila Dixit has the platform built in time for the Games :)

THE ROAD TO EL LH

There is laughter,
There are tears,
There are memories stored
Of many long years.

The walls stand in testimony
Of generations gone by
Of life of women
Who have taken it in their stride.

Hold the pillars close,
And hear a whispered note
Of love, of life
Of frequent anecdotes

Broken hearts , they say, heal
But bits are, left behind.
The rooms hold the echo
Of many a sob and sigh

The courtyard resounds
The festivals, the spirits high
The sound of Arts Week, of Onam, of Christmas
The sound of LH NIGHTS.

The summer brings in
Not just exams and rain,
The mango showers are eagerly awaited
By all sane and insane

The (phone) lobby has perhaps
Learnt of love and hate.
In newspapers and students tales ,
Of teachers and fellow classmates.

And so life goes on,
Its vibrant with life u see.
The life of many a woman…
“JAI BOLO LH KI…”

Life is a kaleidoscope. Looking through that kaleidoscope, I see the images of time I spent in the place called “The College of Engineering Trivandrum” and nestled in the corner is one place I cherish as my own. Well times have changed, faces have changed, ...but all the new never ever overshadow the spirit which has lived on and will live on forever…

Ek hockey diya patke

At half past six, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, the intersection of Hurontario & Burnhamthorpe came alive. In a country where one could be forgiven for thinking cars didn’t have horns, the cold winter air was suddenly rent with a cacophony of honks. A spirited bunch of college kids was going berserk, brandishing hockey sticks & yelling at the top of their voices. Throw in a couple of cycle chains & this could have been a scene straight out of a Captain movie. And then I saw the flags.

It’s been 8 months since I immigrated to Canada & for some reason, I haven’t really allowed myself to assimilate. I still pronounce the second t in Toronto, I don’t go “eh”, I hate Molson & I can’t sing the national anthem beyond the first 2 words. I’m also guilty of the most heinous Canadian crime – Wayne Gretzky? No idea! But when Sidney Crosby slipped in a five-hole past Ryan Miller of the US, I celebrated a seminal Olympic gold with the entire country. I hadn’t watched a single minute of the game, preferring to catch up on the highlights of Tendulkar’s 200 on Youtube instead. But as footage of the sensational extra-time goal was played on television over and over again, it was almost impossible to remain immune to the euphoria. This country has given me a dizzying lake-side view from the top of the CN tower, rising half a kilometre into the sky, and a surreally primal experience at the Niagara horseshoe. And yet, Canada turned just a little more beautiful as she broke into a million impromptu street hockey games, with cans serving as pucks, and little kids handed out flags to the said honking drivers.

Coming against the US as it did, made it sweeter than maple syrup. The big debate over how to judge the better performer at Vancouver – a greater medal count (US 37 to Canada’s 26) or a higher gold tally (Canada’s 14 to America’s 9) – didn’t matter anymore (a debate which according to my mother wasn’t unlike the legendary Senthil-Goundamani 7th pass-10th fail argument). If the highest ever gold medal haul in the history of the Winter Olympics didn’t tip the scales north of the border, the dramatic victory in the Games’ showpiece event surely clinched it. Another loss-of-face defeat for the States following their ground-breaking earth-shattering (for Cricinfo junkies) T20 loss to Afghanistan. Well, at least an American team won the Super Bowl! And with enough Canadians in the side, one of them might even win the Stanley Cup 

Now if only the Toronto Maple Leafs could be persuaded out of the bottom throes of the league. Sigh!

2 States - 1 take

I’m not a big fan of Chetan Bhagat, and I’m sure he doesn’t flatter himself with any pretence of serious literature either. So it was no big surprise that 20 pages into his latest book – 2 States – I lost interest, since the plot moved out of IIM-A although the reviews said it was entirely based out of the institute – reason why I picked it up in the first place. It’s really a love story that blossoms on campus between a Punjabi guy and a girl from Madras – Tam-Bram, complete with a dad devoted to The Hindu, a 6th grade brother who dreams of IIT and an aspiring Carnatic musician mother! (Hence the title 2 “states”, apparently this is Bhagat’s own story – he is married to a Tam) To its credit, the plot manages to escape the Ghisa-pita cute mushy rom-com trap. But what saved the day was that the guy wangles a job in Madras to stay close to the girl and woo her family. And I just loved the portrait he’s painted of our favourite city. It’s not just a superficial, patronising account of caricatures that Bollywood still cannot shake off when it comes to depicting the South. This guy actually gets deep and dirty into the thick of things. The fleecing auto rickshaws, the “Thalaivar” posters on Mt. Road, pot bellied cops on Marina, dosas at Sangeetha, the IIT mania, the NRI-maaplai obsession, bachelor accommodations where anything other than a no-booze-no-meat-no-girls life is frowned upon, senior citizens who get a kick out of throwing pop quizzes on the ragam, talam, swaram and shruti of any audible carnatic music, Kapaleeshwar kovil, malli-poo..... It’s all in there. He threw in the overwhelming presence of stainless steel at Ratna stores too!!! Agreed he isn’t entirely innocent of the stereotypes – the dark skin, the exhibition of gold, etc, but then they are stereotypes because they are true for the most part. And to be fair to him, he’s got an entire set of digs reserved for his own Panjus as well. The Madras portion of the book took me back to the days when we used to enjoy watching Angad discover the city. And in a way, it wasn’t too different from how I discovered Madras. Sure I’m a Tam-Bram, but for all practical purposes I was an outsider. Anyway, fortunately for the couple, they manage to convince both sets of parents (a Bhagat novel is nothing if not for a Utopian ending). In fact, they win over the Tams before they wear down the Punjabis. Thats when I shook off my nostalgic stupor and realised, I was after all, reading fiction!!!

Rinpoche Tendlya

This isn't about the 200. I swear. But there could not have been a better time to write this.

It is so easy to shower Sachin Tendulkar with superlatives, especially now. You pinch Gavaskar in his sleep and I'm sure he'll scream out "Yet another 100 for the little master." For most of India, it's second nature to sing praises about the great man (there...I stand guilty as charged!!!) But ever wondered what he thinks of us? The day after Wankhede booed him in 2006, he was probably humming the Dev D song in his shower.

Bol Bol why did you ditch me,
Zindagi bhi lele yaara kill me,
Bol Bol why did you ditch me whore,
Tauba Tera Jalwa, Tauba tera pyar,
Tera Emosanal Attyachaar!

And in public, he'd have done a more diplomatic Laslo Bane.

But I can't do this all on my own
No I know
I'm no superman

Starting off as a kid, all curly hair, squeaky voice and breathless excitement, he was already the chosen one. 16 year olds drive cars and pull pranks. Our man drove Wasim and pulled Waqar. He drew encomiums from stiff British upper lips and wowed another country not known for it's affinity to Indians - sportsmen or immigrants. An admiration that endures 2 decades later. An economy that was beginning to resemble the refreshing liberty of his batting and the growing reach of satellite television created an unprecedented aura which partnered him on his pursuit of excellence, sadly his teammates didn't. The boy became a man. Even as he kept finding himself in one rubbish side after another, none more so than the ones he captained, he never ceased to conquer. The ridiculous ease with which he consigned the potential Warne-Tendulkar rivalry to the no-contest bin pretty much anointed him the greatest batsman of his generation. At 25. The supposed climax and it was just the intermission.

Match-fixing shook the faith of an entire nation. The fact that cricket wooed us back was due in no small measure to one man being 100% clean. My friend Yd told me Jadeja's involvement shocked him. I cannot digest Azhar's central participation even today. Sachin was spoken of in hushed whispers. "What if..." we asked. Fortunately, that question never needed to be answered. Post Hansiegate, as India dusted off the cobwebs, court-martialed the old guard and wore a new confidence, he was suddenly the senior statesman. Saurav Ganguly taught India to look Australia in the eye and kick them in the crotch. It was time for the great-movie-gone-bad-post-interval to break out into song & dance. But hey, Sachin wasn't the leading man anymore. After the heady form of the 2003 WC, the pecking order changed somewhat, both at home and internationally. Kallis dropped anchor, Dravid struck a purple patch, Lara found second wind & Ponting, a higher gear. As Chanders constructed monuments, Inzy composed masterpieces & Laxman conjured miracles, our man confronted mediocrity. The heavy bat assumed a burden, every run resembled a labour of Hercules. The champion who gave Warne nightmares, now put us to sleep as he faced the likes of Ray Price, Ashley Giles & Gareth Breese. The fan base began to switch allegiance to a younger man from Najafgarh, who reminded us of the Sachin of the 90s. His weary body made him stay away from a lot of the action. And sometimes, we didn't even notice he wasn't there. We didn't miss him. If we thought things could not get worse than the booing at Wankhede, there was the 2007 WC.

And then the second coming. As the T20 generation called him grandfather, he seemed more and more like the 16 year old who first caught our eyes. And showed yet another generation just who the big daddy was. Like the scything sound effect accompanying Rajnikanth's beedi twirling, the flourish of youth returned. And married the zen-like mastery of the sage. Closing down on 2 decades in the game, he turned the clock back. His craft approaching perfection, the numbers got bigger. 163. 175. 200 not out.

When we think of Sachin, we think big. 30000 international runs. Close to a century of centuries. We tolerate the highest corruption levels, the most dangerous traffic, the worst natural calamities, the most ruthless terrorists, but don't find it in ourselves to forgive his odd failure. And when the magnitude is expectation is so high, we miss out his smaller contributions. We crib when he fails in a big chase. We choose not to see the 41 off 25 in an India-Pakistan cup final in Dhaka which inspired Dada and Robin Singh to propel us to what was then a world record second innings winning score. We complain when he doesn't deliver in a big final. We stay blind to the high-adrenaline 35 in Nairobi, when he gave McGrath the finger and all, which gave his side the momentum and the confidence to storm to the final of that ICC knockout in the first place. We ask where he was when India pulled off 2 sensational come-from-behind victories over the Aussies, at Kolkata & Adelaide. We forget his crucial 3 wicket hauls in both those matches which hastened 2nd innings Australian collapses engineered by Harbhajan and Agarkar. How many men on the planet can claim to have hit Warne for six against the turn and clean bowled him with a vicious googly!!! We remember his magnificient 175 in a losing cause last year, but not the scorching catch he took in the outfield in the same game. If India had won that match, that catch that made the difference between a boundary and a wicket would have become stuff of legend. And one game before the ODI double century, his sliding stop in the outfield saved 2, and India won by a single run. Away from the limelight, in a Ranji trophy semi-final against Tamil Nadu, he played a gem that would have been his signature knock if it had been a Test match. In front of a handful of spectators, who wouldn't have turned up if not for him, and rabbits for company, he single handedly gave Bombay the decisive first innings lead. The master of the big stage is as much the God of small things.

No one in their right mind would call Tendulkar unorthodox. His awesome talent stretched the realms of orthodoxy to encompass audacious levels of creativity that lesser men could never comprehend to be free from risk. That is precisely why the upper cut over third man is no longer deemed an unorthodox stroke, nor is the straight sweep behind the keeper with a vertical bat, both patented by his 3 pound MRF. Not only did he open up those blind spots for run-making opportunities, he made them percentage shots.

The man is not without his flaws. There was the silly request for a tax waiver on the Ferrari. Also the bat auction to send Shwaas to the Oscars, when he could have just reached into his pockets. But as Rohit Brijnath wrote, if that is all we can find in 2 decades, then he's doing alright. These things serve to remind us that he is but human, like you and me. Which only adds to his achievements.

The lows of 2007 threatened to consume him. But providence has returned him to us. Old and improved. As we move towards the 2011 WC, after which he will almost certainly bid adieu, let us not ask him to win the championship for us. Let's just be grateful to him for being the force behind the belief that we can. At 5 feet 3 inches, Padma Vibhushan Sachin Tendulkar stands at his tallest. Like I said, it is so easy to shower Sachin Tendulkar with superlatives. All the more now.

Rinpoche

The Genesis

No smoke without a fire and no fire without a spark...
Wat set this fire... Its been ages since my pen had come up with something readable! as i was sharing my woe with Tusky ( who was sweet enough to entertain me) he hit upon this brilliant idea to put into action the plan that was set 2 yrs ago. Kartik ( also known as Tusky ) and I ( Divya, also known as Shock) decided that we simply had to give a try at blogging. So here's our attempt to keep our word to each other :)
The Oath
We, Tusky and Shock , promise that we shall give this venture our best try. We wow to not break the chain until sickness or travel render us unable to scribble a thought.And that all comments, shall be honest. We shall by abide to this next to scared pact until a time comes when the differences( obviously not geographical) shall be too large to be bridged by a URL. By the name of the almighty above and all his minions down on earth, we give our word that 'Keeping our word' shall be to the last letter.

Ok guys its time to toast and applaud!