No More A Goodie Guy

I am a heap of shortcomings, complexes and prejudices.

Been trying hard to come clean of some of them. Been a moderate success. But still there are a few, like the dreg at the bottom of a long glass.
All my life, I’ve tried to be goodie-goodie.

It’s bequeathed, I suppose, along with the lines and rows of books I grew up with.
Humility was driven hard into my sister and me by our parents right in the tender ages.

‘Be obedient and humble.’ That’s rule number one.

All our life, we have tried to live by it.

But I have run the risk of being misunderstood as weak for my meekness.
Many a time I wanted to shout out, ‘Hey, I’m not that weak, but just being meek by choice.’

But I wouldn’t do it for the fear of hurting someone.

You know, it doesn’t help. I’ve realised it after four decades of existence. You’ll just be a choco boy even in your middle age.

Life has taught me many lessons: of pain, loss, tears, joy, hardship, loneliness, rejection, failure.

I have dumped some, without actually meaning it, and without knowing even a trace of the pain it caused. I still regret it.

People have rejected me. In workplace and in personal life. I have wept alone, and wiped off the tears and smiled again.

Life…it goes on.

Okay, about my complexes. I hate it when policemen stop me, hiding at a bend, and pull me up like a criminal for not using seatbelt. The look on the constable—a triumphant smirk as if he’s picked up Sukumara Kurup (do you know who he is?)—detonates something within me.

All my efforts to be humble come a cropper at that moment.

The way he commands me to get out of the car is the trigger point. I inform him, in politeness-wrapped arrogance, that I’m at fault and would pay the fine, but officer, you must behave.

The look on the constable’s face would only aggravate the itch in my ego. I would go to the Sub-Inspector, who’d be resting his potbelly on the bulge of his jeep’s bonnet. He’d just lift his brows to look at me with disdain. I’d make sure that he sees me noticing his nameplate. I’d never call him ‘saare. I’d address him only ‘officer’. I’d say, before he could ruffle my egoistic feathers, that I’m at fault and would pay the fine, but he must behave.

Uniforms give people a notion of superiority. Even to the gatekeepers at railway crossings.

A few years ago while at the immigration of the Charles De Gaul airport in Paris a similar righteous indignation came to a boil. It was just after the 9/11, and my passport has ‘Mohammed’ as my middle name. For the young immigration officer it was a dreaded word in the wake of the Twin Tower attacks. He kept looking at my photo, scraped it with his thumb, looked back at my face, then back on the photo in the passport, then back at me, then back…doesn’t this guy look like an Egyptian?
I’m not a terrorist, Mr Officer, I said. I’m here on holidays. I have a decent newspaper job back in Dubai. But he took the passport to his superior, and this guy, a tough-looking middle-aged man, came up to me, sized me up and asked if I truly was a journalist. I nodded, and told him that every Mohammed is not a terrorist. And, told him that I’m a fiercely patriotic Indian.
I was fuming with righteous indignation.

Having said that, I need to add this bit too. Once, a friend of mine and I were at the Montreal airport on our trip to meet the World Anti-Doping Agency officials. I had my fears of being frisked in public, and had put on my best-looking brief. But this officer took a good look at my passport, me, smiled, thundered down a stamp on my passport and returned it. All within five minutes.

Next was my friend, a Christian. He had this air of confidence about him since only those having Muslim names would be embarrassed, and that too in the American continent. He flicked across his passport, and stood there smiling with a don’t-you-know-I-am-Christian look on him. Man, he didn’t know what he was in for. The officer, I still don’t know why, dismantled him and assembled again—a neat overhaul. He hair-split each page of his passport and surveyed his photograph under microscope. By this time, my angelic, holy friend had become demonic and in the verge of tears!

Uniforms rub me on the wrong, I reckon.

Now back to what I was saying. To friends and relatives, I am so sweet. But to be frank, I am deceptive. How I want to tell them what I feel like? To be honest. To call a spade a spade, and have a conscience as clean as a whistle.

But I gulp down words, and bottle up my true feelings. I know, even though ‘no’ is a difficult answer, most of the time it would be the right one. I must learn to say ‘no’. But it is tough, mate.

Someone very dear to my heart is quite the opposite. She would speak out her mind. And, that’s it. No more grudge or gnashing of teeth or kicking the walls. She said she’s learnt it over the years. And, finds people love her for that.

But I, on the other hand, smile and swallow what I feel and say something sweet.
And, I groan in angst and anguish. I crib. I murmur. I water and nurture a poison tree in my heart. I watch it grow tall and its roots go deep.

I’ve realised that I am deceptive—to my friends and dear ones.

The other day I sat down and thought to find out why I do this. There are two reasons. One, of hurting the other person and subsequently losing him or her. Two, of painting myself in a bad picture.

Both are just fears. Lies that keep me submissive and timid.
But I have taken a couple of decades to realise that those who love me will still love me for being what I am.

We keep growing up, don’t we?

(Published in Yentha.com)

Of Heatstrokes, Watermelons And Summer Rains

Vernal rains…and they couldn’t come any better than last night’s. A few droplets in the evening didn’t promise the harvest to come. But it was such a relief.

But when the slanting sheets of thick, lusty drops began to come down, from the bulge of blue-dark clouds pregnant with the promise of cooling down the heat of our many frustrations, one thanked the heavens.

It was such brooding, sweltering months. One has lived in countries where mercury rose higher, but the past few months have been intolerable in Kerala.

We’ve experienced sunstroke and heatstroke.

We’ve experienced fatigue and dizziness. We’ve sweated from all pores.

We’ve fought in our offices; we picked up fights with spouses; honked the horn, irritated; beaten up kids for apparently no reason.

We’e queued up to buy watermelons from Tamil Nadu. Kerala’s climate and soil are too luxurious for the watermelons to grow. One has checked it out with a Tamil fruit vendor on the street.

Yeah, we indulge in the coziness of nature. Watermelons are grown in lands where sun is acrimonious, as a divine intervention.

Watermelons, not coconuts, should be Kerala’s official fruit. Green outside and red inside.

Cool to the eyes, but ruddy red of politics inside.
But why do we need these bloody watermelons? Kerala is His Own Country. Blessed, indulged.


He has blanketed this strip of land with lush green, tucked it between a stretch of ocean and rolling hills.

We are known worldwide for our smartness, intelligence, hard work. We can outdo an American in his Yanki-ness, a Brit in his English-ness, an African in his African-ness, an Arab in his Arab-ness.

We are a smart bunch of people. Proud, prudent and political.

Political…well, we are masters. We have doctrines. We have ideologies. We look at people down our nose. We shout slogans to the heavens. Democracy runs thick in our blood. Protests and hartals are entwined in our DNA.

We are ferociously conscious of our political, human and civil rights, but only till we cross our borders.

In a foreign land, we are more loyal to the rules of the land than the natives. We are an obedient people. Timid and goodie-goodie.

We send Cuba Mukundas abroad to make him break a sweat. Back in our land, he is a leader who shouldn’t work, but lead his followers in strikes and hartals, like the piper of Hamelin.

But God is merciful. He sent down rains last night to cool us off.

March, April and May are hot. But, last night’s summer rains were special.

One saw a young man, dressed well, leaning on the gates of a pub in the city, late in the night, and he was soaking in rain—drenched to his bones. One kept looking at him. He was drunk, but he was enjoying the thick rain, turning and throwing his head and hands in the air. He was talking to the rains. He was happy. Rainwater splashed on his face and ran down. He opened his mouth and swallowed a gulp or two. Lightning shone on his temples. Thunder echoed in his ears.

He walked into the night, tottering away, throwing his hands in the air. Enjoying the summer rains.

No, no slogans. He hummed a tune, unknown to this observer.

Summer rains!

Seeing Saffron, Seeing Red

One wonders if Mr Amitabh Bachchan had any idea of the twists in this script. But one is sure that the legend didn’t have any axe to grind when he expressed his willingness to be the face of Kerala Tourism.

And, the government had responded to the star’s wish, and written to him that discussions could follow.

Good, one thought. After all, Bachchan is Bachchan.
But reality always strikes late. And, it strikes hard at soft, vulnerable spots.

For a moment, all have forgotten that this State is not ruled by a people-elected government, but a bunch of people who still hold dear some of their doctrines and ideologies irrespective of the passage of time and fashion.

A bunch of people who smirk and spit at Capitalism even from the depths of deep sleep. A bunch of intellectuals who see America’s shadow even at midnight.

The sacrosanct politburo has its thump firmly on the State, it seems. No matter what the ministers think or do in tune with the people of the State, every decision, it appears, have to get the illustrious nod of the powers that be at the Politburo.

The pillars of Politburo don’t want to see Bachchan, who is a brand ambassador of BJP-ruled Gujarat, wearing the holy red robes of the southern State.
He has become a sacrilege. A taboo to those drunk on ideology.

When can we learn that Gujarat and Kerala are two beautiful States of this beautiful country, ruled by two beautiful parties guided by some beautiful leaders?
Gujarat and Kerala—BJP and CPM. Saffron and Red.
But, the star is not a personal ambassador of Mr Narendra Modi. Nor will he be one of Mr Kodiyeri Balakrishnan, the Kerala minister for tourism.

But any learning is selective, isn’t it? Who wants to touch Modi even with a barge pole? No matter what he does to bring in crores of investment to Gujarat, he is still Modi, the BJP man.

Who wants to antagonise the Muslims by shaking hands with someone who has shaken hands with such a man? Especially when we can hear the distant drums of elections.

“The Left-front government in Kerala will not have the same brand ambassador (who has already been appointed by the Narendra Modi government),” CPM politburo member Sitaram Yechury has said.

And, Mr Yechury is a wise man. He’s come to bury Caesar, not to praise Brutus.

The Kerala tourism minister has expressed his “surprise” at some stiff opposition from Delhi.

The upper lip is always stiff, Mr Minister!

Oh, the shenanigans of party politics! Haven’t we had enough of them?

But facts are facts, not the truth.

The fact is that the State is seeing a drop in international tourists, and is trying to woo domestic visitors to keep the income steady.

The fact is that tourism remains a cash cow for our industry-allergic State. The fact is that Kerala Tourism has been hunting for that face which could enchant and entice tourists to this strip of land.

But the truth is that saffron and red do not match. The truth is that Politburo dictates terms. The truth is that Mr Bachchan has seen the real red.

And, the truth is that it is a shame on all of us.

(Published in Yentha.com)

Eye. Pee. Yell.

DC Save My D



Oho. I have to thank the Almighty. The DC has pulled it through. They have saved my goat. Err, something more precious, delicate and sensitive than a goat, to be precise.

I support DC, but that is not enough to save my life. A more ardent, more vociferous and a more militant DC fan has threatened to bobbitt me if the DC lose a game. Now, you know what bobbitt means? Look it up in dictionary.com
So every run that the Deccan dudes didn’t take or yielded or wicket they lost or failed to take against the Daredevils in their last outing, I felt a chill down my tummy, going into the area of execution of the threat.

I felt a numbing pain. Well, it is not urinary infection, but sheer pressure from the threat.

My heart was somewhere in my mouth when Warner was whacking the ball like possessed. He is such a clean hitter that there are no double measures about his business. I was beginning to sweat thinking what if Sehwag also got into the act.

I could only sympathise with the Gilly for his unenviable task of silencing two blazing guns. But then my situation wasn’t any better. I crossed my legs in a subconscious effort to protect the sensitive area facing extinction.

But then, double whammy is rare in life. It only happens in the Caribbean or South Pacific islands where hurricanes follow earthquakes. Or the other way around in order.

Sehwag, perhaps, a bit carried away by Warner’s bloody assault, tried to send Ojha into the stands but ended up straight in the throat of a Gibbs lurking dreamily somewhere on the long-off fence.

Gee, I sat proper in my sofa, cursing the carpenter who made it so narrow. I need more space to spread out while watching the IPL.

When AB was at the crease I was in a fix. I remembered some of my neighbours, way back in late 80s and early 90s, who wanted Pakistan to beat India but only after Azharuddin scored a fifty. No prizes for guessing where they went to pray.

I love to watch AB. He is so good, but then he happened to be in the wrong camp. I couldn’t afford myself to be bobbitted. I am too young to lay down weapons. AB made a mess off a delivery that landed on the base of his off-stump. His almighty-heave across the line gave me a breather, though somewhere in the corner of my heart there was some area of sadness seeing the South African walk back.

Dinesh Karthik, the stand-in captain, stood out with his late flourish. He threatened to sweep or sweep-pull anything fell at length into the crowds. But then Symmo had only lost his dreadlocks but catching skills. He stuck his massive right hand out as Karthik blasted one back. The ball got stuck in his hand. It reminded me of the mercurial Aussie off-spinner Greg Mathews catching a beefy Ian Botham off his own bowling when I was younger.

Symmo struck again with the next delivery. I felt relaxed; spread my legs in the sofa. Vintage like an aging wine, Vaas cleaned up the Daredevils in his last over. And, I celebrated.
* * *

Every man will have his moment in life—momentary or otherwise. Vinay Kumar had his against the Mumbai Indians when he claimed three wickets in one over giving his Bangalore team a grip over the marauding Mumbai.

I am an MI man. I’ve been an unabashed Sachin fan since I was 18. I have no qualms about admitting that I bunked classes in the late 80s, took leave from offices all through the 90s and the first decade of the new millennium, and even had the good fortune reports some of his classic innings.

There is a sweet ring to his batting now. He has peaked yet again. He is a like a bird singing out of its content heart. He is a master class to the Tiwarys and Rayidus.

To bowl him around his legs, Vinay Kumar must be a lucky guy on that night. A momentary lapse of concentration presented the Bangalore bowler with a momentous moment.

I’m happy to see Robin Uthappa back in crisp business. Sure, the young man is talented, but I reckon he had lost his focus last season after the success of the T20 World Cup and IPL dollars. He is exuberant and audacious. Only if he could keep his head down to watch the ball.

I have taken the MI defeat in its stride, only because I know a chubby boy who would cry if Bangalore lost. I’d rather take a long drive to clear my mind than see the little fan, my almost namesake, sad.
* * *

Super over, and what mindless batting!

Hayden’s mongoose didn’t help as Theron got one got past its swing. Stand-in skipper
Raina did well to loft one over the cover for two. He did even better by clouting a 91-metre six off the fourth delivery. Two more balls and only one wicket: even two singles would make life harder for Punjab. He went for another biggie to be caught by Jayawardane. There was one more ball left, with nine runs on the board.

In reply, Jayawardene began by clubbing Murali for a massive six. But he too didn’t learn any lesson from the Raina story. With only four more runs from five balls, he went after Murali in the next ball itself, only to be caught and to put Punjab under further pressure. Known for his susceptibility against quality spin, Yuvi missed the next ball. But, somehow, he connected a reverse sweep, and let out a Tarzan war cry.

Talking about Hayden’s bat, there is a mongoose which often appears on the wall next to my office. It runs along the wall, jumps out on to the road and noses through the shrub. On its return trip, it doesn’t fail to give a sympathetic glance at a moron sitting by his computer, scratching his head for story ideas!

(Read Yentha.com)

Time...stand still, and fast forward!

I sit by the window in my study bleary-eyed and sleepy. I have no one to blame for my situation other than myself.

I squeeze my tummy and wish if I had been more prudent with my time. Ah, time, that’s what I am hard-pressed for these days. I have so many things to do each day. I have to file my stories to my magazine, edit all the stories for the portal whose beta version begins in two days, pull up reporters without hurting their delicate egos and yet tell them how a feature should be different from a news story; convince my friend-and-boss-rolled-into-one that I am actually working these days. And yet find time for the IPL, and for someone special.

In the past few days I have unlearnt a few things and learnt a few. One, it is not a sin to get charty and plan your week or day or to keep a tab on what each reporter is doing. I had fought tooth and nail against this when my boss suggested it in the beginning of our honeymoon a month ago. I had the cheeks and naivety to write to him that my style of working is different. One of the first improvisations I brought in to the system was that I removed “sir” from in any form of addressing me. I had a noble reason for it. I still believe that respect doesn’t begin and end by adding a suffix to someone’s name. It irks me.

When I first walked into the newsroom of Emirates News in Abu Dhabi which had a rich mix of international staff—Indians (from all zones), English, Scotts, Welsh, African, Pakistanis, Filipinos, Chinese and Bangladeshis—my editor, a pipe-smoking six-footer Brit with a walrus moustache, warned me, a junior on the desk, that there was no ‘sir business’ in the newsroom. But, even when we youngsters called him by his first name, the sight of him storming out of his cabin (den) and swaggering into the newsroom sent chills down our spine!

He never demanded that our knees should fellowship with each other at his sight, but I confess, every time he came and looked over my shoulders into the page I was doing or the copy I was editing I struggled to keep my knees apart from knocking each other! But in Thursday and Friday nights we knew he would be coming after some party or the other, and would be in a lighter mood. He’d walk up to the three of us—three young men who joined the team in the same month—and ask if we were doing okay, before chatting up the thick Scott girl whose accent was more difficult to follow than the Chinese proofreader’s occasional outbursts of frustration in his mother-tongue.

In my new office here, I made a public declaration in one of the team meetings that I don’t like it, and they lapped it up, and began screaming my name for anything and everything. I still had no issues with it.

But things were to change as we neared the launch date. My friend-boss, who had agreed to give me a long rope to have my way of managing the editorial bandwagon, slowly began to tighten the screws, and I felt it. Surprisingly, as days went by, I also realised the need to, first of all, to have screws (no pun, please) in place, and then to tighten it.

Relationship is hard work. You need to work on it. A colleague of mine says she won’t get married because she feels marriage will kill love. For me, as the editor of a thin team, it is not about to marry or to marry (too late though), but about managing relationships. Having given them the freedom to have fun in the office (I still believe in it), I am finding it difficult not to tighten the screws but not to hurt them when I do it.

One of my senior colleagues says that it should be mandatory that Mallus should address others with a “sir” suffix, just to keep that essential and healthy distance and to remind them of the rightful position of their proverbial ego.
I am still skeptical, but then having lived and worked in an international mix for most part of my career, I sometimes end up wondering what is the right stand. No shop in this beautiful State sells respect. But unfortunately no one is seen deserving it also. So, thrust itself on oneself. Make all those working with/under you call you ‘sir’. I rest my case here.

It is frustrating that I don’t get time to do what I like the most: writing. I have three book ideas. I have to start writing. But by the time I come back from office after all those hours hunching over my tiny keyboard, I wilt like a touch-me-not. I just can’t find time to watch the IPL. Or write my blog.
But a small voice inside keeps telling me that if I am a little more organized, things will fall into place.

Oh, that voice and its promise of hope! Now, I want time to fly!

If I can take a breather from work today I will write about the other things that I unlearnt and learnt. And, some transcontinental SMSes.

Eye. Pee.Yell: Reflections of IPL--2

Where Is My Raffle Coupon?



I should have bought a Dubai Duty Free raffle ticket yesterday. I would have been laughing all the way to my bank by now.

It is a special feeling to see your predictions come true.

If you have read my piece on the first day of IPL, you’d know what I am trying to boast. In the end of the story, I made two remarks. One, my gut feeling about Ambati Rayidu coming good before a larger, more superior crowd.

And two, Yousuf Pathan was raring to go.

Talent is like a lit candle. It cannot be hidden in a bushel. It is like a lamp on a hillock. Someday everyone gets to see it.

First time I heard of Rayidu was from a friend and correspondent for the magazine I was editing in Dubai. He told me one day that he got to watch a boy who could be the next big thing in Indian cricket.

Nothing hurts more than wasted talent. Once while interviewing Laxman Sivararamakrishnan, I caught a tint of regret in his eyes. He recovered in no time, but those nano seconds were enough for me to feel the pain of wasted talent.

So would be the case of Sadananth Vishwanath. I don’t know the reasons that led to this richly talented wicketkeeper’s decline into oblivion. But he is gone. Remember the way he stumped none other than Javed Miandad during the Benson and Hedges mini World Cup in Australia? Siva tossed one up; it hung in the air for ages, taunting and tempting the batsman. Miandad, a master against quality spin, just left the crease sure to meet the ball on the bounce. But like a skillful ballerina, the ball eluded the groping master. It was a matter of seconds. But all that a shocked Miandad could see was an elated Vishy as he had whipped off the bails in flash.
We see Siva behind the microphone. But, where is Vishy?

Of recent Indian cricket history, none hurts us as Vinod Kambli. He is an integral part of Sachin Tendulkar’s story. Talent was never a question for this man, who scored a string of centuries at the top level. But then, where is he now? We all mention him with a tinge of regret, and a sigh.

Once by the turn of this millennium, I found him sitting in an Abu Dhabi restaurant. I walked up to him, and told him that I was a fan of him, and how badly people like me wanted to see him back in the team. He looked in my eyes for a few seconds, then looked long into the ocean nearby, and mumbled that he’d be back.

Remember David Hookes, the Aussie? Man, he was some batsman! But he could not translate his talent into runs.

If we go to the West Indies, we will see as many wasted talents as the sandy beaches.
I’m sure you too have your share of stories of these unsung, unfortunate talents.

One good thing about the IPL is that it gives a platform to the fringe players or whose talent is not given the opportunities it deserves.
How do we measure talent?

TS Eliot famously wrote in his love song of Prufrock about measuring life with coffee spoons. There are two ways of measuring a player’s worth. The most common is going by the number of runs or wickets. I don’t buy this method. But then I am not a selector or anyone who matters in cricket administration.

The other way could be going by mere talent. In the last couple of years we all have seen what Yousuf Pathan could do with the bat. Any selector with some sense of the game would know what a bundle of talent this man has. We have seen its glimpses. He is not a Pat Cash, the punk who meandered into the historic lawns of Wimbledon once and coolly walked away with the title while more illustrious champs like Evan Lendle had to throw in the towel without at least once kissing that coveted trophy.

But shouldn’t talents like Pathan be kept in the team? I would have kept him with the team if I were the man to decide. Sri Lankan batsman Jayawardene had gone through a prolonged dry phase, but it was because of the wisdom of the Lankan board that he was kept in the team. Look where he is now. If he was dropped because of no scores, he would have never done justice to his talent.

So, Rayidu has made full use of the opportunity he got. And, Pathan has proved that only selectors with no imagination would pencil him out of the team.

Runs in domestic competition don’t promise you a permanent place in the international scene. Lal Chand Rajput, if you remember, had made tonnes of runs in domestic matches—painstaking centuries after double and triple centuries, and he was correct in his technique—but he couldn’t do a thing at the highest level.
Talking of technique, Sanjay Manjrekar couldn’t do a thing wrong in batting, but his runs in international level were not proportionate to his talent.

Back to the matches.

The angry young man of Indian cricket, the southpaw from capital, Gautam Gambhir dared the devils with an innings marked more for its austerity than audacity. He showed us that T20 is not just bang-bang-and-back-home. He defined a captain’s knock last night against the Kings XI. What makes him tick is his ability to play spin effectively. Openers are not necessarily that comfortable with the secrets of turning balls. But this eligible bachelor courts both seam and spin with equal elegance.

The Mumbai Indians must still be shaking the Pathan-effect off them. It is a pity that he ended up in the wrong end of presentation table.
But take heart, the IPL has just started. Expect more cameos from Pathan and Rayidu.
A word on Piyush Chawla. When an Indian Under-21 team came to play in Abu Dhabi some years ago, the team manager, Mr Nair, called a boy to him and told me: “Watch out for him!”

We have seen a fair bit of Chawla’s imagination with the ball. His vocation of a leg-spinner is a risky but enchanting one. The youngster has talent, but I don’t know the equations of selections yet.

I can only wish that if Prufrock could measure his life with coffee spoons, it’d be good if the selectors pick the team for talent than success represented by numbers.
Numbers leave no room for imagination. But sadly, numbers represent reality in terms of profit, salary, success.

Life also needs a fair measure of imagination and romance. After all, cricket is still a game, and a game is entertainment.
Watch more games, and appreciate, criticize and scream—Eye. Pee. Yell.

(Read Yentha.com)

Eye. Pee. Yell: IPL Reflections

Eye. Pee. Yell: We appreciate. We criticise. We scream.


Day One

KKR Does A Peter Who? Doohan


Who’s done it?
Dada?
Juhi?
Whatmore?

Whether it was the imaginative and spirited captaincy of Sourav Ganguly or the luck that Juhi Chawla had brought in with her or the silent tactics of Dave Whatmore, the victory of Kolkata Knight Riders over the defending champions Deccan Chargers has warmed the cockles of many KKR hearts.

The SRK boys had nearly lost the game. The DC had them on the mat.

But then it was the pull of Adam Gilchrist, the shot which has fetched buckets of runs for the Aussie, that began the pull-down. Gibbs followed the skipper with an equally thoughtless shot. Symmo found one from Ishant climbing on to him too quick for his comfort. The precocious talent of Rohit Sharma let down the DC chargers.

Before they realized, DC was in the dumps. Skipper Gilchrist said his team had the game in their pocket but chickened out when they should have just walked away with the game.

Though it isn’t an auspicious start for the champions, it is all too early to write something dull on the DC dashboard. They have the ammunition to fire back. After all, we all saw their turn-around in the last edition.

Heroism is contagious. One man’s monumental effort will inject some strange energy into others' veins. Their hearts begin to beat faster, their shoulders come up, heads rise, they pluck catches out of thin air, they dive with a Michael Phelps leap, they hit stumps with a darter’s precision, they run like Usain Bolt and hit the ball out of the park like Barry Bond.

Yes, it takes just one man to transform a whole team. Like one out-of-the-world innings from Kapil Dev at Trent Bridge Oval morphed an Indian team into world beaters some summers ago.
Ganguly hasn’t lost that little something that makes him tick as a players’ captain who can inspire a dull tail-ender to a Don Quixote.

He still can infuse some passion into the confused, labyrinthine veins of the Riders. He can marshal the team as a cohesive unit, especially with the significant absence of a towering, opinionated John Buchanan. Despite having an air of a snooty prince about him, Ganguly has that uncanny knack to take a game of cricket from the sophistication of Lord’s to dusty streets where the common man will own up the battle.

This is what Sourav can do to the team that has seen more ego clashes in the last two editions than accidents on the MG Road. Whether he can still heave his bat as effective as before or not, he can surely bring about a change in the team’s spirit to fight battles like the fights in school—no formulas of when and how to punch, but the crude spirit to fight—hit and hit back.

All that DC has to do is forget last night. But however they try, how they managed to let the match slip between their pocket and the ground will surely disturb them in these sultry days.

But if Gilchrist, Symmonds and Gibbs get cracking, no line of bowlers is good enough to bowl a dot ball. But then, three to explode in one match can be as rare as a blue moon. But if the DC batsmen continue to play such mindless strokes as they did against the Raiders, Gilchrist will have some serious issues to deal with.

Nothing substitutes application. Even in a game of T20 there will be little phases where one has to just keep his head down and pick up singles and twos. It is the beauty of the game, and it is where the dangers of the proverbial uncertainty of the game lie. If one fails to do what the situation demands, the elements of uncertainty take over.

The DC should have cantered home without hitting across the line. But then the ambience and aura of the opening ceremony might have warmed up the adrenalin and pushed them to attempt a Sehwag act. But Sehwags don’t happen just like that.

An upset is a good start for a tournament. Like the 1987 Wimbledon when two-time defending champion and the second-ranked player in the world Boris Becker was upset in the second round by a stranger named Peter Doohan, ranked 70. Such upsets create a flutter; an interest. Sadly, the Grand Slams don’t give a second chance to the players. One bad day, they are out of the fray. But tournaments like World Cups and leagues like IPL and EPL give the teams a few more chances to gather themselves from the shambles and fight back.

So unlike the sensational Becker who had to pack up his bag and leave the Wimbledon quietly, sinking his fans into despair, Gilchrist can forget the opening match and start the tournament afresh from the next game on.

Today’s first match, between Mumbai Indians and Rajasthan Royals, will be an interesting contest. In Sachin Tendulkar and Shane Warne we have two of the game’s biggest stars who respect each other, and under them there are some exciting talents.

The Mumbai Indians will be looking up to their skipper who is fresh on heels of his record-setting double hundred in ODIs. Adding to the batting firepower is the veteran powerhouse, Sanath Jayasuriya.

But I would like to see their new purchase, Ambati Rayidu (from ICL) do well. He was described as an exciting talent some years ago, but for reasons strange and unknown, he is yet to make an impression on the selectors. Having been picked up by the Indians means he has caught the eye of the Little Master.

For the Royals, Yousuf Pathan will be raring to go with heaps of runs in the last domestic season—highlighted by a century in each innings of the Duleep Trophy final which helped the West Zone successfully chase a record target.

He must get going, as Tendulkar will be chomping at the bit.


(Read Yentha.com)

The Visitor From Capital

The other day I had a call from Delhi. It was from an old friend. It’d been years since we last met.

He said he was coming to my city, which is his too. I said I’d pick him up from the airport at 10pm.

I had stayed with him in Delhi for a few days 15 years ago when he was a reporter with a national magazine.

It was his early days in mainstream journalism. His stories had just begun to get noticed. I still hadn’t got into the stream.

I had sold my bike, companion for some years, to go to Delhi in my pursuit to become a journalist of some standing.

But I didn’t want to struggle. So I booked myself in the then new and all-A/C Rajadhani Express and reached the capital with high hopes of becoming a cricket writer.

The friend was one of my contacts and persons to call out for in need. I met him in his office and waited till he finished his cover story on a plane crash.

He took me out of the office, and we walked along some dark streets catching up on our lost worlds. Then we got into a bus, and got down somewhere, then again we walked.

He asked me if I had any money on me. I had plenty in exchange of my Yamaha. He said he was starving and didn’t have money to eat. We had a reasonably good dinner. Resurrected, we walked further along lanes and by-lanes and reached where he stayed.
It was one of the smallest rooms I had slept in. All it had was a mattress, books, magazines and a growing pile of newspapers. We slept on the floor. The toilet was the dingiest I had ever used.

By the time I left him later that day, I had my doubts about my preparedness to go through the grind to become a cricket reporter.

A couple of days later, I had an appointment with a leading journalist and columnist from Kerala. He was staying somewhere near the AIIMS. I somehow found out his house. He was to become a powerful man later during the BJP reign. I told him the reference of a couple senior journalists in Kerala who were his friends.

He asked me a few questions which hastened my decision to book a ticket back home in Rajadhani itself.

“Have you read Cardus?” he asked, tucking his sleeveless, cotton pullover.

I said I hadn’t.

“John Arlott?”

No.

“Brian Johnston?”

No.

“Are you Sunil Gavaskar?”

I was offended. I looked at him.

“My boy, Mr Gavaskar is now reporting on cricket. And, you’d agree that none of us knows as much cricket as he knows. So do (Ravi) Shastri and (Bishen) Bedi. Who’d want to read what you write, you tell me?”

My heart cracked.

“You haven’t even read at least the biggest names in cricket writing. So how can you beat these former players and make people read what you write? You tell me.”

I had nothing to tell him. I had no intention to beat anyone.

My heart splintered.

I just wanted to get out of the house and ran into the street.

“Why don’t have something to eat?” I still don’t know whether the offer came from any largeness of his heart or from his obligation to his friends who sent me to him.

“You go back and read up all these writers and come back. I’ll place you somewhere.”

I just wanted to vanish.

I politely refused to eat from his house. I thought I’d never again have appetite in my life.

I hated Delhi. I hated the highhandedness of all the journalists. I took pity on my friend who was struggling, yet filing good stories.

Before I ran out of money, I booked myself on Rajadhani back to Trivandrum.

My friend has now made his mark as an investigative journalist and is high on the hunting list of all editors in the country. He has broken some of the noisiest stories that shook governments.

He has been shot at during the Kargil war; he has been to conflict areas where other journalists would dare to go only on well-guarded junkets; he has been handpicked by the best editors in the country, but he left each of them when more exciting doors showed up.

He was coming to the city to receive an award.

It was not difficult to pick him out from the crowd at the Arrival of the domestic terminal of Trivandrum Airport. He looked the same, except for a weather-hardened, hard-nosed look of a senior journalist. The slight stoop was there, the specs became more sophisticated, the down-to-earth approach still candid, and that uncanny knack of an investigative journalist to break the ice without much fuss still evident.

After his four vodkas and my three KFs, we drove up to the Thampanoor bus stand at one in the night. I had not been there so late in recent years. We piddled behind some hoardings, but with regret, repentance and a strong civic sense—there was no other way, and the bladder was threatening to burst like a bomb in a marketplace.
He wanted to go to his mother in Kollam, and got into a Super Fast that was going to Munnar. I drove back home high.

It was only when he called me from Delhi after a few days that I knew he hadn’t ended up in Munnar to dig something out for another sensational story.

And, I am back at my desk writing stories that’d interest no one and wouldn’t bring down any government.

Yes, I have read up Cardus, Arlott and other angels with same wings. I have chanced upon the Gavaskars and Shastris during my journey of no significance. I have shaken hands with the venerable old man of cricket, Richie Benaud. But they haven’t taken me anywhere. I am still by my desk, hoping to become a writer one day.

A writer who readers will read.

Keziah Turns Six

I still remember the day six years ago. It was at Baraha Hospital in Dubai. A friend of mine and I took turns to sleep in my car as Jeena was in the delivery room.
All night, the baby didn't come. It was the second night since Jeena was brought in.
In the morning more friends dropped in on their way to office in Bur Dubai.
The baby was considered a public property as all our friends were eagerly waiting for its arrival.

I just wanted to see its face. Only prayer was for a healthy baby.

By 8am, someone suggested that I should go and have my breakfast as it looked the baby would take more time to appear. I drove up to Annapoorna and had some lovely idli and vada--my only veg favourites.

I must have taken half an hour.

By the time I came back, there was no one where we had been waiting. I panicked. I ran into the hospital, and saw Annie Ammamma holding what looked like a bundle of fluffy joy.

That's it: Keziah Miriam Sabin had come into the world.

What a blessing! What a gift!

Someone asked me how I felt to be a father. Honestly, I didn't feel anything extra, or special. There was a kind of numbness.

I didn't have any paternal goose pimples looking at my baby. I didn't feel like top of the world looking at her face.

I was kind of resigned.

But the feeling of a father was later. When she began to grow into a cuddly little baby, I felt something like being a parent.

When he hummed her reply to my "Kezu" calls, I felt happy. I took her to my favourite Chinese restaurant when she was just six-month old and she was completely at home and had a few spoons of sweet corn chicken soup.
It was her baptism by soup. Ever since Keziah has been my friend and companion to visit various malls and restaurants.

These days she comes upto me and asks if we could just go out and have something from the Subway or the food court at the Technopark. Or, she just wants to roam around or go for a drive.

Sometimes I regret getting her used to all this, but then she has been my friend in my loneliness till I got back my soul-mate. Well, that's another story.

Today Keziah turns six.
Six years of parenting? I can't believe. I am sure I have not been the best Papa, but then out of my insecurity I keep asking her if she loves me. She gets so bugged and comes and gives me a half-hearted kiss on my cheeks and goes back to watch Mr Bean.

Her brother, Sean, the cry boy, has of late picked up his sister's liking for malls and Subways. But the poor boy cannot have ice creams or anything cold.

The injured look on his face when Keziah slurps down vanilla ice cream is a sight to behold!

To YOU, thank you for being with me this time. It matters a lot. A lot.

The Meeting

I could hear the pounding sounds of my own heart. It beat fast and hard. After all, it was all to do with the heart.

I drove on, took turns as I was instructed, and turned left. The atmosphere inside the car was thick with expectation.

Expectation? We last saw 18 years ago—over seven thousand days ago--when both of us were young and brittle. Full of laughter and colours.

And, we were meeting again that day.

Times have changed, people have changed, relationships have changed, seasons have changed, but our love…
No it hasn’t. It has only changed in form—it has only grown in intensity and maturity. Few of our old college mates and class mates could believe that we still love each other. Most of our friends had lost their love sometime somewhere on the way. And, no one complained. That’s the way life is.

But our love…
Our love is like a loose kite that has gone astray in a wild wind but has come back years later with the same colours and gusto to find both of us still standing under that big gulmohar, gazing at the brilliant blue expanse and depth of the sky—expecting.

It is like a boxer, knocked down but refusing to throw in the towel. Or like a cockroach that survives a series of ruthless kicks. Or like God’s grace—manifold and eternal.

I was to be blamed for our separation. I ran away from challenges and now I don’t know what else was there. But I walked away, without ever loving her less.

There were times in the past 18 years when I wondered where she would be—there was a longing to see her again. But then I was afraid of her reaction. I was sure she hated me for my callous way of treating her.

Even though I wanted to see her—meet her—I didn’t have the spleen (heart, yes) to face her. As David cries out to God in Psalm 51—my sin (wrong) is always against her, and I deserved any punishment that she’d call for.

At times my eyes searched for her in the colourful crowds of women and families coming out of a church on Sundays. Since I didn’t know where she was, she could be anywhere. When cars with drove past mine in city traffic, I kept an eye out. Perhaps, in one of them she could be laughing out her signature loud laughter, filling the air with joy and happiness.

But then do I deserve some loving looks or an acknowledgment from her? Even if she cut me dead or looked through me I couldn’t complain.

But when I realized that she is incapable of hating me, or, she cannot have any other feeling towards me than pure love, all I could was cry. Cry loud and long alone in my study upstairs.

Her love found me when I was about to be lost in life. Her love came searching for me before I could run away further from another set of challenges.

One call, and 18 years melted away. One word, the 18 years of silence and pain and loneliness broke.

We realized all we have for each other is love nothing but pure, unselfish, refined love.

No one would be able to understand. No one could relate.

But that doesn’t matter. All my life I’ve tried to be a good one—trying to impress and live by the code of conduct. But it doesn’t matter at all.

So we were meeting that day.

I drove past some thick foliage of leaves--that of rubber, teak and coffee.
She called up and said she could hear the sound of my car and that she was standing after the turn.

As I took the turn, my good Lord, I saw her—first time in nearly 20 years. She was standing there with the best smile I’d ever seen, and was gesturing for a lift. My hitch hiker! My girl! My love!

Before our hands could hold each others, our hearts jumped out of us and hugged right on the road.

It was the most magical moment in my life. I couldn’t believe neither my eyes nor the fact that we had met.

Nature around us changed. All of a sudden the place had become a garden—birds chirped melodies, plants bloomed colours, a dreamy breeze wafted fragrance.

We drove on, not knowing where to. We stopped in between to look into each other’s eyes. Tears rolled down our cheeks. We ran our fingers on each other’s face to make sure it was real.

There was so much love, so much caring and so much passion.
We held hands, we laughed, we kept looking at each other.

We drove on, not seeing the road, people and the places around. We floated around for two hours. We hummed songs, touched the fingertips, breathed in lungful of each other’s fragrance.

Oh, how I wished if time could stand still! Two hours went by in a flash. She said she had to go, though she wanted to stay forever.

How we wished if life could be this one journey and we could drive on till the very end—nothing to stop, nothing in between!

It was the best of all meetings; it was the most magical of all reunions.

It was my best dream come true, till I woke up and realised it was still a dream!