Only Dead Fish Swim With The Stream

Note: This is a story I wrote for Yentha.com watching Yuvraj Singh half-way through last World Cup. Many things have happened since then. He won the Cup. And, now battling a rare type of cancer.

Men come of age in different ways—some win wars, some win tournaments, and some others win hearts.

When Roy Emerson first won the Wimbledon in 1964, a wire intro said that the 21-year-old son of a rancher had attained maturity.

When Sachin Tendulkar scored his first Test hundred, against the English, and saved India from a defeat, we all said the lad had come of age.

When Rafael Nadal won the Wimbledon after rolling his way to glory in the historic Roland Garros clay and mud, the stringy-haired Mallorcan too attained maturity.

Talent is a huge responsibility. It is a two-edged sword—it will either help you conquer, or kill you.

Nothing makes one sadder than seeing talent unfulfilled. The destiny of Vinod Kambli, Andrea Jaeger (now a Dominican nun) or L Sivaramakrishnan makes one glum.

So much was written about Ambati Rayidu and Imran Nazir. Both young men did not end up where their talent should have taken them to.

Talent is like giving a million dollars to the wanderlust. He could burn all that away in a jiffy on trips, drinks and brawls.

Not that the bohemian is as useless and repulsive as used condoms, but surely the guy who toils hard warms the cockles of your heart.

Nothing more endearing than watching someone transforms from a reckless bohemian into a responsible chap who takes care of the groceries for home.

Taking up responsibilities and fulfilling one’s talent are signs of a man’s maturity. Signs of him coming of age.

Like Emerson, Tendulkar and Nadal did.

That’s why watching Yuvraj Singh bat in this World Cup is gratifying. He has always been the bohemian, a southpaw with a heady mix of arrogance and elegance—a rare breed of class and crass.

He has thrilled us with his raw talent—with his batsmanship that elevates us from boredom to bliss in a matter of a few strokes. He can leave the entire stadium spellbound with a flurry of shots that border on the surreal like Dali’s masterpieces—floating, hanging and suspended.

He can make the bowlers look like zoozoos—comic, idiotic apparitions of no significance.

Yet, he can disappoint all of us. Either by trying the impossible like all gladiators, or by letting the streaks of arrogance dominate his conduct.

A year ago, Yuvraj was the prodigal son of Indian cricket. There was no doubt about his talent, but his attitude and application were not in the zone.

A brilliant, alert fielder inside the ring, he began to move like a slow coach. There were signs of a paunch, and laziness.

A bad patch and injures made things worse. A sedate IPL, a pale shadow the T20 World Cup that India won where he blasted six sixes in an over from young Broad, added insult to those injuries.

Players like Yuvraj or Sehwag bank on their talent and confidence. He stretches out not watching the ball on to the face of the bat, but trusting their hand-eye coordination and a calculation that defies lesser batsmen’s sense of timing. He times the shot, the lovely arc of the bat meeting the ball somewhere on its journey unleashing it like a ballistic missile.

His adventures hinge on his confidence. Losing his place in the Test team was a huge blow to Yuvraj’s ego, and it was dented like a flimsy aluminum vessel.

His feet hesitated to leave the crease, his bat came down tentatively. The timing went awry.

But Yuvi kept the faith in his talent—and was inspired by the ‘special person’ he said he is playing this World Cup for. His father, Yograj, feels the special person is most likely the special person to Indian cricket. Yograj, who played his only Test for India in 1981 against New Zealand, says Sachin has always been a guardian angel for his son.

We know how Yuvi thanked Sachin for a century against the Sri Lankans for his advice on how to sort out Ajantha Mendis.

His approach to his batting during this tournament has impressed all. He has so far scored five half-centuries in six outings, with four man-of-the-matches, and picked up a clutch of wickets.

It is good for Indian cricket that he seems to have set aside that suicidal brashness, and has begun to bat more sensibly, making good use of his precocious talent.

Batting is often like a watch-maker’s job. You need concentration, precision and patience in good measure.

Yuvraj showed in his last outing against the Australians that he has come of age. If he had thrown away his wicket trying any flamboyant shot, the Australians would have crawled back into the match. Champion teams need just a foothold to creep back. But Yuvraj applied himself and cut all frills out and saw India home.

That’s maturity. That’s sensible batting. And, he gave vent to all those bottled up pressure with a Tarzan-like war cry after scoring the winning boundary.

We are just two days away from the crucial, pressure-cooker match against Pakistan at Mohali. Home boy Yuvraj must have saved all his marbles for this game, like every player on either side for it is the match of the tournament so far.

Winning the World Cup is the icing on the cake for Yuvi, and a perfect gift for the ‘special person’.

But, more than winning any tournament, it is important that Yuvraj hasn’t let his enormous talent go waste in the tide of odds and obstacles.

Like Malcolm Muggeridge said: ‘Never forget that only dead fish swim with the stream.’

Glad that Yuvraj didn’t let himself swim with the stream like a dead fish.

The prodigal son has come home, coming of age.

Yuvraj’s Insurance Ad Shows Marketing’s Ugly Face

Timing is important both in cricket and life, and more so in advertising.

It is sad to hear that Yuvraj Singh has been diagnosed with stage one cancer, and he is undergoing chemotherapy at the Cancer Research Institute in Boston. But it is even sadder, if not shocking, to see a television commercial featuring him endorsing a life insurance product.

Any intelligent and smart marketing guy would push the ad now at any cost to drive home the point.

But it is nothing but insensitive, perhaps inhuman, to air the ad in which a fit and philosophical Yuvi talks about the unpredictabilities in life—that you don’t know when ‘life can bowl a googly at you’--while he is fighting cancer.

Those who watch the ad know for sure that they all need a life insurance cover because you hear from the horse’s mouth that a national hero who had played a significant role in winning the World Cup for India hardly a year ago is now fighting cancer.

The marketing brains of the national company have hit the nail exactly on its head by pushing the ad into the news bulletins today when all the channels had the Yuvi news item in the headlines and constantly scrolling across the screen.

Interestingly, the ad in which Yuvi endorsed an energy supplement has him replaced with Salman Khan—full of life and vigour. After a few minutes you see Yuvraj talking about the ebbs and flows of life.

One cannot but kick the walls of the bedroom in angst against the way consumerism has lost its sensitivity. Or, has consumerism ever had a heart?

Yuvi’s family, especially his parents, would not take it well to see their son, the personification of youthful vigour and zest not so long ago, now advising his fans across the nation to go for a life insurance cover.

It is not wrong, by no means. In fact, from a marketing point of view it can’t get closer to the bull’s eye to sell a product. The hero who endorses the product himself has been taken aback by the cruel surprise that life has thrown at him.

But the company would have done Yuvraj a great honour by not running the ad at a time when the precociously talented southpaw is undergoing chemotherapy. The tumour that he has been diagnosed with is reportedly not malignant and he might be back on the field carting those famous sixes. That’s another story, but to run the ad, using his unfortunate passage in life as a marketing tool is callous and pathetic.

It is not a brilliant ad campaign but a poor display of human values and ethics. Would a Yuvi smarting under the shocking events in his life approve of the ad running this time? He may not have a say since he has been paid to shoot it, but to run it on national channels talks volumes of our collective apathy and callousness. None of his parents has spoken to any media, and it is understandable, and that makes the timing of the ad even worse, and it leaves an ill-feeling towards the brand. It is just another example of the corporate world’s opportunistic character.

In other words, the marketing department of the insurance firm has done a rather foolish thing by airing the ad because it can be a boomerang and pull the brand value down.

Yuvraj’s last tweet, on Jan. 27, said he’s inspired by the legendary American cyclist Lance Armstrong’s story of surviving cancer and winning the Tour de France for a record seventh time.

The 30-year-old tweeted that he was reading autobiography “It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life”. “I’m sure it will motivate me and pull me throu(gh) this time! Livestrong Yuvstrong!" he tweeted. Another way of reading the tweet is to know how anxious Yuvraj is about the tumour and his comeback to active cricket.

The insurance company, which has many other business verticals, would have set an example of business with a human touch had it not run the commercial, at least on a day when the news about the player undergoing chemotherapy was flashed across the nation.

When the Social Media platforms are inundated with wishes and prayers for the player who is known for his fighting spirit, the business house that ran the commercial has in fact cut a sorry figure.

We live in a cut-throat world in which we come across nearly 5000 message a day, and to rise above all these to sell our brand we need to bury values and sensitivities. But then, for what?

Yuvi may come back and pick up the ball from anywhere outside the off-stump and send it into the sea of frenzied people at the midwicket, but to see him selling life insurance policy while he himself is fighting a tumour precariously tucked somewhere close to his heart is not palatable at all.

People Series--I

It is people who make life interesting and exciting. They continue to intrigue and interest us

Being a proclaimed believer in God—an unalloyed creationist, much ridiculed by the intellectuals who brag they had an arboreal past, a cerebral present and an uncertain future—I am often thrilled at both the individuality and plurality of mankind.

No two men are the same. Never.

My father and his nine brothers were as different as chalk and cheese. My mother and her three sisters are as different as pudding and payasam.

My identical twin friends—who look mirror-images of each other—are different in their own ways. Their likes and dislikes are different.

So, men are different.

And, that keeps us going—watching them, observing them, being one of them.

I often feel at sea in a party, but I love being there. Not for the booze. Not for the noise. Not definitely for the glamour and pomp.

Parties give me an excellent opportunity to watch life. It is a perfect slice.

I curl up in one corner like a daft. No friends to review the good old days. No aunts and uncles to discuss future and no buddies to guffaw with.

I sit in a corner, and watch the fun—I mean the people. I realise how conscious that aunty is of her sari with shimmering works of pearls and of that lonely sleek white-gold chain with a dazzling yet simple diamond pendent that often plunges its head into her creamy cleavage.

I see how that girl preens, bearing the full lusty weight of a hundred eyes on her pretty face and shapely bosom. She knows, and she is thrilled inside—there is a festival of fireworks in her heart—but she won’t show it. She wears an expression of boredom, like the sage-like brunch-time ocean.

And, that boy, who has Salman Khan’s shoulders and John Abraham’s everything. He’s got a few buttons off to show the glimpse of his fatless, façade of a youthful chest.

And, that makes the uncle next to him desperately clutch at the double measure of Black Dog that thaws a hillock of ice cubes. Of late, uncle is not impressed by his own appearance. The hair falls thick and fast, denuding the scalp, helping spotlights reflect in no time. The belly is shamelessly out. He feels like strangling the young, smart guy who strides up to his wife and says, ‘Hi aunty, you look stunning!’

‘Bastard!’

Uncle goes for a bottoms-up, and asks the counter boy with spiked hair for another double shot.

I sit nonchalant, munching a chicken drumstick, listening to Avial belting out another of their Malayalam hits, watching the specimens of life parading before me.

But of all people, I dread the bores more than poisonous snakes or barking dogs.

These men are in many guises. They can be your mother’s beloved brother; your boss with a notion of changing the world; your neighbour; your grandfather’s childhood friend. The list goes on.

I often feel the only species that God regrets making are the bores who don’t get the umpteen hints you drop.

Once they begin, they won’t stop unless you fall dead, and that too only after they are sure that you have no sign of life left in you.

They are brilliant and have a very high IQ, but they won’t read your body language which clearly says you are bored to the core. They will not see you looking out through the window behind them at insignificant heads bobbing beyond the wall.

They think you are their ear-pierced bonded slaves who have no right to utter a word of protest as they go on haranguing—giving lectures on good governance to office ethics to punctuality to etiquettes to gardening to good old days of values and virtues to how bad you are in your life and how they can help you become effective and smart in life.

They are like these little snakes in video games, which gain in power and vigour after eating each fruit—they gain more strength by talking, and more talking.

Nothing is more discouraging and disturbing like a button-holing bore (it’s not my phrase, but I don’t remember whose it is). Button-holing bores are the worst. They are as close to you as the button-holes in your shirt. Nothing is closer to you than these people, but they bore you to death, leave you bleeding, and suck every ounce of joy in life. They leave you disillusioned, frustrated, angry and often sad.

Mussolini and Hitler pale in comparison. Osama Bin Laden and Mullah Omar put down their guns at their sight and run for cover, eschewing their bloody missions. Buddha might lose the proverbial composure.

Nothing can save you from these bores but God. You seek divine protection and grace to survive another session. And, you pray that they will understand the joys of brevity.

Oh, brevity, the soul of wit!

But there are also people who just don’t speak anything, no matter how many dragging hours you spend with them. They consider every word from their mouth precious stones.

You often feel like saying: “Oh, say something you dumb!” But they won’t budge or move their whistle.

Who says silence is golden? Having someone who bores you by talking nothing is only second to the button-holing bores in terms of lethality.

One of my colleagues with The Gulf Today in Sharjah used to tell me about his brother-in-law who spoke only a few words in a day. He used to keep money for his wife at a particular place in the cupboard. His wife would pick it up from there without asking anything.

Intrigued, I asked why he was so angry. “It’s not that he is angry with any of us, he is like that.”

I would have torn him up like a piece of paper if he was my brother-in-law as much as I would have run for my dear life at the sight of a button-holing bore.

As I walk out of the party late in the night, it is raining. And, I am sure someone must be observing me as a perfect example of men who come to parties, sit through like a mug and walk out like a fool!

(First published in yentha.com)

Seventeen Years Ago

I wouldn't have written this piece if not for the 'Vakkom' Group in FB.

How do I remember my father who passed away on this day 17 years ago? A decade-and-a-half is a pretty long time to get out of any form of mourning.

True, I don't remember him every day. But it is also true that there is not a day that he doesn't beat within my bosom.

The evening when we buried him in a nondescript corner of the cemetery behind Kayalpuram mosque is still as fresh and vivid as yesterday afternoon. The indifferent cashew leaves, the thud-thuds of the gravedigger's pickaxe and hoe, the mound of wet dark brown soil by the grave, the prayers in the mosque, the way I mimicked others beside me for not being found an ill-fit, the silence and the warmth of sighs.

In fact, Umma, Bobby and I had not wanted him to struggle any more. Such was the pain he had been going through. Such was the agony.

I still remember the afternoon at the Leskshmi Vihar Hospital when he breathed his last. How we all gathered around him, eagerly waiting for the exhale each time he dragged breath into his cancer-eaten lungs. We got used to the slow pace of his breathing--in and out, in and out, in and out.

And, in...we all waited, and there was nothing! He died. Shajikka (Dr Shaji) checked his pulse and pronounced him dead.


Even after 17 fierce summers and squidgy winters, I still miss him. He hadn't left much for me in terms of material, but what had impressed in my heart as a growing boy, has shaped my set of believes and convictions.

Though he was not an intellectual giant or had not done any significant writing to be mentioned in the “intellect parlours” unlike his brothers, he was my early inspiration.

For me, he was a romantic who played the flute by the window on a rainy day or listened to Talat Mahmoud on a moon-lit night or with a few quick strokes did a sketch of Indira Gandhi or Bertrand Russell. He adored Mrs Gandhi for her strength of character and Russell for his philosophy of knowledge and love being the inspirations of life. He introduced to me the world of literature and writing and to Bobby that of ghazals. Both of us have stuck to them till today.

He was not an intellectual rabbit either. A Socialist in his younger years, he plunged himself into the world of literature. His collection of books included titles from Chaucer to Chaplin and Russell to Ruskin Bond.

Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley with a smattering of Russell and Koestler, that’s what Bobby and I heard during our prolonged dinner. And, when Abda mama was around the dinner conversation would prolong further and end up with a brief recollection of family history after a Gandhi-Jinnah rundown.

His innate inability to 'make money' unlike others in the Gulf was often looked down upon with smirks and disdain. He was a plain man who put his family and convictions above all. He could be wrong, but that was he.

He was very much fallible, and that was the best part I loved in him. I may not agree with all that he had done, but then I adored him with all his shortcomings. He should have allowed Umma to work. Well, that's another story.

One of the best things about him as a father was that neither Bobby nor I had to lie to cover up our mistakes. We could boldly say whatever we did or felt like. We used to criticise him, fiercely. He encouraged us to express our thoughts.

His passion for Scrabble had made the game our 'family game'. Hardly a night would pass without we all four playing a round of Scrabble, and he was ruthless in beating us!

Zaheer was special to him, and he often missed him. Sometimes when the pain was intolerable, he would want to meet Zaheer.

Another person who was close to him was Nabeed. In the later days of life, Nabeed was his shadow. He used to blast him, apparently for no reason.

I have many times in the last 17 years wished if he were alive, especially when I was going through some of the worst phases in my life, and drawing flak from everyone. I knew if there was one person who could understand my compulsions and convictions it would be him. He may not agree with me,but I am sure, he'd respect my decision, still love me for who I am.

Memories are the cruellest friends--we need them, but they leave us hurt and sad. I miss him, badly, and Keziah, my daughter, often says that she wants to meet 'Iqbaluppuppa'. I'm sure he'd have been a wonderful grandfather to Keziah, Sean, Ansil and Saahil! Such was his heart!

History, And Its Weird Habits

They have lived up to the hype. The blue has bled all over the country.

Mahendra Singh Dhoni could not have picked another day to play the innings he played in the final against the Sri Lankans.

His last six tore up the skies, and brought the heavens down.

India exploded in joy. The Indians are the world champions, for the second time.

Nearly three decades have gone by and much water has flown under the London Bridge since Kapil Dev held aloft the Prudential Cup in a golden sunlit Lord’s balcony.

Over a billion Indians heaved a collective sigh of relief as MS Dhoni led from the front to beat a fighting Sri Lanka to win the World Cup at a jam-packed Wankhede Stadium adorned with stars and celebrities.

The Indians were not only chasing a steep target of 274 but history set by Kapil Dev’s team in 1983. They had come tantalizingly close in 2003 but the Australians outclassed them on a cruel March evening.

Then, the debacle in the Caribbeans four years later.

Somehow, this team under the commandments of a cool Dhoni and coach Gary Kirsten had been thrust upon with the mantle of winning the World Cup, which would in all probability be the last edition for Sachin Tendulkar.

Indian hopes did sink when the Sri Lankans cut loose in the batting power play in the last five overs of the innings—scoring over 60 runs—riding on the crest of Mahela’s magical innings. Chasing 274 against quality bowlers like Malinga and Murali in a World Cup final under lights is like climbing a mountain on one leg.
Mahela’s century knocked on the doors of history as all the centurions in World Cup finals have ended up on winning sides. Such was the wizardry and touch of the man that Nasser Hussain was right when he said Mahela didn’t play a shot in anger. There was only one person in the entire Wakhede Stadium who couldn’t watch his class act live, and that was his wife, who was too tensed to watch her husband play. She hid her eyes behind a sheet of paper and prayed for him.

It is a pity that it didn’t turn out to be a match-winning innings, nor was he adjudged the man of the match. But, then Dhoni could not keep his credibility at stake any longer, and had decided to play out of his skin.

With the ‘M Factor’ in play, 274 could have tricked the Indians into old habits.
The Indians have famously choked before—and their World Cup record against the Sri Lankans was nothing great to write home about. But, the team that has sent the Australians and Pakistanis packing is made of sterner stuff.

Malinga took a leaf out of Riaz’s book to trap Sehwag in front of the wicket. And, Sachin, who was in much sweeter touch than in his infamously scrappy knock against Pakistan, promised much before he nibbled at a slightly swinging delivery from his Mumbai Indians team-mate Malinga.

With its two match-winners back in the hut for 30-odd runs, India could have gone back to its old habit of folding like a pack of cards, which we all are familiar with. The Indians have on many occasions burnt huge holes in our swelling hearts.
But the times have changed.

Credit must be given to the two young men—Gambhir and Kohli—for shutting the Sri Lankans out of the game. One more early wicket, and the Sri Lankans would have been all over the Indians.

As the two went about their business of rebuilding and consolidating the innings with sensible cricket, the Sri Lankan body language went through a transformation. The spring in their stride disappeared, their shoulders drooped, heads hung. Their ground fielding began to lose the sharpness. The fielders fumbled and bowlers became pedestrian.

Interestingly, Murali, playing his last international game, was like a magician who had forgotten his trick. There was no hiss or bite from him, and Dhoni hardly let go an opportunity to pounce on him and cut or whack him for fours.
History has its own weird ways of making itself strange. Neither Sachin nor Murali could leave a mark in the match. They might never again play each other in an international match. Murali should have given a better farewell during the presentation ceremony.

What if Sachin scored the century of century in last night’s match? What if Murali spun the Indians into knots and won the Cup?

Somehow, history doesn’t want to be known too indifferent to the aspirations of the Little Master. Almost all the great players are part of a World Cup-winning. History couldn't deny Sachin this. If this Cup had slipped from his lips, he could have never kissed it.

The Indians have now joined the West Indians and the Australians by winning the World Cup more than once.

The Caribbeans won the Prudential Cup in 1975 and 1979 and were on the verge of taking it home for the third time when the Indians came from nowhere to humble them and create history and make the game a passion across the subcontinent.

The West Indians had ruled world cricket in true Calypso style, and the slide began once a number of champion players retired. The fast bowlers vanished, so did batsmen of stuff. The once breeding ground of champion bowlers and batsmen, the Red Stripes league failed to produce any real winners.

Towards the end of the 80s, the tears of Kim Hughes had dried away, and a staunch-looking Allan Border had taken a young Australian team under his wings and begun to turn it around.

The skipper’s slow turners created a momentary madness in Mike Gatting in the Reliance Cup final, and the English skipper’s top-edged reverse sweep set the rot in. Since winning that World Cup, the Aussies had been the undisputed champions till the fag end of last decade.

They won it three more times, two times denying Asian teams—the Indians in 2003 and Sri Lankans in 2007. Before that they had squashed the dreams of the South Africans—the perennial bride’s maid.

But, now it is all about Team India.

The win will bring about a second wave of cricket passion across the country. The game will once again be played in the dingy lanes and dried up paddy fields.

The win will also bring about new line of businesses, and the cricketers will become millionaires, and be envied by all. Hockey lovers will crib, footballers will kick in angst, boxers and wrestlers will flex their muscles, but the fact is that in India cricket is a national passion.

Dhoni and his boys have proved that it is all about ‘team’ India. We can’t single out a player as the architect of the Indian World Cup victory. Everyone in the team has chipped in one way or the other.

And, it was good that the Indians were made to sweat early in the tournament—it helped everyone get a hang of what’s it being out there in the middle and under pressure.

We know one thing. Team India created history last Saturday night. Only time will tell its implications.

My mother with rheumatic knees cooked chicken to celebrate. My five-year-old nephew cheered Dhoni till the winning runs.

The game runs in households across the country—in mansions and in the zero-watt houses and huts. Dhoni, Sachin and boys are the heroes who have proved that ‘impossible is nothing’.

For the time being, they will forget their pains and hardships. They will keep aside the many rejections and dejections. They will bury the hatchet with neighbours, and forget about party politics and forgive communal atrocities.

They will just ignore WikiLeaks, and the Maoists. The will look beyond the 2G scam and the creepy middlemen.

They will do just one thing: celebrate. For, India has won the World Cup.

Dhoni has walked up to Mr Kapil Dev, and sat next to the man on a summit built on the dreams of a billion people.

In Tana

It’s cold this night in Tana,
the city of thousand homes.
Drums and guitars of a strange song
emanate from the quiet, wooden bar.
The air bites into the skin,
I order a white wine, and
grilled fish with white rice.

I know you are across the ocean,
a hop across, if I could.
You are sleeping, I know,
to get relief from headache and cold.

I wish you were with me tonight;
We could snuggle under the blanket,
feel the heat of our naked bodies,
rubbing each other,
kissing the tender spots,
feeling the tips of our fingers,
looking into each other’s eyes,
let’s make love, darling.

Here in Anantananarivo, city of thousand homes;
let’s lie close to one another for hours,
exploring the map of each other’s body
discovering secrets,
waking up hidden passions,
curling into each other’s arms,
feeling the heat and
the gentle waft of our breaths,
let’s lie awake into the night, late and lazy,
watching the diamond stars in a clear sky
through the window by the bed.
Let’s lie there like that,
consummating,
fulfilling, and
redefining
our ancient love.

From Tana To Tharoor

I just came back from a week-long trip to Madagascar. Surprisingly, though most of my friends and colleagues have heard about the place, mainly thanks to the Spielberg's movie of the same name, few could place the country geographically.

A friend of mine, a CEO of a Technopark company, called me back and asked: “Hi Sabin, I'm a bit confused. Is it a South American country or a Southern African country?”

Before I give you some highlights about the trip, let me place the country. Madagascar is part of Africa but not on the main land. It is the world's fourth largest island near Mauritius in the Indian Ocean.

I flew out from Mumbai to Nairobi from where I flew down south to the capital city of Madagascar, Anantananarivo, or Tana. In my last column for Yentha I'd written about 'identity crisis' and a couple of my experiences at airports.

The immigration officer at the Mumbai international airport took a good look at my passport, and pronounced “Sabeen Mohammed Iqbal” with a stress on the middle name. He took a few minutes more, checking if the photograph was doctored. And, he just flicked the passport towards me in a way that could be interpreted as 'throwing'. I picked up the passport, feeling insulted. When we travel overseas this little blue book is our identity and our cultural anchor. Any dig at it is a stab at our whole identity. My friend and colleague felt more insulted than me. Prodded by him, I went back to the officer and told him that I could take this attitude in a foreign country. But sir, I said, I am an Indian citizen and if you don't respect an Indian passport, who would? He gazed at me for some time, and said he didn't mean it that way. I walked off after giving him my business card. As I was turning towards the security check area, I looked back and saw him still looking at my card.

Tana was a surprise package. I felt as if I was in a quaint little French town inhabited by Asians. Madagascar bears a French look, thanks to its French reign, and the people are mostly inter-racial and are descendants of Indonesians.

Though it is rich in untapped natural resources, the country is still poor, and receives a UN fund. It is kind of a free country with over 50 per cent of population under 20 years of age. So if you walk around the Tana town, you'd see mainly youth hanging out and fiddling with their many mobile phones. Their baby-faced president, Andrey Rejoelina, is younger than me, which means he is bubbling under the 40-mark.

Once again I took a firm decision to learn French, lest I miss out many opportunities for some interesting conversations. Tana was the fifth French-speaking city I'd been to and left wondering why I never paid a visit to the Alliance Francaise back in our city.

Never too late, I'm pretty bent on turning a Francophile.

Being in a French world means you forget about cricket. With the IPL nearing knockout stage, I had to be online to keep myself updated about cricket and non-cricket hot news emerging out of India.

Hmm, some hot news we have been having these days. The biggest wicket of this IPL is that of Mr Tharoor. And, the bowler is Modi.

It is a heady and ugly mix of politics and business, cricket being just a vehicle for their Machiavellian ways. It is good for media, and reporters chomping at the bit to take a peek at the underbelly of the business of cricket.

But then I have decided to get away from all these. Over the years, many idols have fallen. It is the tragedy of the common fan. The heroes keep falling from the pedestal. But it is, I reckon, human nature that we keep replacing them. It seems we need some figure to hero-worship.

On the way back, while checking in at the Tana airport, I overheard a security staff asking my friend for 'some gift', and I saw him tucking a 10,000 ariyari (local currency) note into his jacket which was being scanned. I moved on. I turned back only when a hand fell on my shoulders. It was security staff. He was all seriousness as he went ahead frisking me. He then asked me to follow him. He took me to a small curtained enclosure. He began checking me, and then in a minute, asked me, in a tone of request: “Please give me some gift.” I looked at him. He was sheepish, and I couldn't help smiling at him. “What do you want?” I asked. “Some gift.” I walked out giving him a crisp 10,000 ariyari note. He walked beside me, laughing and putting his hand on my shoulder. “Welcome back to Tana, my friend,” he said as he let me walk away.

Sure, I will come back to Tana, the city of thousand homes. I said in my mind. Though it was bribery or daylight robbery, I liked the way he did it. And I was smiling as I walked into the duty free shops.

I landed in Mumbai, into the quagmire of IPL, and raids at Modi's office and detailed reports about his high-profile staff. And, then came the Tharoor exit. No wonder he never replied to my mails asking for details of the Kochi team's owners. When I sent the mails three weeks ago, I didn't know I was trying to touch the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

(Read yentha.com)