Red Curry and Green Earth

Midnight's Children of Bangalore

2012-02-13T14:15:00.006+05:30

Friends,

This is my latest initiative. While my context is Bangalore, I suppose you'll relate to the theme in other Indian cities as well.

Midnight's Children of Bangalore

Do spread the word. We might be able to bring together different aspects such as law and order, lifestyle, employment opportunities and harmony. Your feedback is valuable as always.

2012 will rock

2012-01-11T04:03:00.005+05:30

Time for my random musings for the new year.

Let me begin with Kun Faya Kun. I tuned into the song quite late; however, I've been making amends by listening to it 20 times or more each day. I'm beginning to think that Rahman took every other step in his journey so that he can keep delivering Sufi songs to us. Had he not, at a young age, found new energy in a spiritual guide who followed Sufism, would his music have found its strength? And how much would modern Indian music have lost in the process?
The phrase Kun Faya Kun is straight from the Quran. It means: "Be. And it is." In the holy book, this phrase alludes to the power of God to will the universe into existence merely by imagining it. But perhaps there's another meaning here: that we - by which I mean puny humans like you and I - too can create any result in our lives merely by declaring our resolve to do so. In other words, we're prophets, all of us, and every time we generate a thought and back it up with actions, we will achieve the desired results. Perhaps that's one of the reasons we're supposed to seek the divine amongst our fellow beings. We may never know if we're made in His image, but we've been given the power to lead our dream lives.
Kun Faya Kun.

Half an hour before my plane descended into Bhubhaneswar, we crossed the Eastern ghats. From 36000 feet above MSL, I saw a veil of morning mist lift itself off a hoary series of mountains, each resembling the other to a shocking degree, as if seen from the proper vantage point, the world has a perfect design. No human eye can punch a hole in this tapestry, apparently.
Below me, to my immediate east, I also saw a cloud cover so uniform and vast that it looked like the salt pans of the Rann of Kutch. On this soft feathery bed of altocumulus clouds (I'm guessing), I could see shadows of cirrocumulus clouds that were hovering far above it. God, it seemed, had breakfasted well this Tuesday morning and was in the mood to create beauty and tranquillity.
The same evening, I heard on TV that Cyclone Thane was all set to hit the eastern coast. Landfall was supposed to be on the southern tip of AP. As it turned out, Puducherry and Cuddalore were the worst hit. I couldn't help but think about the tsunami. More specifically, I thought of the forlorn look worn by NH-45A from Puducherry all the way to Thirukkadaiyur. And the devastation that I witnessed in the village of Kuttiandiyur was something else altogether. Brr.
Let's move on to happy thoughts this new year.

Have you ever had chenna poda? If you've even heard of this dish, chances are that you'd have also heard an Oriya passionately claim ownership of that prince amongst sweets - the Rosagulla. If you thought the sweet originated in West Bengal, this article will make you think again:
Kling Canoes At Tamralipta
It's written by a Sengupta. And endorsed by another Sengupta (my friend Pat). And since two knowledgeable Bengalis have accepted that the Oriyas invented the sweet, I now consider the matter closed :P
Why this neither-here-nor-there topic? Because my daughter is half-Oriya and I must get ultra-familiar with elements that constitute the Oriya pride. And believe you me, a typical Oriya would sooner disown the Kalinga empire than lose ownership of the Rosagulla!
Incidentally, I feel distraught that my daughter's best friend will relocate to Mumbai for the next academic year. Must our children experience such a loss at such a young age? Anyway, happy thoughts. I clicked a lot of pics of the two girls together. Perhaps in the advanced digital age, they'd reconnect 20 years later and be more connected than today.

Did you hear about all the hoopla surrounding Sachin's 100th ton? You did? Well, that's because our performance Down Under has been dismal and we don't have much else to talk about. Had we performed superbly, well in that case, things would be different - we'd then hear about all the hoopla surrounding Sachin's 100th ton. What? That's just the same? Huh. How about that?
By the way, anybody wants to bet on another miraculous win at Perth?

Finally, let me describe a hypothetical scenario:
Suppose you're leading a project. A few people are assisting you in its implementation. You're allowed to make use of their skills, but you have been given no power to dominate them. No matter how badly they fare, you cannot blame them, get angry at them, put them down or bribe them. In other words, you can offer them neither carrots nor sticks. All you can do is be there for them, keep working with them and ask them, through your actions, to reconsider their attitudes even as you reconsider yours. End of the day, if you fail to produce results, your boss will ask you why you failed to inspire them.
Does this model sound too harsh? Does it have too many constraints?
Well, if you lead your life the way you're asked to lead this project, it will become extraordinary. It's just an idea. I'm requesting you to chew on it.

Have a fantabulous 2012, everybody. This year is gonna rock.

A mystical eclipse

2011-12-11T19:34:00.010+05:30

Yesterday, thanks to a last-minute invite from a friend, I experienced a magical evening that was Ruhaniyat. (Details available here.)
As the moon slowly disrobed its earthly shadow, I sat down to enchanting music, unable to decide what was casting a deeper spell - the music or the moon.

The evening began with a Kashmiri group, led by Abdul Rashid Hafiz, singing devotional songs that effortlessly blended Kashmiri and Sanskrit words. The one about Meera complaining to Krishna that she doesn't get enough of his time and attention was superb and filled with surprises such as the ticklish presence of the word soundarya in an otherwise wholesome Sufi melody. But I soon began expecting "unusual" words. After all, language is to music what religion is to spirituality - irrelevant!

The second group of performers was from Alandi in Maharashtra and led by Avdhoot Gandhi. I revisited my childhood in an attempt to catch the untranslated meaning of the three songs they sung. I more or less succeeded in this endeavour, finding myself moved by the suggestion that we need knowledge to distil the divine within ourselves, just like we need knowledge to extract butter from milk and sugar from sugarcane. Interestingly, Gandhi's lineage can be traced back to Sant Dhyaneshwar himself. Talk about pedigree endorsing performance!

The third group of performers infused the evening with a dose of high-octane energy. This group of Khans (led by Shakur Khan) hailed from Rajasthan. The standout performer, for me at least, was Daevo Khan playing the Khadtal. The instrument demands movements not unlike using a stapler in an angry mood. At first, I was reminded of shirtless kids in the Belapur-Kurla local trains who would click filmy melodies out of two pieces of ceramic tiles. I now know that the genesis of those tiles is the Khadtal which, in the hands of an artist like Daevo Khan, is mesmerizing. This man demonstrated the process by which Man and Craft merge together. Apparently all that's required is to develop a mad relationship with the art form and also the ability to stay in the moment. Khan's jugalbandi with the dholak player whetted my appetite for more. Perhaps we'll see this man on a larger stage soon, bonding with the best percussionists in the world.

I confess to zoning out when the next performer - Parvathy Baul - came on stage. I'm still trying to figure out why this happened. Perhaps the subtlety of this music form was lost on me after the energetic performance of Rajasthanis (who, I forgot to mention, also sang a Baba Bulleh Shah song). Perhaps I and my friends began talking shop at this point. I started paying attention again only when Ms Baul, who was performing in a trance-like state, was distracted by the discordant toot of a passing train.

After the Baul came the whirling dervishes from Turkey. And since the hostess explained the ritualistic dance before it began, one could make enough sense to feel wonderment.
As the universe and everything in it revolves, so do the dervishes. But always in the counter clockwise direction - that way, they're circling the heart and thus embracing love. I also learnt that the dervishes always point to the skies with the open palm of their right hands even as their left hands form arches pointing to the earth. In this way, they're collecting blessings from God and distributing them amongst the mortals.
It was a good debut for me in the world of dervishes. I'm still wondering whether the powder that was sprinkled on the stage floor before the performance had any ethereal meaning. Or was that just showmanship?

Finally, the qawwals from Jaipur, led by Shameen and Nayeem Ajmeri, took the stage. What followed were three spirited qawwalis that, time and again, touched upon secularism. During one interjection, Nayeem Ajmeri spoke about the non-duality of the human condition, about commonalities that cannot be dissolved by religion. His nonchalant reference to Ka'aba-Kashi and other such beautiful word-pairs touched my heart. The final memory of the evening was of Shameen Ajmeri reproducing the sounds of ghungroos using his mouth and tongue.

Before revving back home, I took a final peek at the moon. It was clear as a limpid pool. The soulful prayers performed at Jayamahal Palace had cured it of all earthly influences. Or so I'd like to believe.

In Treatment

2011-11-18T01:34:00.005+05:30

A phlegmatic therapist. An agitated patient. A none-too-sunny room. Three to four cameras. And an unwavering exploration of the human mind via memories, impressions and emotions. Has television ever been so compelling?

After watching three seasons of In Treatment almost non-stop, I'm willing to swear that the Israelis know how to create drama using minimalism. And I feel grateful that the Americans adapted this Israeli television series, put an intense Irish actor at the centre of it and made the concept sing.

Throughout the week, Dr Paul Weston (portrayed by Daniel Byrne) plays the dutiful therapist, concerned with the welfare of each of his patients, struggling to understand their motivations, aching to help them find happiness. But if any of his patients try to find out who he is, he becomes obtuse. If that doesn't work, he deflects their questions. That's when the viewer realizes that not all is well in the inner world of Dr Weston. And when he visits his own therapist over the weekend, the viewer realizes that he is a veritable mess. He has neither resolved his past nor considered his future. He is completely lost, just like most of us. But that doesn't stop him from practising his profession with the utmost sincerity. And one feels for his situation. He must combat an unhappy childhood and address his pugnacious attitude towards his parents. Moreover, he must come to terms with a failed marriage, a disastrous love affair and partial alienation from his own children. Paul Weston is as lonely as a human being can be. But Dr Weston is an engaging professional. And as he helps his patients come to terms with themselves, as he helps them close their loops, one cannot but feel admiration for the man behind the mask.

It's a pity this series is being aborted by the studio. Why can't we see Paul Weston complete his journey of self-realization and evolution? Can't we leave him in a state of contentment?
Perhaps some loops are meant to be interpreted and closed by ourselves, in a proactive manner. The ultimate lesson of In Treatment is that, perhaps, we must find our own joyous resolutions.

The Big Bang Theory

2011-11-17T15:05:00.004+05:30

Since there is such a thing as antimatter, there must exist an anti-Sheldon Cooper somewhere in the universe. But what will the anti-Sheldon Cooper be like? What's the opposite of a man-child who is exasperating yet lovable, insulting yet dependent, dismissive yet obliging, brilliant yet naive? When you throw a bundle of contradictions at the universe, will it not throw another back at you?
Well, since I'm neither a theoretical physicist nor a philosopher, I don't have to ponder over this conundrum. I can simply sit back, absorb the revelry that is The Big Bang Theory and enjoy Sheldon Cooper without dissecting him. And that's exactly what I've been doing for four years. Enjoying Jim Parsons' portrayal of Dr Sheldon Cooper. And applauding his two Emmys (although I also feel that Steve Carell and Alec Baldwin equally deserved the honour).

Lest we forget, TBBT isn't just about SC, although it can often appear to be so. It's about four geeks with a contrarian blonde thrown into the mix. As the characters take life, we learn that geekdom isn't a land of homogeneity. Geeks come in their own distinct flavours. They can be clumsy, starry-eyed, soft-hearted and aspiring for "normalcy" (like Leonard Hofstadter, the primary protagonist played by Johnny Galecki). Or they can be habitually vulgar, clinging to their umbilical cords and intimidated (like Howard Wolowitz, as played by Simon Helberg). Or they could be terrified of women, culturally-confused and made obnoxious by alcohol (like Rajesh Koothrapalli, played by Kuldip Nayar). What's the commonality in these characters? They're all insecure and desperate for a form of love they can relate to.
Enter the blonde. A no-nonsense young woman from the Mountain Time Zone, seeking to travel the magical Hollywood journey from being a waitress to becoming an actress.
Thus we have the makings of a character-driven comedy with endless possibilities. Explaining TBBT, therefore, becomes an exercise akin to explaining how to swim. Eventually, you have to take the plunge and let the water teach you.

If you're a novice to this sitcom, just listen to the title song rendered by Barenaked Ladies. The lyrics of the song remind us that we're all humans, no matter where we come from. And we're in this cosmic adventure together. When we were Neanderthals, we built tools. We then built the pyramids and the Wall. There is no mention of Africa, Egypt and China. It's WE who moved forward. And WE are here because 14 billion years ago, there was a Big Bang.
'Nuff said.

How I met your mother

2011-11-17T03:38:00.006+05:30

There's a Ted Mosby in all of us. Well, not so much if one's marriage takes the BharatMatrimony route instead of match.com. Even in this disconnect, the common desire to find true love unifies us. We may marry the propah caste girl/boy with wheatish complexion, but we must eventually fall in love with her/him in order to be happy.
That's the premise of How I met your mother. The narrator of the sitcom is an older Ted Mosby (voiceover rendered by Bob Saget) and he somehow finds it necessary to share gory details of his past with his adolescent children. And, no, he will not jump straight to the episode of how he met their mother. He must tell them about the thousand frogs he kissed along the way.
Focal interest in the theme is generated by the endearing optimism of Mosby (played by Josh Radnor). This guy just won't give up till he has croacked out the bitter bile off of all his frogs in Manhattan. Great support is lent by Marshall (good-natured, child-like, mid-Western, monogamous), Lily (Marshall's wife, therefore monogamous, fiesty, control freak) and Robin (Canadian, goofy, emotionally unavailable). But the breakout character is Barney Stintson, played by Neil Patrick Harris whom people of my generation will remember as the overachieving child-prodigy of a doctor in Doogie Howser MD. Barney is a messiah of superficiality and casual sex. There are no frogs in his life. Just princesses on whom he casts a spell for one night. Harris' performance is all the more commendable because he's gay in real life. Kissing all those dumb princesses on screen must take some doing, I suppose. I, for one, can't kiss a dude for all the tadpoles in the world.

As always, I feel that the guest female actors are better looking than the heroines. Barring that, it's a wonderfully inventive comedy that refuses to follow a linear notion of time during most episodes. Situations are revisited multiple times with new insights and/or variations. The drama in each moment is therefore squeezed dry, much like the way our vendors treat sugarcane.
The only reason How I met your mother should remind one of Friends is that both sitcoms depict a dysfunctional, co-dependent group of friends. Otherwise, the genders are treated equally and the characters are allowed to enact some scenes in the open air, allowing for a more free-flowing narrative structure.

And for God's sakes, I'd like to know how Mosby eventually meets his children's mother. We already know so many things about this mysterious lady that I feel the desire to recreate her in my own imagination. I just hope she isn't the Slutty Pumpkin.

Two and a Half Men

2011-11-17T02:07:00.010+05:30

Have you heard about the fable of the Ant and the Grasshopper? No, not the version in Aesop's Fables fed to children in order to scare them into a mould. I mean the version written by William Somerset Maugham. Using the same metaphorical characters and reversing their destinies, Maugham asks a simple question: do sincerity and hard work really deliver an agreeable winter? Paraphrasing, the question becomes: is the carefree grasshopper privy to a secret of the universe that has eluded the industrious ant?
It's a powerful question that challenges our pre-conceived notions about the nature of Life. Chuck Lorre - the Executive Producer of this and other sitcoms I've come to love - takes this reversed fable and delivers it with panache in Two and a Half Men.

At first glance, the format of the sitcom seems self-limiting. After all, it has only three primary characters. The first is Alan Harper - the hardworking chiropractor - representing the Ant. Secondly, there's Alan's dim-witted, gluttonous son Jake Harper who seems destined to remain half a man. And finally, we have the central character - Charlie Harper, Alan's elder brother - representing the Grasshopper.
And what a fabulous grasshopper he is. Charlie goes through life smelling of conditioner and bourbon. He barely does an ounce of work but owns a beach-house in Malibu, California. Gorgeous women fall on his lap like his birthright. And it never occurs to him that it's sinful to follow-up a 14-hour snooze with a liquor-soaked nap. Charlie is vain and shallow, and given the influence of his equally vain and shallow mother, too afraid to contemplate lasting happiness. To his credit, he redeems himself with his generosity and honesty.
Alan, on the other hand, has the irresistible urge to do the right thing. But when his wife kicks him out of his own home, he has no option but to seek refuge with Charlie. Alan both loves and resents his older brother, which provides plenty of comic fodder over the years. He blunders along as he watches Charlie saunter through a meadow of artificial tranquillity.
Neither brother is emotionally equipped to, when required, confront a woman, be it the alpha female housekeeper (Berta) or Charlie's stalker (Rose) or even Alan's vengeful first wife (Judith). Alan cowers into submission while Charlie escapes wherever he can. In this recurring theme, one discovers a hidden dimension of the sitcom: the evolving gender equation. The genders, it appears, have no meeting point. And Charlie must determine why this is so. He must navigate a labyrinth of neural landmines in order to find true love.

As always, drama in the real word accentuates the make-believe world. Despite the fact that Charlie Harper is played by the real-life brat Charlie Sheen, one finds the character alluring. Perhaps even more so.

I myself was disgusted by my first viewing of this sitcom. I couldn't understand why such a frivolous program was garnering top ratings in the Western world. And then I went through a phase of life wherein I began identifying with very many aspects of Charlie Harper's existence. For instance, an Indian writer-freelancer's routine can be remarkably similar to that of a Malibu grasshopper. As other parallels made themselves evident, I found within me a veritable dark-skinned facsimile of Charlie Harper. Along with that discovery came the desire to be released from the archetype.
Like Charlie, I wanted to escape an abyss of my own creation. And like him, I'm inching towards that goal.

A sitcom round-up

2011-11-17T01:36:00.006+05:30

Apologies for the prolonged hiatus, especially to my mysterious readers from Russia, Latvia, Canada, Australia, the Netherlands, Germany, Nigeria and Belize. You hit my blog on a regular basis, but I have no idea who you are. I wish I did. Anyway, thanks for your interest and silent support.
Why have I been away? Well, I've been on a journey of self-discovery. If that isn't enough of a cliche, I must add that I took one small step this weekend and found my soul taking a giant leap towards sanity. I've looked long and hard at myself and have arrived at some rather unflattering conclusions. Remedial steps are being taken as of now and a better world seems within grasp. With that deliberately cryptic assertion, let me get to the point.

The makeover I'm attempting will require me to cut down on my indulgence in American sitcoms. I'll still sniff in the occasional episode of jest, especially when I need a lighter moment to survive the seemingly choppy sea of Life, but I think I'm done being a worshipper of this modern-age art form.

However, before I call it quits, I feel compelled to document my reflections on each sitcom that has moved me in the past 4.5 years. I will swerve away from this obsession with sitcoms just once, in order to explore a dramatic series called In Treatment.

So the next few posts may not be to the liking of all my readers. Sorry about that. All I can say is that I wouldn't have survived the previous phase of my Life without sitcoms and I want my blog to acknowledge that. And since I'll be reverting to my usual fare of politics, society etc, I hope my regular readers will find it in their hearts to forgive this detour.

Stay tuned please.

A single Cook spoils the broth

2011-10-24T05:09:00.005+05:30

A kinder assessment might pass on some of the blame to coach Andy Flower. But Captain Cook (Alastair, not James) deserves to go first in front of the firing squad. After all, he's used to the opening salvo!
Some of Cook's decision that have baffled me are:
1) Dropping Bell. Seriously? There are some players who react to Indian bowling like Popeye to spinach. Bell is one of them. He's a veteran of subcontinental conditions and has the temperament to belong to any international side. And yet, Bell has been warming the bench while the English middle-order has floundered.
On the other hand, I easily relate to Cook's faith in Bairstow. In the final ODI in Cardiff a few weeks ago, young Jonny whipped us senseless during a difficult run chase. The future belongs to him. Extrapolating, Cook decided: so does the present. Fine. But can't Bell replace some other bloke? Consider what happened in Wankhede yesterday. Samit Patel, primarily a plump spinner reminiscent of the Bedi era, was given just 1.1 overs to bowl on a slow-turning track. Which means that Cook doesn't have too much faith in his bowling, but finds him good enough to bat at number 6, ahead of Bairstow (as in the 3rd ODI). Yeah, yeah, with a pinch of salt, one might call Patel a pinch-hitter. Does that make him a better batsman than Bell? (I roll my eyes.)

2) Dropping Swann. This was a howler. If I'm the captain and the match is being held in the anti-spin Paradise, I'd still choose Swann over any other spinner currently playing the game. Forget his superior skill and 50-kilo weight advantage. I'd choose him solely for his chutzpah. The entertainment value of his press interviews are second only to Virender Sehwag's. He speaks his mind on and off the field. You might occasionally decode his bowling, but you'll never break his spirit.

3) His field placements. Cook has personified the adage bolting the stable door after the horse has bolted. The first slip is put in place after the new batsman has tentatively edged one to third-man. The legside has two fielders inside the 30-yard circle when the bowler is attempting a middle-and-leg line. An inside-out field comes into play long after the batsmen have settled into a groove. This list of unimaginative field placements is endless.

4) His decision to bat first at Feroz Shah Kotla. Hey, Cookie, here's a tip: check the ground stats before the match. Also, be aware that you're in the northern hemisphere and even sultry autumnal Delhi will produce dew in the evenings. Anyway, you won't forget that massive defeat in a hurry.

I end with my latest FB update that, I feel, summarizes the voyage of Captain Cook:
He didn't allow the Bell to toll. He found the Swann impure. Perhaps he'll banish the Barmy Army next. This Cook sure knows how to spoil the English broth.
To borrow Boycott's words, his captaincy is uotter rooubish.

2011-09-20T15:16:00.000+05:30

Happy Birthday to the love of my life.

The importance of being intolerant

2011-09-14T16:35:00.003+05:30

Ten years have passed since that sunny, temperate morning in Milwaukee. Seems like another lifetime. I revisited it last night by writing about my post-9/11 experiences in America. You'll find it here.

I find that I've gained a broader outlook on the event and its repurcussions.

The meaning of zameen

2011-09-07T17:59:00.004+05:30

It's a question that haunts me. What does land mean to us? Can we not form a more sustainable relationship with it? Also, who should be the primary stakeholders of a piece of land? You'll find the article here.

As the economy redefines land, mofussil India has been transformed beyond recognition. Some might say it benefited. Others argue that it has lost its soul. I suppose the cost-benefit analysis will throw up mixed responses.
Meanwhile, the "meaning of zameen" must be determined urgently. Just can't move along like this, can we?

Will the real Manmohan Singh please stand up?

2011-09-01T02:57:00.001+05:30

That's this week's article. You'll find it here.As usual, I struggled to squeeze all I wanted to say and ended up chopping a few angles. Like the paradox of being the clean leader of the dirtiest government in Indian history.Also, I'm nonplussed by the number of friend requests I'm getting on FB from people I don't know. These are people who've read my blog posts. And they don't even include a line of introduction/context in their friendship request. How is one supposed to respond? And wouldn't LinkedIn be a better forum for such requests?Anyway, the next hot topic - perhaps a fad - in Indian politics is Right to Recall. It's interesting if nothing else.As always, I look forward to your feedback and wish you well.

Travails of an English summer

2011-08-24T16:26:00.003+05:30

That's the title of my latest article. You'll find it here.

Unfortunately, they haven't retained the spacing/lettering formats a play requires. Hence doesn't read so well on an HTML page.

Take care.

Appetite for change

2011-08-20T16:38:00.002+05:30

Friends,

The Lokpal, the Annasaheb Hazare super-phenomenon and this small thing called the civilian movement. Those are the themes of my latest article.

Are the change-makers here to stay?

It was a challenge writing it mainly because there's so much to write about. I had to keep chopping for hours. My editors in Dawn are already kind enough to accept 1300-word articles even though the word limit is 800. I try not to test their patience :)
But I wish I could have mentioned how thrilled I am that whole new generations are hearing the name of Jayaprakash Narayan. I've been pissed off on a couple of occasions when usually well-informed friends asked, 'JP, who?' Hopefully, fewer people will ask that question now.

Anyway, time to meet an old friend. Ta-ta and have a great weekend.

Why do we enjoy an ailing Britain?

2011-08-11T17:02:00.004+05:30

This is the title of my latest article in Dawn, which you'll find here.

Having written it, I now wonder if this will prove to be my most misunderstood article yet. I hope not.

Really random thoughts

2011-08-05T16:17:00.005+05:30

My latest post on the Dawn blog is about Dhoni's individual form.
Bring back the helicopter shot
As an aside, I feel compelled to mention that I'm grateful to Sachin for not scoring a token century at Trend Bridge. Such an event would have made our media go ga-ga over the "hundred 100s" milstone. Someone would have had to pinch the anchors and ask, 'What about the defeat?' To which they'd have responded, 'What defeat? Oh, er, of course. The defeat. What about it?'
As my friend Pat points out, the issue isn't the attention Sachin gets. It's the manner in which the feats of others are belittled in the process. Had Dravid and Laxman played in another era, maybe we'd have learnt to appreciate their genius. Which brings me to another emphatic statement Pat made: 'Nobody must open their mouth anymore about Dravid's retirement. He must be allowed to play as long as he wants.' Well said, Pat.

I'm halfway through Madhulika Liddle's The Englishman's cameo. It's yet another book that has not received the attention it deserves. We as a nation seem hell bent on celebrating badly written books. The good ones find quiet spots in musty libraries to bury themselves in.

Meanwhile, I'm glad that July has ended. This July rivalled the July of 2007 in its ability to inflict pain. For the better part of the month, I felt displaced from myself. The body too caved in, and I was forced to visit a doctor for the first time in perhaps 5 years. Viral flu, it turned out to be. The situation offered me a glimpse of the future. Me cooped up at home, all alone, waiting for my cook to arrive so that I could have some warm soup. As luck would have it, Senthil and Simona were visiting me during this time. So I wasn't all alone all the time. But since I was not working, I kept thinking about Risha. Resultantly, I kept fuming about how unfair the world really is. And, also, how unfair one person can be to another. What surprised me was that, during a discussion about my past, I found myself defending this person whose position is becoming increasingly indefensible by the day. Somebody better teach me how to fall out of love. Fast. Right now, I feel the need for some meaningful, well-directed anger. You know, I used to have the knack of getting angry in a jiffy. What has happened to me?
Another fallout of my flu is that my training regimen has come to an abrupt end. I hope to get back to my cardio and light-weights workouts soon. As of now, it's not happening.

July ended well, though. For the past 10 days, I've been writing well. An average of 3000 words a day. So my long-term assignment is progressing well, the articles in Dawn have resumed and I have enough gas left in the tank to consider additional copywriting assignments. As always, my ability to produce - which defines me - has put me in a better frame of mind. My parents are in town, too. Bachpan ka khana awaits me at every meal. And the only woman who is willing to love me unconditionally is around to chat and laugh. It's almost too good to be true.

The city is on the right hand side of my apartment complex. But a right turn is disallowed when we exit the gates because the break in the divider is around 10 m away. My solution is to ride on the wrong side for 10 m and then cross the legal break in the divider. I don't quite like the alternative of riding an extra 200 m to the left and 200 m back each time. And I have, what I feel, is a sound reason for this. By not riding the extra (400-20) = 380 m, I save quite a bit of fuel. So breaking the rule is the greener option. Of course, one must ensure that one is not blocking the oncoming traffic and one does not terrorize the pedestrians. And herein lies the clincher - as of today, the traffic is light enough for a 2-wheeler to negotiate the 10 m without causing anybody any harm or delay. Were the traffic situation to change, the wrong option no longer remains the green option - I might spend just as much fuel revving my engine and waiting for the traffic to clear.
What I'm trying to say is that I feel comfortable and far from guilty in turning the wrong way. Because I'm not the kind of guy to jump red lights etc. I break this particular law because I see merit in breaking it. But what do you think? Can environmental concerns override civic laws? And is it alright for individuals to make such judgment calls?

Whew!
I always feel weird when I write about personal issues on my blog. In this case, I guess I wanted to have a conversation, aloud, with myself. I don't know why.

Take care everybody, and I hope your August is looking pretty good.

A messy basement and a clean penthouse?

2011-07-18T17:53:00.002+05:30

As expected, the representatives of the government and civil society have plenty of outstanding issues that threaten to derail the debate and perhaps stall the Lokpal Bill. I hope we reach some meaningful middle ground. And just as the civil society representatives strive to give teeth to the Lokpal, I hope the governmhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifent representatives ensure that a new constitutional monster is not created out of this office of hope.
In the article below, I don't deal with the pitfalls... I've restricted myself to just one point: how can we allow the minions of the government to be excluded from the ambit of the Lokpal?

A messy basement and a clean penthouse?

As usual, I look forward to hearing your views. Hope you're doing well.

Mumbai meri jaan

2011-07-15T22:29:00.002+05:30

Few places are as enchanting as one's childhood home. No food can taste as delicious as a childhood treat.
The world of terror is taking my home for granted. It's treating itself to evil grins. All I'm doing right now is writing about it.

Mumbai meri jaan

I choose to be satirical because I thought it could highlight the issues involved better. What do you think?

Where's the Caribbean Calypso?

2011-07-01T14:24:00.003+05:30

Friends,

My latest post on Dawn is on the legacy and current state of WI cricket.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

Where's the Caribbean Calypso?

I wanted to write a lot more. Stuff like how the WI cricketers cannot use nationalistic pride to motivate themselves. Playing for a loose confederacy probably won't have the same intensity as playing for one's national side. This is especially true because most of the Caribbean nations have strong individual identities.
When I asked a Trinidadian friend why a Caribbean dish was named the "Jamaican Jerk Chicken", she said, 'I don't know, dear. Probably because they have so many jerks over there, believe you me!'
That was banter. Sometimes, the identities can escalate banter into animosity. Now imagine: the WI players from "opposite" sides are expected to share a dressing room and work towards common goals. If they find an able leader like Clive Lloyd, they can create magic. If not, there can be unresolved issues.

Anyway, hoping to see exciting Caribbean cricket in the near future. I hope this decade belongs not to one dominant team but to many equally-matched ones.

Tracking the cosmic rhythm

2011-06-10T15:22:00.007+05:30

In 1992, as I was about to embark on a 24-hour train journey to seek admission in an engineering college in Chennai, a kind friend gave me his threadbare walkman and a cassette tape of Roja.
‘But I don’t listen to Tamil music,’ I told him haughtily.
‘Maybe it’s time you did,’ he replied, bidding me adieu.
Throughout that journey, I spent my meagre “train allowance” on batteries. I skipped a meal, endured the shocks that the semi-naked wires the headphone gave me and, to the annoyance of my fellow travellers, insisted on singing tunelessly along with the melody playing between my ears. Two things were happening. One: I was rediscovering Tamil film music. And two: I was discovering the genius of a young debutant composer named A. R. Rahman.
For the next four years, followers of Bollywood heard the hand-me-down versions of Rahman’s compositions while I smugly enjoyed the pristine Tamil versions of the same songs. All that changed in 1995 with the release of Rangeela.

And now, we finally have the maestro's story from his own mouth, thanks to a newly released book titled A. R. Rahman: The spirit of music by Nasreen Munni Kabir.
Here's my review of the book on Dawn:

Tracking the cosmic rhythm

If you're a Rahman fan too, hark back!

Najam Sethi and the Indian electronic media

2011-06-03T12:59:00.003+05:30

I introspected, wrote with feeling, recalibrated my words, soaked them in linseed oil and finally decided to let them go. Here's my latest article in Dawn Online. It's about the Indian electronic media and a Pakistani phenomenon called Najam Sethi.

Belligerence with a mission

This piece was written before Saleem Shahzad was brutally tortured and murdered by the Dark Side that thrives inside Pakistan. It's awe-inspiring that Pakistani journalists keep writing bravely, despite such terrible consequences. I saluted Sethi in this article, but in reality, that salute goes out to every Pakistani journalist of his ilk.

Living in the present continuous

2011-05-18T02:47:00.007+05:30

Alright, we've all heard about it. Life is bliss in the present continuous.
Time is a ruthless master. It haunts us with memories from the past and threatens us with the uncertainties of the future. But there's a way to subdue this tyrant. Forget the past, don't worry about the future. Just focus on this tiny moment passing you by. Milk it for all it's worth. Make it count. Easier said than done, eh?

Sportspersons are, I think, naturally acquainted with the concept of the present continuous. They call it "being in the zone." Imagine commandeering a F1 car around a curvaceous bend at 180 mph, or hooking a bodyline bouncer from the world's fastest bowler for a six, or blocking an accurate, curling free kick with a sublime dive. These are just a few examples of how sportspersons respond to stimuli with aplomb. How are they able to do in real time what others cannot fathom even in slow-motion? The only explanation is that these "superhumans" are able to dissect time into ever-slimmer slices and then utlise each slice optimally. You might say that, while on the field of play, they're extreme proponents of the present continuous. After all, when you chop the present finely enough, you get the present continuous.

I myself have used this idea extensively in the past four years. When your present sucks, the wise option is to live in the present continuous. I try and follow this dictum whenever negative emotions don't rule over my soul. Of course, the concept is less glamorous when a writer practises it. A writer living in the present continuous frowns upon the parts of speech till the sentence rewrites itself. He focuses on making his fictional character's situation more poignant and only then worries whether the backstory still makes sense. He manifests the most urgent thought on paper and then ponders over where it will fit in. For instance, I wrote this paragraph before beginning the article.

But the hands-down best argument in favour of living in the present continuous was provided by my friend Priyam. As a tireless crusader in an NGO that caters to those suffering from dementia, Priyam helps people who have neither a substantial recollection of the past nor a notion of the future. Dementia subjects seem to live in a time warp, and when treated with sufficient love, care and understanding, these fellow human beings become beacons of wisdom. They teach us the merits of the present continuous.
Now, here's the clincher:
An elderly woman was diagnosed with cancer. She was devastated. She underwent the treatment procedures, but was always sad and bitter. She fretted endlessly about her condition and lamented that her life was finished. A few months later, she was diagnosed with dementia. She kept forgetting herself till she forgot that she had cancer. And just like that, she ceased to worry about that dreadful disease. By the time she entered Priyam's orbit, she was at peace with himself, enjoying life as well as she could. The sentimentalists amongst us might say that she had conquered the disease!

Yea, man. Living in the present continuous rocks.

Line of zero control

2011-05-16T23:41:00.001+05:30

The Indo-Pak political reality swallows positive cross-border opportunities on a daily basis. Here's one off them.

http://www.dawn.com/2011/05/13/line-of-zero-control.html

Gulzar and item numbers

2011-04-28T14:11:00.003+05:30

Being a diehhard Gulzar saab fan, I knew that I'd eventually write about his work. Never thought it'd take this shape.

http://www.dawn.com/2011/04/27/collector%E2%80%99s-items.html

I owe my love for Bollywood lyrics to this one man. When I became a romancer, he was right by side, associating THAT woman with 'Sili hawa choon gayi.' I still nurse hopes of meeting him one day. I will keep hoping...

Blogging on Dawn

2011-04-14T23:22:00.002+05:30

Friends,

I've accepted an offer from Dawn Online to write weekly blog posts for them. The first one was published this morning. Here's the link:
http://www.dawn.com/2011/04/14/fast-of-the-furious.html

Of course, I'll still keep this blog active because not all topics I'm interested in will resonate with that audience.

Arjuna’s secret diaries

2011-03-26T06:48:00.001+05:30

Tomorrow, we begin the battle of Kurukshetra.
This might well be my last opportunity to speak my mind. Here I sit in the stillness of this oppressive night and watch the quill as it quivers in my hand. Maybe I’m afraid. Or maybe it’s just that I haven’t slept in ages. Yes, I confess. I’m an insomniac, although history might misinterpret my ailment as an achievement. Because Krishna has termed me Gudakesha, One who has conquered the darkness of sleep. And I’ve noticed that His words have a way of eclipsing underlying facts. I loathe Him with my intellect. I love Him with all my heart.
This night is as much about what He has done to me, as it is about what Life and I have done to each other. Tonight, I will reflect on the milestones and the jolts.
***
The first one dates back to the era of my gurukul. Ah! Such a sublime age. I remember the first time I outlined an arrowhead with my forefinger. The very first time I twanged the string of a bow and used its tension to make the arrow sing. Yes. That very first time, my arrow found its twin marks: the bird’s eye and my guru’s heart.
‘If I’m the best teacher in the world, then you will be the best archer of all times,’ he said, embraced me, smiled. I believed him. I wanted to believe him. Being the third son in a family where everybody was considered an offshoot of divinity had instilled in me the beginnings of an inferiority complex. Yudhishtira is our leader by birth. Bhima has always been the powerhouse protector of the household. Nakula could generate sexual heat in women from the time he was an infant. And Sahadeva, being the youngest, is everybody’s beloved. But me, I was neither here nor there. Krishna, of course, assures me that I’m more special than any of them. That I shall be remembered thus. Do you see why I simultaneously love and loathe Him? He knows exactly what to say to manipulate my feelings.
Anyway, as I was saying, I was seeking an identity when I entered the gurukul. And I found it in my guru’s favouritism and the bow and arrow. It no longer bothered me that my cousin Duryodhana did not hate me as much as he hated Bhima. I was the star archer. The topic of gossip with the 98 insignificant Kauravas. In fact, I felt so secure that Ekalavya’s brief visit to the gurukul did not cause a ripple of fear in my heart. He was a smelly lad. Darker than the New Moon. My inferior in every way. Guruji took as much pleasure in insulting him as the rest of us.
The next time I saw him was when we Pandavas went for a stroll in the jungle surrounding the gurukul. Along with us was our pet dog. My pet dog. A mongrel I had taken pity on when it was a puppy. In order to instigate Duryodhana, Bhima had named my sweet dog Shakuni. What a burden a name can be! Shakuni, by responding to this name, became the enemy of the Kauravas. Bhima took it upon himself to protect it, but come the night, my dog sought me and slept by my feet. This blameless miserable creature was with us that day in the forest, chasing squirrels and barking at the monkeys teasing it from the treetops. And then, without warning, Shakuni began barking in an abnormally agitated manner and started running towards a target. Concerned from its welfare, I followed its wake. We approached a clearing where Ekalavya was practising archery. The moment Shakuni was in his line of vision, Ekalavya aimed arrows at its mouth. Seven of them. One after another. So rapidly did Ekalavya’s hands move that I could not see them dipping into the quiver or retracting the bow. It was all over in the flash of an eye. Shakuni fell like a log, his mouth carrying the undigested meal of seven gleaming arrows.
You might have heard another version of this episode wherein we accidentally stumbled upon an orphaned dog with seven arrows inside its mouth and therefore discovered Ekalavya. That version is less damaging to my ego. But consider this: how could I have felt that spike of fear and jealousy had I not witnessed his prowess firsthand? I could have easily assumed that he killed Shakuni with one arrow and then took his time shooting the remaining six into the dead dog’s mouth. In that scenario, I’d have goaded Bhima to pound on the lower-caste lad with his bare fists and returned with satisfaction to the gurukul. But this situation demanded a different action. It wouldn’t do to just crush his body or spirit. I had to rob him of his skill.
Thinking thus, I took a quick look of the clearing that Ekalavya had made his home. In the centre of it stood a clay statue of my beloved guru. I knew what I had to do. Asking my brothers to stand guard over Ekalavya, I ran to the gurukul and fetched my guru to the spot. Thankfully, he didn’t need an explanation to comprehend what had happened.
‘Did you do this to an innocent creature?’ my guru thundered.
Ekalavya prostrated before him, then replied:
‘I was meditating on your form when it disturbed me. I reacted instinctively.’
Guruji pressed home the advantage the lad had given him.
‘You practise in front of my statue. You meditate on my form. I refused to make you my disciple, but you’ve still made me your guru.’
‘That is so, guruji.’
Pointing to the rest of us, guruji said:
‘I teach these boys with destiny rare skills. My thoughts, my teachings, are so powerful that they travel long distances. Even the beasts and birds surrounding my gurukul hunt better than in other places. You’ve tapped into that power of mine despite my express disapproval.’
For a fleeting moment, Ekalavya turned aggressive:
‘The best teacher in the world deserves to teach the best disciple in the world. I’m merely fulfilling that destiny, guruji.’
At this point in time, guruji’s eyes grew soft, as if he saw the lad’s point. My own eyes betrayed consternation, desperation, utter misery. Guruji’s eyes met mine. He remembered the promise he had made. I had to remain the best archer in the world. So he turned to Ekalavya and said:
‘The great Bhishma approached me with guru dakshina even before he requested me to accept these boys as disciplines. You, on the other hand, have learnt from me without offering any. For all I know, you might have been watching my lessons from the shrubbery like a rat. What else can I expect from a boy of your breeding? What can I expect from you as guru dakshina?’
‘The universe, guruji! Expect the universe. Ask me to defeat a thousand kings in your name. Ask me to defend your honour against the gods.’
‘These feats have been within my reach since I was your age,’ guruji said, waving his left hand. ‘Your guru dakshina should be something you have and I might value.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Give me your right thumb then.’
Ekalavya looked from guruji to me and then back at him, as if to say:
‘Is he worth this?’
Guruji, in turn, looked from him to me and then back at him, as if to say:
‘I cannot let you be worth more.’
Ekalavya picked up his bow and quiver, and just so that nobody could be in any doubt as to what he was offering, shot a bevy of arrows at guruji’s feat. Those arrows formed the word Pranam faster than I could write it on a parchment. I watched, stupefied, as he then unsheathed a knife and cut his right thumb. He flung it right next to the dead dog and gave all of us a smile of victory.
On the way back to the gurukul, I thought I saw tears streaming down guruji’s cheeks. I cannot be certain of this because he had ordered us to keep our eyes on the ground and I could manage to steal but one glance. But I’m certain of one thing: we never shared the same warm rapport again. He kept his promise. I am the best archer in the world. And I will be expected to use my skills against him starting tomorrow. Surely Ekalavya wouldn’t have repaid his debts thus?
One small footnote remains in this story.
For the next few days following the death of Shakuni, I kept returning to Ekalavya’s clearing. I saw him practising archery with his left hand. I saw that he was still good. Good enough to defeat most men. But not me. I rejoiced. Then one day, I returned to find the clearing empty. I believe he quit his ambitions and became a boatman.
Given a second chance, I’d gladly be the second best archer in the world. Perhaps that small fact would have prevented this battle that will be fought. I, for one, might have grown up as a less ambitious man. My tempers would have remained in check during many occasions. I might not have, during exile, roamed the lands to make marital-martial alliances with powerful kings. We Pandavas might not have amassed this political clout. Our destinies might have been ordinary and happy.
All things considered, I think I founded my life on a shameful emotion. I would pay for this sin for the rest of life. Let me proceed to the second defining incident without further ado.
***

I did not cry

2011-03-25T03:17:00.006+05:30

This won't be a review of the greatest Indian ODI victory in recent times. If you didn't watch the match, you probably don't want to read this post either.
Here are the salient features, the way I saw it:

1) Great toss to lose. Had we batted first, our batting daredevils would have aimed for 300, groaned their way to 210 and lost with 12 overs to spare. As it happened, Ponting first made the right call by shouting Heads and then made the wrong call (in hindsight) by opting to bat. Mahi would have made the same mistake.

2) This Australian team has recovered from the hangover caused by the departure of Warne, Gilchrist, Hayden and McGrath. In the past couple of years, it has lost quite a few games trying to act invincible. But on this day, even the uber-talented Ponting played well within himself. The thinking has clearly changed. This team has decided to curb its ambitions. A sane approach; the eventual defeat cannot be attributed to the Ozzie batsmen.

3) For once, Harbhajan's eyeballs did not seem poised to pop out. A side-effect of Ashwin's presence, perhaps?

4) Is this the same Zaheer Khan who lost the plot before stepping into the Wanderers to open the bowling in the 2003 final? Can flecks of gold in one's hair make such a difference? Or are promising potbellies accompanied by wiser heads? My screams numbed the pigeons on my window sill when Zaheer castled the greater Hussey. Because when Hussey replaced Bollinger and, later, the quarterfinal line-up was determined, I had resigned myself to yet another humiliating Indian defeat.

5) Nowadays, I keep recalling the interview Yuvraj gave Harsha Bhogle around 4 years ago. His exact words, when Harsha reminded him of his decent bowling stats in domestic cricket: 'I hope my captain is watching this. I do feel I can contribute more with the ball.' The captain in those days was Rahul Dravid. Maybe Jammie wasn't tuned in that day, but Mahi certainly seems to have been!

6) Yuvi fielded as if he was still young enough to have Kaif standing beside him! Raina, Kohli and Ashwin were exceptional too. Zaheer held on to catches, Harbhajan actually made an effort (during the England encounter in Chinnaswamy, I was among the thousands who booed his numerous misfieldings). Even Munaf stopped a few balls. If we fielded like white people today, then a chunk of the credit must go to a white man named Gary Kirsten. Why? Here's why.

7) I don't know if Viru's injured knees were folding beneath him, but he showed up with a desire to play many overs. Insha allah, he will be fit for the match against Pakistan. He just needs to be fit enough to play through the Powerplays. After that, he can snooze in the dressing room. I won't miss his fielding terribly.

8) It's now understood that Sachin can, at best, lay the foundation for victory during crucial encounters. The middle-order better stay awake to finish the games.

9) There's something seriously wrong with Gauti. Why has his confidence slumped? Doesn't he remember that he was MoM in the T20 finals? He had to sit out, twice, due to injuries and a couple of youngsters showed up. But why should that frazzle him? The Gauti of 2008 could walk into this Indian line-up. The Gauti of 2011, however, seems to want an ego-boosting scoop over extra cover to get going. Doesn't always work that way, my man. Ajmal and Afridi are no Krejza.

10) Mahi's part in the proceedings: losing a tricky toss, marshalling his resources like non-Waterloo Napolean, trying to hide his despondency during the Batting Powerplay collapses and hitting the rare boundary. If he didn't keep wickets, I'd be tempted to call him the non-playing captain. As Manjrekar said before the World Cup began, 'Keep Dhoni and Zaheer wrapped in cotton wool.' For we have no replacements for them.

11) Raina over Yusuf? This is a no-brainer, as per me. Yusuf would have holed out in embarassing fashion against Tait. He's the star of featherbed pitches. He's a nightmare for lesser oppositions. Agreed, if we let him play for 10 years, he might secure 15 other impossible victories for us. But for crunch games, I'd keep him out.
Of course, Raina has a split personality. You might have seen his alter ego go for suicidal hoicks simply because the bowler's 5 o'clock shadow bothered him. But the true-Blue Raina reads a match situation like it's being fed to him by a teleprompter. That Raina seldom puts a foot wrong.

12) Every time I got engrossed in my work, we bled runs or lost a wicket or two. When Mahi got out, I decided to focus on the game for the sake of Indian cricket. I thus gave my beloved country the Yuvi-Raina partnership. You're welcome to send me gifts. I'm partial to single malts. :)

13) Another superstitious trend of the day: whenever I took a piss, the game turned. Needless to say, I smartened to this by the fourth time. So if the game changed against India, I drank two bottles of water and took another leak. No, really. I don't kid in matters of life and death. Make that two bottles of single malt, please. I feel like I've earned them.

14) After the television channels moved on to less important things, I spent hours on FB and Twitter, reading a million jubilations. I posted one of my own on FB:
Today, the ghost of the 1992 Brisbane match was exterminated in Motera. It is also learnt that the ghosts of 1999 (The Oval) and 2003 (The Wanderers) have decided to end their disgustingly haunting ways. After the match, Ponting was spotted shopping for a smirk-free face. Terrified by the noise originating from the subcontinent, an alien scout ship decided to exit the Milky Way.

As you can see, this victory didn't mean that much to me. Seriously. I did not cry. Let me repeat this for effect. I did not cry. I might have flicked inchoate tears off the ends of my eyes. I might have kissed a total stranger on the street and asked her (or was it him?) to marry me. But. I did not cry.

And I was man enough to spare a thought for Ponting. Over the years, we Indians have unreservedly called him a b**tUrd, motherf**ker, ass-brat and many more delicious names. Yes, he deserved every one of them. Because till the game ends, he exhibits less sportsman's spirit than even Greg Chappell. Well, almost. But he's always been gracious in defeat during the post-match conferences. And today, he showed us that he was a true champion. He reminded us that, in crunch situations, he'll be at least twice as good as the unparalleled Sachin Tendulkar. Now, that deserves respect. It's unfortunate that such legends will one day walk into the sunset. Australian cricket will never be the same again without him. And the rest of the world can sigh in relief.

As for the Indo-Pak semi-finals at Mohali, I've decided that I want my physician by my side. If I survive that match and if we win it, I might blog again.

For the love of cricket and jostling

2011-02-26T04:49:00.006+05:30

In my hand, I hold two tickets to a World Cup match. Barring a nasty surprise, I shall be inside Chinnaswamy Stadium this Sunday to cheer India as it takes on England in a league match. I don't know why I'm not weeping with joy. Logic and history tell me that I must.
Confused? Let me explain.

It was 1996. I was in my final year of engineering. I already had a job (one I was not too keen about, because it required me to be an engineer, not a writer). Under such circumstances, I accompanied 17 of my classmates to Churchgate. Our mission: to buy a ticket each for the India-Australia match to be held at the Wankhede Stadium. It was a significant match. Every die-hard Indian cricket fan still flinched at the memory of the India-Australia match in the previous edition. We lost that match in 1992 because of (as per a Mid-Day headline) "Rain, rules and Ravi (Shastri)!"
This was time for revenge. And we engineers-on-the-cusp were determined to witness it. With that intent, we hopped onto a local train after college hours and reached Churchgate around 4 pm. We exited the station, turned right, and to our surprise, found that the queue was already long enough to kiss the air around Churchgate. Not losing hope, we joined the tail of the queue and began the wait. With luck, the counters would open at 9 am tomorrow. We some more luck, we'd have our tickets by noon tomorrow. Our bladders were strong and our appetites were our servants. So we were quite confident of weathering the wait. We had much to learn.

Around midnight, even as we fought hunger, thirst and sleep, the cops arrived on the scene. They had decided that it was indecent of people to actually queue up a day before the counters opened. Wearing callous faces, operating their calloused hands, they began swinging their lathis around. Soon, the air reverberated with the sound of thick wood landing on skin and bone. Men shrieked and began running helter-skelter. The cops pursued those who moved too slowly for them. Within minutes, they had cleared every ticket-aspirant. I was one of those who decided to run towards Marine Drive instead of towards Churchgate. I guess the sea breeze appealed more than the stench of stale urine.
It took a while for a few of us friends to regroup in Marine Drive. Returning to Wankhede immediately was out of the question. So we decided to be adventurous - we actually found the gall to tell each other, 'There's Oberoi. Looks nice. Let's go there.'
The 24-hour Coffee Shop inside Oberoi was open. We settled into a couple of tables and opened our wallets. Once we set aside the price of the tickets, all of us, put together, had sufficient money to order just a pot of coffee. One measly pot of coffee. Till date, I wonder why the waiter didn't throw us out. In fact, he served us without rolling his eyes. We, of course, repaid his kindness with the most miniscule tip of his 5-star career. And we stayed in that Coffee Shop longer than decency permitted.
Once outside, I decided to spend some time alone, watching the waves of the Arabian splash against the rocks and wall of Marine Drive (the tetrapods were not installed those days). So there I sat, looking westward. I kept sitting there long after the sun rose on the other side of south Bombay and revealed the murkiness of the water. I think I returned to Wankhede only around 7 am or so. To my utter delight, I saw my classmate Kalpesh Mehta standing very close to the entrance. I joined him, ignored the people who threatened to tear my limbs apart for breaking into the line and resumed the wait. It should have been smooth sailing from this point. It wasn't.

As 9 am approached, people in the back of the line began pushing. Soon, the line, in an attempt to grow shorter, grew stouter. And yet, people in the back pushed relentlessly. Within minutes, the situation turned into a frenzy. I was standing right next to the wall, with my back against it. And suddenly, without warning, the push became so intense that all of us leaning against the wall were pressed hard against it. In an instant, my lungs were squeezed like the auspicious lemon against a brand-new tyre. The air whooshed out of me. I was a reasonably strong guy those days and I pushed back. But the harder I pushed, the harder the throng pushed back. In a few moments, I felt giddiness and an unbearable pain in my temples, not to mention the hardness of rock against my skull. I tried to stand on tiptoe, allowing my lungs more opportunity to suck in air. I think I had almost given up hope when a few angels descended on the scene. These were fellow citizens, fellow ticket seekers. They just happened to be spunkier and trusted their voices to carry further. It took a while, but they restored a reasonable level of order in the line. I lived to watch another match. We got back in the line, but not before Kalpesh and I sat on the sidewalk for a few minutes, catching our breath. I cannot forget the dazed expression on Kalpesh's sun-drenched face. I daresay I looked just as dazed to him.

The rest of the adventure was about enduring the inefficiencies and chaos... the usual Indian stuff. By noon, I was at the counter. I trembled as I handed over 200 rupees and trembled even more as I received my ticket. I hugged it to my bosom during the 90-minute train journey back to Nerul. That evening, after a prolonged afternoon siesta, I went to a friend's house to brag. I had no opportunity to do so because he was facing a crisis of sorts. He had to muster his college fee in the next two days. I knew what I had to do. It was a no-brainer, really.

So on Match Day, I returned to Wankhede, this time to the road on the other side of the railway tracks. I had no difficulty in selling my ticket for 2400 rupees. I returned to Nerul, handed my friend the money and went home to watch the match on TV. That day, we lost yet another World Cup match to Australia.

Having experienced this series of events, I've always nursed a strong desire to watch a WC match featuring India. And yesterday morning, believe it or not, the tickets for the India-England fixture fell on my lap. Just like that! Well, not really. It fell on my lap thanks to a sweet friend who shall remain unnamed as of now.
And what's more, I've been ordered to sell the other ticket to the highest bidder amongst my friends. If only it were so easy to find cricket enthusiasts in our country!

P.S: This post is dedicated to my backbencher friends from college - Bhupender Bohra, Nikhil Kajrolkar, Manoj Sangra, Ashish Makhijani, Anand Nair, Varghese George, Deepak Singh, Rahul Prasad, Satish Sakhardande, Kalpesh Mehta, Jignesh Miyani, Niranjan Risbood, Saurabh Deshmukh, Bhushan Bangale, Navin Patil, Dinesh Nasarpuri, Arijit Chakraborty, Ananthakrishnan Iyer and, of course, the occasional backbencher - Amol Dharmadhikari.

Our new office!

2011-02-13T09:09:00.002+05:30

Yet again, I had to give up my owlish ways last evening and (try to) sleep early so that I could awake at 330 am. Amazingly, I managed to do that, took a bath and left to participate in a pooja.
The single digit chill of pre-dawn Bangalore cut through my bare hands as they held on to my bike's handle. The saving grace - traffic was as light as could be in Bangalore. I knew that on my return journey, I'd have to cleave through vehicles headed for the Aero Show. But for now, I could rip through to downtown. Even Chinnaswamy Stadium wore a deserted look; if I didn't know any better, I'd have sworn that India will not play Australia here in a warm-up match later in the day.
I was trembling from the cold by the time I reached my downtown destination: the new office of Scalers & Victors Innovations Pvt Ltd. We're moving from our Andree Road office to a much more spacious office on Langford Road, which is situated right opposite the hockey stadium. This was Ten Sports' office till the other day, and telltale signs remained. Like a large cut-out of Sachin Tendulkar which all of us posed with, once we finished the pooja.
We're shifting for the best reason possible - we outgrew the old office. And if things go according to plan, we'd be looking for an even bigger office a few months down the line. That office, too, must be in downtown Bangalore. Because, right now, we're too small a company to impose geographical constraints on our employees. We want to be situated in the heart of the city so as to attract talent from all its nooks and crannies. Location, a 5-day-week (a rarity amongst the city's start-ups), an opportunity to learn and a competitive pay structure are our key differentiators.
By the way, we opened a new office in the Emirates last month. My business partner Prashanth has slogged to get us to this point (with some amount of support from me and others). And all of us involved are smiling at the moment. Our faces are pointed towards the future.
How has your Sunday been so far?

A tale of one overwhelming city

2011-01-29T23:40:00.011+05:30

If you cannot (or do not want to) understand the depth and breadth of loneliness, then please do not watch Dhobi Ghat. You'll return disappointed, with nothing to show for your adventure except uncoagulating shards of poignant moments.
For the rest of you, here's what you can expect:
A wordless anthem of the greatest Indian city ever built. A city so powerful that it presses intimately, furiously, rudely against your chest, but leaves you alienated in the final reckoning. Mumbaikars know the city to be thus. Non-Mumbaikars have been told the city is thus by our film-makers and writers. Dhobi Ghat presumes that you already have this knowledge and underlines it for posterity.
The film revolves around four primary characters who connect and then diverge ephemerally. The screenplay reflects the random, frenetic pace of the landscape and the viewer is left to draw meanings as per his wont. Of course, each primary character is allowed to bring something immediate to the table, something that the city cannot wholly influence: personality.

1) Let's begin with Arun, played by Amir Khan. Arun's a painter of some repute. He's divorced and therefore distanced from his son; his grief - or other undisclosed things - have made him so self-absorbed that he's quite reluctant to face a nameless public even to sell his art. His life has become an unending quest to find the imagery for the next canvas. Thankfully, his kaleidoscopic city will never let the paint go dry inside the tubes. Arun, it seems, is reasonably well-to-do. And his art is meant for the elite whom he cannot respect.
2) Yasmin Noor (played by Kriti Malhotra) is a middle-class housewife who, upon getting married, has shifted from the Gangetic belt to Mumbai. She speaks to Arun, indirectly, through "video letters" she "writes" to her beloved brother. The oasis of purity she builds around her is no match for the filth of the city. And when she succumbs to the latter, she manages to add a dimension to the complex grief that Arun is already experiencing. Yet again, Arun is left rudderless and anchorless.
3) Shai is anything but! Played by Monica Dogra, she's a true-blue Indian American in the film and real life. She hooks up with Arun during an art exhibition, has a f**k-fest with him and is miffed when Arun terms it a ONS. On a sabbatical in sin city, she romances from behind the camera and, unwittingly, with a dhobi who reads sublimal messages in her provocative body language. She represents the elite that Arun caters to and despises. She will always be as liberated as she allows herself to be. Unfortunately, she's too attracted to Arun's tumultuous inner world to feel free. At least for the moment.
4) Finally, there's Prateik Babbar's character: Munna the dhobi. Munna has spent the greater part of his life in Mumbai but has somehow remained unsullied. Easy options are within his reach, but he would rather kill sewer rats than sell dope to the elite. In the daytime, he washes their clothes, then irons and delivers them, thus giving the film's writer a ready bridge between Shai and Arun. He also naively falls in love with Shai and, staying true to the decency that's intrinsic to his poverty, never crosses the line. He knows that his lot is meant to fail. Cheerfully.

These well-bordered characters interact with each other in a disjointed screenplay that becomes Dhobi Ghat. The verdict on Kiran Rao as a director will not come in until she makes another film. Because in this one, she's at times sublime and at others, trying too hard. But by Jove, one hopes that she retains Tushar Kanti Ray as her cinematographer because the story has been partially propped up by the camera. Certain frame compositions take one's breathe away. Despite shooting a city that's posed once too often, the camera manages to find freshness.
Amir acts well with his body and face, but his mild discomfort with the English language hinders his performance in a few scenes.
Kriti Malhotra is absolutely convincing. I still can't believe that she isn't really a Muslim woman from UP!
But the find of the film, almost like in a lost bilateral cricket series, is Prateik Babbar. This young man is on the button in every scene. If he plays his cards right, he could actually give Abhay Deol a run for his money. Because his cinematic sensibility could well rival that of the established offbeat-mainstream hero of modern times.
As for Monica Dogra, I so wished that she'd forget the camera and immerse herself in the moment. Like Kiran Rao, she must be given another chance because she's so frigging cute.

Overall, Dhobi Ghat is an experiment in literary cinema. Benegal didn't succeed with Trikaal, so there's no reason to be harsh on Rao. Just watch it for what it does to you. If nothing else, this film will teach you a little something about yourself.

Random thoughts this New Year

2011-01-04T09:15:00.007+05:30

Bangalore has been deliciously sunny for the past couple of months. I start sweating before I pedal 10 kms on my bicycle which, I'm glad to report, has been restored to its former glory. The fact that I can reach a deep countryside within 7 minutes of leaving my apartment makes biking a joy. And I've realized that Ian McEwan makes more sense when I'm perched on the side rails of a culvert, with birdsong in my ears and a competent writer pummeling the area between them.

The other evening, during a discussion with a friend, I heard myself say that, in many ways, the true saint is the exact opposite of the writer. She asked me to explain myself and I gave it my best shot. Perhaps I'll be clearer with the written word.
The Human, it has been famously said, is a meaning-making machine. Seen in this context, the saintly amongst us are those who have made their peace with the universe. They've chosen their path - be it God, a higher consciousness, a grander Logic, whatever - and using this path, squeezed their meanings out. They're satisfied.
The writer, on the other hand, deliberately wanders through his favourite paths, often knowing that he or she is trapped in a maze. He might have accepted that he cannot contribute a new thought to the world. Perhaps every worthwhile thought was in place even before the first hydrogen atom was born. But he must still try and find newer perspectives to his pet ideas. His characters and stories must find newer answers to his persistent questions. To ensure all this, he must think and feel without reservations. Feel, especially. He must put himself out there. In his life and through his books. Every emotion must be felt in its fullness; and when the emotion turns cold, he might consider probing it for an insight.
Juxtaposed against the saint's life, one might say that the writer chooses to be "ignorant." His craft emerges out of this ignorance.
Just a thought. Don't hang me for it :)

Noted civil rights activist and leader of AP's PUCL K. G. Kannabiran died in late December. I had interviewed him in 2008 and he came across as regal and assured. Since his death arrives in the lingering wake of K. Balagopal's, one fears that a whole generation of Andhra's civil rights stalwarts is fading away. Is the second rung ready to occupy the intellectual/ideological positions vacated by their seniors? One hopes so. Because the Dandakaranya region requires bold, unwavering voices more than ever before - Dr Binayak Sen's incarceration being a case in point.

Am reading Imagining India by Nandan Nilekani. I confess that I wouldn't have picked up this book were it not required for a new assignment. But Nilekani has managed to engage me so far. I don't quite agree with many of his perspectives on the history of modern India, but I'm keen to know what he has to say about the future.

Finally, I end with a fragment of a poem written recently by my friend Mohan Ramamoorthy. Mail me if you'd like to read the whole thing.

In the hammock
Inert is my body
Restless is my mind
Furiously juggling
Random pieces
Of conversations, gestures
To figure out something
(about you... that, I suspect, concerns us)

Happy 2011, everybody.

An ode to the Lal

2010-12-13T02:23:00.013+05:30

It was probably not a coincidence that around the end of October, a couple of weeks before Professor Purushottam Lal passed away, I entered a bookshop in the Bangalore International airport and picked up a collection of short stories compiled by Khushwant Singh. In it was a half-fable-like, half-spoofy, wholly childlike story by the professor. I could spare the five minutes needed to read it. I smiled all through and remembered sitting in the great man's legendary study and listening to him talk about literature.
It was 2004. Having quit IT a year ago, I had managed to wrap up a half-baked novel and a collection of short stories that, I was certain, would send tremors through the publishing world. I called this collection Wiser After. Unfortunately, nobody in Delhi shared my optimism for this work. And then someone told me about Writers' Workshop. I found out the details and mailed my manuscript to WW. I didn't know that the name I wrote on the envelope (Prof P Lal) was an institution in Kolkata and, therefore, the address (162/92, Lake Gardens) was a landmark.
Less than a week later, my phone rang. On the other end was the professor himself. He introduced himself and raved about Wiser After.
'Such wonderful ideas. So sparkling. So fresh!'
That did it. Within a week, I was in Kolkata, the only Indian city that values writers more than software professionals. In fact, a family of Ghoshes in Tollygunge agreed to have me as a paying guest for a month despite not knowing me. 'Only because you're a writer,' Mr Ghosh told me, wagging his forefinger. I stayed the month because I surmised that it'd take me that much time to polish my manuscript under Prof Lal's guidance.
In the very first meeting, the professor plainly detailed out the vanity publishing model he operated. I'd have to pay for publishing the books. Production costs were high, thanks to a traditional method of printing the books and the Sambhalpuri sari cloth that was used as a cover. I didn't mind it one bit. I was certain that Simon & Schuster, Picador, Doubleday or some equally big publisher would want to acquire the rights of Wiser After.
In the meanwhile, in addition to making modifications to my stories, I visited Prof Lal, at least thrice a week, and soaked in the stimulating environment of his study. I heard him give anecdotal references to great names.
1) For instance, a young Vikram Seth had sat in that very study and discussed his seminal book of poems titled Mappings. He had reportedly even lamented the fact that no publisher seemed interested in publishing his work. Indeed, not just Seth, but other big names such as Kamala Das, Jayanta Mahapatra etc had begun their writing careers with Writers' Workshop.
2) Shashi Deshpande, Ruskin Bond, Nissim Ezekiel, Jatin Das, Siddharth Kak, Jug Suraiya, Sasthi Bratha, A. K. Ramanujam, Pritish Nandy etc have been published by WW. All accounted for, WW must have given a jump-start to at least 3000 new writers and poets, considering that it has published at least 3500 titles.
3) At least two Nobel laureates - Pearl S Buck and Gunter Grass - had visited that same study. Other notable visitors included R. K. Narayan, Mulk Raj Anand, Nirad Choudhuri and many others that the professor must have failed to mention.

The professor also spoke about other things.
a) He was always willing to talk about a mammoth project he had undertaken along with Nandini Nopany. What was this project about? An attempt to transcreate (not translate, mind you; the professor despised this word) the Mahabharata shloka-by-shloka. The work was being brought out one fascicule at a time. And by the time I arrived in Kolkata, he was transcreating the preparations for the Kurukshetra war. All the Sundays I was in Kolkata, I made it a point to attend his public reading of the transcreations at the Sanskriti Sagar Library in Ballygunge. A faithful audience awoke early enough each Sunday to hear him read and annotate his work.
b) On two separate occasions, he mentioned that he was conferred the Padma Shree not because he was a teacher-poet-transcreator-publisher-calligrapher of substance but because an influential woman - the daughter of a well-known freedom fighter - was infatuated by him.
She had good reason to be. The lanky Purushottam Lal must have been a sight to behold in his youth. His unmistakable Punjabi looks would have stood out in the Bengali landscape that was his home. You will read obituaries written by students who were mesmerized by his voice and passion, his ability to conjure metaphors at will and his in-depth knowledge of English poetry. My own most vivid visual memory of him: his fingers. Bony, long, slender and expressive. They pivoted his hands and his emotions. They flipped forward to make a point. They seemed to be crafting ideas into paper boats and prodding them to assume the right shape.

More than anything, the professor told me not to lose heart. To always pursue this difficult life of stringing words together to make a story.
I returned to Bangalore, sold Wiser After to many gullible and kind-hearted friends, friends of friends and acquaintances and somehow managed to break even. By the end of 2004, I realized how inept Wiser After really was. The ideas were still promising, but my execution of those ideas had been terribly clumsy. I had gone ahead with publishing it only because I desperately wanted to see my name in print. By mid-2005, I couldn't pick up the book without wincing. It was a lifelong lesson in humility. Never again would I love my own words so much that I'd miss noticing their glaring flaws.

Another, equally important, lesson stayed. This lesson was derived from the gushing words of encouragement Prof Lal gave me. They - those words - told me that some day in the future, more people would spot the talent languishing underneath my current lack of skills. All I had to do was to keep writing, whip myself daily, awake to the scars of yesterday and go on. Because if I do it for enough number of years, I'll whip myself less and write more.
Today, I feel as if I'm standing on the cusp of a new beginning. And this day probably would not have been possible had I not met Prof P Lal. Thank you, sir. For what it is worth, you made a mark in my life.

The murky compulsions of Indian media

2010-12-02T01:44:00.007+05:30

I have a theory. A rather speculative one. Haven't been able to shake it off, so here goes.
Imagine yourself as a 20-something journalist in New Delhi in the early 90s. Life's a constant adrenalin rush. There's a story breaking every day (the 90s belong to a slower era). You're positioned inches away from the epicentre of it all. And slowly, but surely, news goes electronic. Not many of your colleagues have the face or the confidence to be in front of a camera. You have both, so it's time to shine.
Once you've got the basics right, it's time to formulate a lasting ideology. How do you read the landscape? Well, the Babri Masjid has come down, so you certainly know which party you do NOT like. So that's the BJP out of the way. Your journalistic instincts are sufficiently honed to warn you about the Janata Dal - it's a ragtag aggregation of questionable characters, never meant to last. As for the regional parties, well, you find yourself pondering over the promises offered by Mamta Banerjee, Karunanidhi, Jayaalalithaa, Laloo Yadav, Mulayam Singh Yadav, Bal Thackarey, Deve Gowda, Sharad Pawar, Prafulla Kumar Mahanta, Shibu Soren et al (some of these currently belong to the JD). This is a pantheon that inspires despair.
That leaves the Left - whom you're willing to romance from the sidelines, thanks to your Left-leaning alma mater - and the Congress. Yes, the Congress. Finally, here's a party that has survived and will continue to survive. Besides, the dynamic duo of Narasimha Rao and Manmohan Singh are ushering in sweeping reforms. The tide is changing. Businesses are ready with a palette of bright colours. India is getting a makeover. All's well.
In a manner of speaking. Because, frankly, if the debate is reduced to "Secularism versus Capitalism," then there must be only one clear winner. As a journalist, you decide that you must try and understand the rhetoric and pragmatism offered by this "sole national, secular party." In order to believe in this phrase, you blank out the pogram conducted against the Sikhs following the assassination of Indira Gandhi. You were too young then and that Sikhening thing happened ages ago. No point holding on to old grudges. You'll still fire salvos at the Congress - after all you're young and idealistic - but you see it as a mild favourite.
So you go easy on Bofors and play up the Srikrishna Commission report. No harm done. You have the best interests of the nation in mind.
And so it begins. A tilt. A wee bit of tilt. Is there a quid pro quo involved? Not at all. Just a thumping tricolour inside your chest, goading you to do the right thing.

If you've been a journalist for even one day - if you have ever filed a single story - you will know what it takes to bury your own emotions and file a factual report of events. Quite often, it's like arbitrating against your firstborn, in favour of the neighbour's scamp. You must confront yourself, steel your mind, and speak the truth. Well, let's not go as far as the truth. You must at least tell the world what seems to have happened. But these are testing times. The world and India are changing. The country deserves better than the truth. So you must make up your own mind (and the news) as you go along. You are, after all, the barometer of the 90s and the new millennia. Let's keep this in mind and continue our theory.

Midway into the 90s, the worst case scenario comes true. The Congress is vanquished in the polls. The JD assumes power. Over the next three years, 4 JD Prime Ministers attempt to hold the steering wheel. Needless to say, each of them give India a bumpy ride and crash into the shoulder.
Then you see the REAL worst case scenario unfolding. The BJP comes to power. The corridors of South Block lose their allure. But you're a seasoned journalist by now and you will do what it takes to sniff out news and offer it to your growing audience. Mercifully, a war comes to your rescue. The sight of a uniform gives you orgiastic pleasure, so you have a field day covering the perils and romance of a conflict. For the first time ever, your countrymen get a feel of the trenches. Thanks to you. You're now an overnight sensation. Everything you've done before pales in comparison. You realise that you've redefined the news capsule merely by highlighting the drama behind dramatic moments. You've stumbled upon the magic formula. People don't want staid news. They want an exciting commentary on current affairs. A choreographed chronicle that offers a peep behind iron curtains. Generations of newspeople will be inspired by your model. In fact, those generations are already crawling out of the woodwork. The media is growing like never before. Money is pouring in. Choices are being offered to viewers and readers.
You spend the next few years consolidating, understanding unfamiliar market forces. In between, the BJP government at the centre keeps you entertained with scams and comedy. And when Ahmedabad happens, you feel justifiably disgusted. Ahmedabad was intolerable, just as New Delhi in 1984 was. Yet, you now throw your weight firmly behind the Congress.
You're also experiencing changes in your personal life. You can now afford a couple of penthouses in prestigious Delhi pincodes. You travel business class (if not in the Prime Minister's entourage). You've made it. Moneyed pleasures are cloying. You feel a vague urge to unearth newer dimensions to success.
In this backdrop, the national elections deliver the best possible verdict. The BJP is defeated and the Congress comes back to power. It's time for over-the-top celebrations. Fellow journalists, select businesses and sundry actors of the capital are popping open the champagne. You feel compelled to join in the revelry, never mind that the nation will interpret your beaming face. What's not to celebrate? Finally, here's a party worth worshipping. It's headed by a queen who refuses the crown, has been galvanised by a prince with an alleged Midas touch and the new government will now be headed by the most trustworthy Indian (only the final part of this statement is true, you know that, but what the hell!).
From now on, you can enjoy unlimited insider scoops. You yourself are an insider. You haven't noticed it, but over the years, the anti-fascist content of your reports have decidedly become pro-Congress. Your slide in position has been glacial - an imperciptible movement in slow-motion - but those who now matter have noticed it. You no longer allow people with opposing opinions to have their say in your shows. You will be rewarded. With high civilian honours, plenty of political gossip and incessant opportunities to interview the Who's Who. Your channel will certainly air its share of Exclusive News. Again, thanks to you. By now, your idealism doesn't recognise you (it languishes in fusty memorabilia in your closet where, without your knowledge, skeletons have crept in).
What you've also conveniently forgotten is that two disparate demons were challenging India in the 90s. The fascism of the religious right was just one of them. The other, equally lethal demon, was the market fundamentalism of the financial right. That's right. Ultra-capitalism. The theory that markets will self-regulate and the government must exercise no control whatsoever over businesses. Do you know why you blocked out this development? The fact that your own financial success depended on it. Your media house relies on these businesses to thrive. Over the years, you've been part of your media house's think-tank and you've accepted that some targets are never meant to be shot at. Sure, you can aim at and bring down any political lightweight at any time. That's always fun. You can't be touched while doing so. But the businesses - they're now sacred. They must not be touched because, well, the tricolour is still thumping inside your chest. Good things are being done to India by these businesses. If they need to cut corners in the process, then you must understand. You now have the maturity to understand.
That's why, when the Congress won itself another election and alliance partners proved to be a pain in the proverbial butt, you decided that there was no harm in playing the middle fiddle. For one, you were helping the "sole national, secular party" meet a crucial objective. For another, you were helping businesses take India to the next level.
How you wish you knew your conversations were being recorded! You wouldn't have sounded like confiding a crush to a high-school friend. You'd have invented a code worthy of an espionage thriller, so that the middle fiddle sounded like the middle ground. Yes, the middle ground. The spot you were obliged to occupy as a journalist.

Journalism is a difficult profession. Of all the professional roles I've played in my life, being a journalist has been the most difficult. And the only way to hold on to your sanity - and pursue the, shall we say, truth - is to operate on the premise that every belief you hold MIGHT be wrong. The news is never about you, your convictions, your take on life. It's about facts. If you have the heart of a humanitarian and the mind of a robot, there's an outside chance that you will be a good journalist. Unfortunately, few in the Indian media currently fit the bill.

Fiction proliferates in the internet era

2010-10-25T00:27:00.003+05:30

I found this comment on a rediff story titled "India is trying to underplay Obama's visit".

==========================================
CIA sponsors all terrorism in the world
CIA built and nurtured ISI
CIA started Afghan opium tarde in the 80's
Bill Clinton increased the opium trade in the 90's
Thus ISI and Pakistan became close to USA
Since ISI monitors and controls the opium trade
But taliban wiped out the entire opium crop in 2000
That led to the worldwide stock market crash
Since opium generates trillions of dollars for Wall Street
After Bush staged 9/11 and invaded Afghanistan opium production increased from zero to 8000 tonnes per annum
Stock markets flourished. India was happy. Manmohan committed troops to Afghanistan, because he too must be getting a share of the opium revenue.
But in 2008 & 2009 opium production fell by 50%
US banks had a massive liquidity crisis
India and China were not affected because opium money is laundered through multinational banks
Then US & India staged 26/11
It allowed US to execute unilateral strikes against taliban operating within Pakistan
It created fear and terror in India, and Manmohan & Co could purchase arms from US, and pocket crores through paybacks.
The deception continues....
==========================================

I thought my thriller was shaping up well. And here this guy upstaged my plot with a few deft strokes of his psychedelic mind.
Sigh. Should I even bother writing my masterpiece now??

The dynamics of writing

2010-10-23T03:07:00.004+05:30

In the thick of writing the so-called masterpiece, things happen. Small things to the observer, but they could be huge issues for the writer. Issues accorded a shallow burial. Or maybe they're just issues that remain on the surface while the writer pretends that they're invisible. The hide-and-seek game doesn't work. Sooner than later, the writer must confront them. And accept that the real world he lives in is a tad more real than the world of his novel.
What does the writer then do? He has no answers. The varied tools he has at his disposal - language, vocabulary, plot, situations, nuances of situations, the ethereal consciousness of his characters.... all these are incapable of helping him tackle the reality of his life. So what does he do? Maybe he drowns in his own sorrow. Or maybe, just maybe, he hopes that his favourite songs and tipples pull him out of his real-world situations. Heck, they might even offer him the breathing space that's required between the appearance of the problem and the solution.
Just a thought.

A tale of five batsmen

2010-10-05T22:35:00.007+05:30

Once upon a time in Heaven, God was personally conducting interviews in the Cricket Desk of the Ministry of Soul Recycling. He sat on his throne and asked for the souls to approach him one at a time.
'What do you want to be in this birth?' God asked the first soul.
'I want to be the most productive cricketer of all times.'
'What will you do with this gift?'
'I will score centuries. I will make a mountain of runs. Every record in the game will belong to me.'
'So be it. You shall be born in the Tendulkar family in Mumbai. With this gift, I also give you a curse. Your prowess will be useless in moments that matter the most. Who's next?'
The second soul approached, bowed and said:
'What you are to the world, I want to be in the cricket field.'
'Fool! You dare compete with me? I can punish you by making you a football player. In India, mind you, not Europe or Latin America. But since you spoke your mind, I shall grant half your wish. You shall rule the off side. Your cover drives will be elegant and impossible. But the short-pitched ball will remind you of my wrath. You'll be a leader like me, but your leadership will also bring you unimaginable pressures. Now go. Be born in the Ganguly household in Kolkata! Next!!'
The third soul came and stood timidly in front of God.
'A shy one, are you? Are you aware that you can't ask for gifts I've already given away?'
'I am. Let me also be aware of the state of the game at all times. Let me have the ability to stay at the crease. I want to be the immovable object.'
'Interesting. What will you do with this ability?'
'I will do more than you intended me to.'
'I'd like to see that happen. I grant you your wish. But I will also restrict your array of strokes. You'll labour even when others sizzle. You'll play second fiddle to perfection, even when you deserve the top spot. Go now, to Indore and take birth in the Dravid household. Next!!'
'You're a bit of a terror, aren't you?' the fourth soul asked.
'And you, young thing, are outspoken. I like that. What do you want?'
'I want my eyes and my hands to be become one holistic magic organ. They must always be in sync.'
'And your goal?'
'I will be the most feared batsman in the world. I will play the most memorable innings in the history of the game. My shots will be audacious, my attitude even more so.'
'Yes. Yes, of course! But your curse is that your eyes and hands will decouple from your brain at inopportune times. No bowler will ever dismiss you. Your brain will assign that task to itself. It's only fit that you be born a Jat. Go to Delhi and be a Sehwag. Next!! Who's next? I don't see anybody.'
'That's because I'm prostrating before you, my Lord.'
Pleased by this soul, God rose from his throne and came up to him.
'Tell me, my child, what can I give you? The others have taken the most glorious gifts in the game. Can you think of something that can still make you special?'
'I want to win games for my country. More games than anybody ever has. I want to deliver when the chips are down.'
'Ah! My child. I see that the others have missed asking for the most special gift of all. It's yours. I shall add to it. You shall wield your bat like a magic wand. You shall thus mesmerize your opposition. You will look clumsy and be graceful. Your wrists shall make the Australians weep. Your morality will be a shining example to others. And you shall display all those gifts with a humble and steely mind.'
'Lord, what's my curse?' the soul asked.
'I'm afraid, my child, that no matter how well you perform, people will forget you exist. You'll spend your life proving yourself again and again.'
'That doesn't sound so bad.'
'It isn't. Because I shall be watching. And I will remember every magic act you perform on the field. Now go to Hyderabad. Assume the longest name in the game. You will hereafter be called Vangipurappu Venkata Sai Laxman. And since people will not be able to remember that, they will call you Laxman. Except when you dazzle. They will then remember you to be Very Very Special Laxman.'

Parenting for the corrupt bureaucrat

2010-09-14T00:43:00.002+05:30

The other day, someone suggested to me that corruption be legalised and why not? We could do away with the whole charade and honesty itself could be redefined, ahem, more honestly.
Of course, there’s a roadblock: the Constitution. Written by idealists and, worse, people who were sticklers for rules, it allows no elbow room for such pragmatic manoeuvres. So what does the poor rich corrupt bureaucrat do in the meanwhile? Ignore the pressing needs of his family to uphold a piece of legislation? Of course not. A babu has to do what a babu has to do. He has to busily seek loopholes, profit-points, deals and that odd crevice under the table. In that order. And he manages this with admirable ingenuity. He smells a leverage two mornings before it wafts in, he covers his tracks better than a guerrilla warrior, and he slips his gains under the carpet and makes it reappear as benami or wife-nami real-estate in his mofussil hometown. No fuss. He needs no coaching here.
Unfortunately, he finds parenting a stiffer challenge – children are exposed to all kinds of nonsense even in this day and age. They might learn old-fashioned values in their old-fashioned schools; they might befriend children from upright families; they might occasionally read past the fifteen Page Threes; and who knows what impact angst-ridden Bollywood movies, even B-grade ones, might have on a child’s psyche?
It’s a jungle out there and the babu has to guard his fiefdom from these nefarious influences. Thankfully, help – a proven model – is not only within reach, but it can also be implemented right from the day the little babu-ess is born.

Age 0-12

Dear babu, you’ve just heard the good news in the waiting room of the Maternity Home. Congratulations! You’re a Papa. Tip that toothy nurse a large Gandhi, thank your wife for a job well done and now: beam at your child. She might resemble a bundle of innocence, but you mustn’t wait any longer. Now’s the right time to introduce her to your worldview. Pamper her well. She’s too young and too late for a monogrammed chamberpot, but you can buy her other things. Diapers softer than moss, enough toys to shame the North Pole workshop and perhaps a naming ceremony your locality will remember for a long time. Record your efforts for posterity. She’ll appreciate your love soon enough. She will because you’re already getting her addicted to moneyed pleasures.
That’s the crux. There’re some things money can’t buy. For everything else, there’s Brasht Babu. You. Her Papa.
Teach her this crucial lesson. Everyday, every waking hour. If you’ve done a good job, you’ll ensure that by the age of two, she can’t sleep in a non-a/c room. By the time she turns four, she believes that trains are quaint contraptions that toot while ferrying other people. Bear in mind that this is also the ripe age for a different kind of lesson: how should one treat one’s parent? Show her by example. Hire a fulltime nurse to take care of your ailing father. Chat obsequiously with him in your daughter’s presence. Agree with everything he says. Get your wife to ask you: ‘Why didn’t you correct him when he said that?’ Your reply: ‘He’s my father. It’s not for me to correct him.’
You might have to repeat this drill many times in the next few years. Some children are naturally rebellious, so the message might take time to sink in. But eventually, your daughter will be thrilled by the sobering beauty of this lesson. Her father isn’t just an able administrator and a respected man of society, but also a simple and noble man. Of course, your daughter will hear this very sentiment expressed incessantly by your subordinates, especially in those deliberately dull parties at the clubhouse where the men talk shop, the women pretend to be interested in social service and the children smile and whisper monosyllables, but none as sweetly as your little angel.
It might be smooth sailing from now on. Or maybe not.

Age 13-17

Teenage might upset your well-laid plans.
Let’s say that your daughter is going through a torrid phase. On many topics, she now trusts her friends more than you. She’s also spotted a few chinks in your reasoning. Your best defence is to lie low and maintain the usual serene demeanour. The storm will pass. Meanwhile, find innovative ways to impart the by-now familiar lessons. Throw in a story or two about vulture-like peers badmouthing you because they perceive you as a threat. It also won’t hurt to become a Lion or Rotarian. Better still, contribute a fortnight’s salary for a good cause – in your daughter’s name, of course. And if possible, write an intelligent article titled, say, RTI: Tool or Weapon? Overall, let your daughter see that you’re a good man doing a good job under adverse conditions.
But let’s not dismiss the extreme scenario. Perhaps you goofed up somewhere down the line. Perhaps your daughter feels forced to confront an age-old dilemma: should she choose earthy institutional values over airy human values? What’s her take? Family or society? She has a sneaking suspicion that you’ve made it an issue of one or the other. It might prompt her to ask the dreaded question: ‘Papa, are you clean?’ Look deep into her eyes before you answer: ‘Sweetheart, I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.’ It’s true, isn’t it? You accepted that the systemic beast was untameable. You decided against being a pretentious crusader. You blended in. Was that such a bad thing? Of course not. You needn’t be ashamed of your humility and level-headedness; they form the backbone of your strong character.
And now your daughter sees this as well. She hugs you and apologises for crossing the line. Just a few doubts linger in her mind. Dispel them by casually suggesting that she attempt an alternate lifestyle for a while. She’ll jump to it – teens are suckers for experimentation. So go ahead, slash her allowance. Ask her to take the city bus instead of the sarkari car to her junior college. Grind your teeth and try not to think about the lewd eveteaser and his groping hands. Find other privileges to slash. Give her a scaled-down model of mobile phone, discontinue her shopping allowance, let her next birthday cake weigh less than 10 kgs etcetera, etcetera. If you’re willing to travel the distance, buy her seventeenth birthday dress from a Bargain Basement outlet. By now, you’ll surely notice tears forming in the corners of her eyes. It’s time for the experiment to end. So offer her a re-entry into her old way of life.
Your daughter will reclaim her privileges – which had seemed to cloy around the edges – with joyous abandon. She’ll also reinstate you on her pedestal. She now appreciates, fully appreciates, your untiring efforts to create a likeable world for her.

Age 18-24

Now that you’re her hero again, she’ll approach you for some serious career counselling. Her heart says Fashion Designing, but her mind screams Environmental Engineering. Could you help her resolve this tussle between teen heart and teen mind? Ah-hah! Time to unleash your philosophical arsenal. Talk abstract. What’s heart? What’s mind? In keeping with your increasingly intense religiosity, you must quote liberally from religious text – they’re so wonderfully open to interpretation – and you must also shift focus from the fact that you understand neither fashion nor the environment, except that both seem to be going downhill. But you do have a fair idea of the market risks associated with both fields. That’s where you should focus. By the end of the discussion, you must convey, in a palatable form, the distilled wisdom of your life:
Follow the money trail; both imagination and a conscience make life unbearable.
That done, trust her to make the right choice. The third choice, the one you had subtly pointed out during the conversation.

Age 25 onwards

Your daughter has been fending for herself for the past few years. She's doing well. A chip off the old block. She regularly brings you gifts. Kashmiri sweaters, Swiss watches, French perfumes – things that wrap together opulence, worldview and love. But one day, she tells you that she has a different kind of gift in mind. She’s chosen her life partner, and won’t he, her beloved Papa, meet the lucky guy and his family? Your heart flutters a little. You reach for the blood pressure pill. This is big news. Someone whom you haven’t influenced would now influence your daughter. Who was this man? How did he perceive the world? Has Life planned a last-minute complication for you?
You put up a brave front and proceed to meet this man’s family, wearing gentlemanly clothes and the haughtiness that’s now second nature to you. You smile for your daughter as the destination inches closer. There it is. The bungalow of her prospective in-laws. But hold on! A distinguished nameplate adorns the gateway. The CISF jawan at the gate salutes you. You drive past him and then a homely Ambassador with a red light on the roof. You alight and shake hands warmly with the prospective groom’s father. ‘Birds of a feather,’ someone says. That someone is the neighbourhood sycophant, a mirror image of the ones grovelling at your doorstep. You beam. All’s well. The reverence in the prospective groom’s face is proof enough.
You taught your daughter well. You’ll never lose her. In untold ways, she has become you. Congratulations!

P.S: My sincere apologies to the honest bureaucrats. Are all five of you reading this?

Ramadan in Sharjah

2010-09-11T05:56:00.001+05:30

From five storeys above the ground, I grip my laptop and watch an unfamiliar, sand-dusted city that has turned into a midmorning mirage. The shimmer of the desert has blended with the shimmer of the Arabian Sea in the distance. The traffic appears liquid, the palm trees sappy. A couple of poorly-dressed South Asian construction workers wade through steaming asphalt on oozy legs. On the other side of the road is a mosque with a flat dome and jagged minarets. I illogically lean forward in my air-conditioned soundproof office and listen for the call of the muezzin, hoping that piety will cure me of the overwhelming and untimely desire I feel. But all I hear are international office sounds. Tap-tap, ring-ring, clickety-click.
I stare woefully at my laptop screen and find it dissolving, succumbing to the mirage. Not good. It’s not only my first day in Sharjah, but also my first day in a prestigious project for a new client. I already know that the deadline is tight as curds. To get into the rhythm, I must have coffee. I recall the words of a veteran immigrant to the Emirates:
‘Have coffee, have a feast, by all means. Just don’t let an Emirati see you having it.’
So be it. I rise, button up my blazer and hunt for the pantry. I find it deserted, although the mess tells me that this world, too, is full of sinners like me. No time to waste. I rummage through the drawers for a cup and come up empty-handed. The animal in me considers making a cup out of my palm. Fortunately, a voice behind me says:
‘You’re probably looking for this.’ I turn and stare at a youngish man holding an array of Styrofoam cups and stirrers like it was a prize trophy. He shuts the door behind him and continues: ‘Cups are difficult to find. Especially during Ramadan.’
‘Yeah-yeah,’ I say, almost snatching a cup from his hands. In the next ten minutes, I slurp through a gallon of hot coffee. Having done that, I pop a mint into my mouth and exit the pantry. My face exudes serenity. My jaws don’t move – the mint must take care of itself.
Later in the evening, hours after the Moslems have left to break their fast, I leave the office and am greeted by a different Sharjah. The sand has settled. The heat has gone to bed. And the roads are packed with traffic and people – South Asian, Filipino, Caucasian and also the occasional kandoura-wearing Emirati. The air is singed with the aroma of fresh food. I head for the nearest shawarma stall and buy one from the Pakistani man running it.
‘Ramadan Kareem,’ we tell each other.
Underneath the open sky, in the reflected glare of blinding-white neon lights, I chomp hard into my shawarma and feel like a new person. Because if you’re in the Emirates during Ramadan, you will celebrate the breaking of the fast, no matter what your faith is.

2010-08-15T04:46:00.002+05:30

There are things I don't tell myself unless I'm piss drunk. Like I am now.
At such times, it becomes easier to think of her. The love of my life. She's five years old. Well, she will be soon.
I normally write these sordid pieces in a secretive drunken diary. I'm vaguely aware that I'm facing a blogspot editor now. Doesn't matter, does it? Certainly doesn't. It could be unrequited love at this point in time. But surely, surely, there's something called the genetic pull? Surely requited love is around the corner? I've been living my life on that assumption. I work the kind of hours that would put the President of the You-Nighted-States to shame. I don't normally think of her. Not even when my PC boots and I see her propped on my shoulder on my desktop. I quickly launch an application and enter my day. But lately, I'm beginning to think about the other side. The person responsible for the chasm. The person who feels so indignant that she's convinced herself she's Lady Liberty, dispensing justice with her swathe-creating scales.
Damn her for playing Goddess. She has no right. And one day, the love of my life will understand this too.

Against impossible odds. Again.

2010-08-08T01:52:00.005+05:30

Wow! Second time in a row, India began the series in the trenches and somehow managed to summit.
The last time was against South Africa in India. Till the last match in Kolkata, we appeared anything but the #1 Test team in the world. We dithered, grunted, moped and surrendered to the Proteas who have always managed to hold their own in the subcontinent. And then, Harbhajan came to the party - as he does once every three years.

And if the home series against SA put us in a desperate corner, the away series against the Lankans seemed like the twilight zone for our #1 status. Most of our frontline bowlers were already injured. Others joined their ranks midway through the series. On top of that, Yuvraj and Gambhir succumbed to untimely injuries and Dravid looked about as composed as a virgin on a lust-bed.
So the third test became a contest between an "India A" team and a Lankan side that seemed to have shrugged off Murali's absence with minimum fuss. Before the Test began, I told myself that we had an outside chance if we won the toss and batted first. Dhoni, of course, lost his third toss in a row and the Lankans piled up a great total. I, for one, plastered my shattered dreams and sobbed myself to sleep at the end of Day 2. And then Viru, Laxman, Raina, Mithun and Mishra showed us that the team batting second can take a meagre lead against a superior bowling outfit. The only major blemish from that point was that we allowed Mendis to make amends with the bat, for his carrom balls weren't "striking" home.
In both innings, Laxman handled his wand with typical deftness and flourish. Has any batsman in the history of the game been more mesmerizing when on song? (Let's not mar this wonderful day by mentioning how inept he looks on other days... oops! Too late!!)
Anyway, I get this warm feeling whenever Laxman and Dravid do well. Because even unsung heroes deserve the occasional ode. Which, incidentally, sounds sweeter when it proclaims a reversal of fortunes. How else can we describe this series? The Indian team did not even show up for the first seven days of the series. Before the fifteenth day ended, we had leveled the conflict, shared the honours and somehow managed to cling on to the coveted #1 ranking.
Well, let's say that two consecutive occurences is a trend. And let's hope it's here to stay.

P.S: Have we found a reliable middle-order bat in Raina? Only time can tell. Also, I'm excited about Cheteshwar Poojara, but could we please give a dignified farewell to Dravid before he's ushered in?

India's intellectual Goliath is no more

2010-08-01T03:26:00.009+05:30

K Balagopal died on October 8, 2009. And I heard about it today, 10 months after the event. What a shame! What have I been doing with my time? Rather unimportant things, surely. How else can I explain the fact that I did not catch the most significant Indian event of 2009? Those who have never known Balagopal would dismiss that statement as a hyperbole. Those who knew him would see it as an understatement.

That's Balagopal for you. In many ways, he was the country's best kept secret. A man whose intellectual clarity mesmerized people and turned them into thinkers. Yes, thinkers. I myself spent my childhood and youth under the illusion that I was capable of thought. And then I met Balagopal.
Here was a man who stood on a platform of unquestionable ethics and shone a torch of pure logic into the dark crevices of Indian society. Throughout his life, he ensured that his torch burned brightly and incessantly, illuminating the unfathomable for lesser beings. You will find this exact description in every eulogy written on the great man. Well, how could everybody who sought him return with the same impression? Maybe because he was that consistent. Why stop there? In a world where the rules changed everyday, I'd say that he was the rare constant. After all, the cold vein of truth does not bend with age. It remains what it is - an echo that resonates deep within our hearts. When I listen carefully, that echo sounds like Balagopal's rapid speech.

A rare constant

Just because he was a "constant man" does not mean that he was fixated with an ideology he formulated ages ago. I'd say that Balagopal remained constant because his truth became broader and shaper. When the Emergency happened, he shifted his paradigm of thinking to make sense of it. A little later, when the Maoists galvanized Karimnagar and Warangal to initiate mass movements, he found his romance with Marxism gaining strength. Next, when confronted by stark examples of atrocities on Dalits, he felt compelled to widen his activities. Of course, he never doubted that Dalit oppression was an infringement of Human Rights - he just decided to do more about it.

A centrist, hence a humanist

I met and interacted with Balagopal for 18 months between early 2007 and mid 2008. I was then researching for my historical novel on the Naxalite movement (the as-yet unpublished Red Curry). Quite naturally, I traveled widely across Andhra Pradesh over a period of 12 months. I first based myself out of Vishakapatnam to find out as much as I could about the developments in Srikakulam in the late 60s and early 70s. After that, I went to Hyderabad. By now, I had already sensed the intellectual power of Balagopal (through descriptions provided by his fellow Human Rights activists, journalists, police officers, Naxalite sympathisers and sundry detractors). I was eager to experience the power myself. Moreover, I was quite disappointed not to have met a single centrist in the entire landscape. Almost everybody I met had a penchant to simplify the debate, turn it into binary evaluations. This was true even for some well-known "Left-leaning intellectuals" who inevitably revealed viewpoints dotted with personal prejudices and ignorance of the chronology of events. (The only exception to this, other than Balagopal, was fellow writer Mohan Ramamoorthy - more about him later.)
But Balagopal was something else altogether. Within minutes of beginning my interview with him, my brain was struggling to expand at the rate of knots, so that it could absorb everything the man was saying.
I had finally found my centrist, one who had seen each planet, comet and asteroid in this terrifying galaxy fall into place. A man who could recall minor details at will and map them into trends and issues. As an erstwhile mathematician, Balagopal could take the binary views offered by others and divide them into, shall we say, quark numbers. I kept pitching long, rambling questions at him to throw him off the track. Each time, he put me in my place by identifying the nub of the matter. 'Let's do away with the superfluous and the incidental,' he seemed to be saying. 'What's the core issue here? Let's talk about that.'
So we did.
Over two evenings, he transformed the million facts I had at my disposal into lucid logic. I had finally - dare I say it? - understood the Naxalite movement. As much as my puny brain could, anyway.

A rarer moral courage

Despite his dazzling intellect, what impressed me even more was his moral courage. Here was a man who knew that in this "ding-dong battle" (his own words) between the state and the Naxalites, he was destined to play the referee. Not the easiest job in the world, is it? It meant that, every weekend, he was off to some inaccessible part of the country to investigate transgressions made by one side or the other - be it fake encounters conducted by the cops or summary executions orchestrated by the Naxalites. The only certainty in this bleak politics was that Balagopal would be on Ground Zero at the earliest, peeling layers of lies off the official version.

I myself had the good fortune to witness Balagopal in one of his fact finding missions. It was January 2008. A Naxalite had been killed by the Greyhounds in an obscure village 40 km outside the town of Jangaon. I spent the day with him and his team and experienced the frustration that comes easily when one is in the middle of a seemingly impossible task. Balagopal, however, appeared unruffled. Once the team had identified the lies in the cop's description of the encounter, we met the family of the slain man, a few villagers and finally went to a tea stall where, upon getting the news of Balagopal's arrival, many vernacular journalists had gathered. Balagopal addressed them in a few words, gave his interpretation of the events, after which, we returned to civilization. On the way back, I remember asking him where the news would be featured. He replied: 'If we're lucky, maybe a 1-inch column on the bottom of Page 7.' Perhaps on a slow news day, the news would be elevated to the top of the page.
Back at the Jangaon bus stand, we lunched together and I said goodbye. I left for a 3-week spell in Warangal while he returned to Hyderabad. It was the last I saw of the genius. I called him a couple of times after that, chiefly to know what he thought of my manuscript. 'I think it's good,' he replied. I don't want to know if he was being polite (perhaps not. Not him!). All I know is that those words mean more to me than a mention in the NYT bestseller list.
I still cannot understand why he gave people like me so much of his time. After all, I was not the only one descending upon him with a busload of ignorance. It occurs to me now that he must have given me his interview on autopilot. If I could do that interview all over again, I'd think of cleverer questions. At least one of which would stretch his brain. Wishful thinking, I know.

Sleep long and well, dear sir. Everybody you've met will miss you.

Tyranny of the larks

2010-06-17T05:39:00.004+05:30

Imagine a winged world wherein only two species have survived. The larks and the owls. The larks rise with the sun. The owls, on the other hand, soar after the sun sets. Stop imagining. There’s no need to imagine. I’m not talking about a distant universe. I’m talking about us. More specifically, I’m alluding to the unbridgeable divide between the early risers and the late sleepers.
It’s a divide alright, perhaps the most important one amongst homo sapiens barring the gender divide. Because a few thousand years from now, when caste has been abolished, religion made irrelevant, the skin tones rendered an even beige and national boundaries erased, the lark will still sneer at the owl and say:
‘Aren’t you a lazy bum?’
To which, the owl will offer a half-owlish, half-sheepish, wholly apologetic grin and flutter away into a dark corner.
This exchange between the owl and lark has been one of the defining themes of my life. For I’m an owl. I’ve been one for as long as I can remember. In fact, I vividly remember my first day at secondary school. Having enjoyed the luxury of attending an afternoon primary school, I was now being given the opportunity to “be an adult.” Which meant I’d have to wake up at 5 am, take a cold bath, gobble a breakfast and hop off to school, pretending to be happy.
‘You’ll get used to it soon enough,’ my mother told me.
I never did. For the next six years, I woke up surly and sleepwalked through the morning routine. At school, I acquired a crucial survival skill. I learnt to appear attentive, although it was obvious to me that my brain refused to wake up before 10 am, no matter how long my body has been limbering along. Once past that threshold hour, I’d acquire the magical ability to comprehend the blackboard. I’d realize that my teachers weren’t speaking Swahili after all.
‘But you’re missing more than half the lessons,’ my mother worried. She began playing Suprabatham and Bhaja Govindam for me in the mornings. ‘That’ll perk you up.’ I tried telling her that the great M. S. Subbalakshmi’s voice sounded platinum to me only in the evenings. In the mornings, however, I couldn’t differentiate between her melody and a catfight. ‘Never mind. I’m sure it will help,’ she concluded, raising the volume. Now, that’s totally acceptable in our country. You can blare a devotional song from a loudspeaker at 4 am and everybody will take it in their stride. Try listening to an Eminem song on your stereo at midnight and the chances are that your neighbour will pay you an angry visit.
It seemed a little unfair that society was based on such hypocritical practices. I often tried to plead my case, especially to those oldies in the family who liked to kick me awake at 7 am during my summer vacations. All I received in return were sermons camouflaged as lessons:
‘Asuras lurk in the nights,’ an especially orthodox granduncle informed me once. ‘You look like an asura, I concede that. But you don’t have to behave like one.’
‘If you don’t learn to obey nature’s laws, you’ll never amount to anything,’ a grandfather added.
‘It has been scientifically proven,’ an uncle – US-returned and all that – said, ‘that the human brain works best in the mornings. Haven’t you heard the Chinese proverb that one must finish half the day’s work by 9 am?’
I nevertheless begged to differ. Experience taught me that waking up at 4 am to study for the exams meant that I’d languish at the bottom of the class. So I began studying till 4 am and did well. An idea began forming in my mind. Perhaps there were others like me. People who were journalists, security guards, truck drivers and the like. Heck, even the milkman relied on someone who drove a van through the night. Upon reaching this conclusion, I began asserting my Owl Rights (since Human Rights apply only to humans and I wasn’t one). I even rebelled when necessary. By the time I began employment, I had acquired the joyous habit of sleeping well past midnight.
The working world partially brought me back to reality. Like school, office began early. Unlike school, it kept me chained way past midnight. This was no longer a battle between birds. It was a battle to overtake fatigue and retain sanity. But even in this overcharged atmosphere, I quickly learnt to tell the larks and the owls apart. The larks insisted on having the heaviest discussions first thing in the morning. The owls, as usual, didn’t have a say in the matter. This discovery worried me. I had zombied through 12 years of morning classes, confident in my ability to teach myself later, preferably a few days before the exams began. But that sort of thinking doesn’t work in the corporate world. One must make lucid decisions all the time. For which one must be lucid. So I learnt to listen intently during the morning meetings. I made detailed notes of everything that was said – the parrot part of my owlish brain worked alright in the mornings – and reprocessed them post noon. My bosses realized that my most productive inputs arrived after lunch. They began making allowances for my “disability.” As a happy corollary, I realized that I was at my singing best in the evenings, around the time the larks were ready to throw in the towel. The time zone, too, worked in my favour. I did well during the conference calls with American clients. When I moved to the US, my offshore team called me during my nights, when I could resolve all their problems without batting an eyelid. Of course, they continued to call me in the mornings, but with the understanding that my half-coherent replies would crystallize into complete solutions by the time they returned to work the next day.
Today, as a writer, I find that my stories seep into my bones after the sun sets. And even now, I work extensively with corporate clients who insist on calling me as soon as they reach their workstations in the morning. I’d have gone to asleep around 7 am, but I’m duty-bound to pick up calls starting 9 am – after all, won’t any self-respecting professional be up by then? And having picked up the call, I practice my latest art – the art of having a plausible conversation on autopilot. The content in these conversations “dawn” on me hours later, while I brush my teeth.

So there it is. I live in a world where I feel like a hapless minority. I don’t accept this world’s clock, but I must accept every other rule it imposes – rules regarding decorum, timelines, meeting hours etc. And despite my glaring disability, I've never missed my deadlines and meetings because I overslept. Oftentimes, I don’t sleep in order to attend an early morning meeting. My body runs on an owlish clock, but I force it to wear larky apparel at least once a week. Does it take a toll on my body? It must. Not because my body is deprived of sunlight or is playing host to demonic elements. My body suffers simply because I don’t give it sufficient rest. Because I’m dancing simultaneously to two rhythms – mine and the world’s. Because I don’t live in a progressive Scandinavian country which allows owls to begin work at a later hour.
As a result, I accept that friends will message me at 6 am, just as I’m drifting off to sleep. My bank will run early-morning batch jobs and thus send me an SMS at 7 am reminding me that I used my debit card last evening. School-going children of neighbours – fellow owls, I think – will create a ruckus and break my sleep. Telemarketers and travelling salesmen will wonder why I’m angry about nothing. And, finally, when I enjoy Bhaja Govindam at 9 pm, I will be called a weirdo.
And as we know, the majority is always right.

The politics of disappointment

2010-06-14T16:24:00.007+05:30

An adaptation is a double-edged sword. If executed well, it harnesses the power of the original tale in a refreshing new context. And if executed badly, it mars the tale beyond redemption.
So what happenes when a single narrative is a contextual juxtaposition of two tales as potent as the Mahabharata and Godfather? You get Rajneeti. A mishmash of violence, sex and political intrigue that's loud without being convincing.

The film begins well and wastes no time in introducing the mirror characters from the greatest epic of all time. Surya bhagwan (Naseeruddin Shah) doesn't need a powerful chant to experience a moment of amorous weakness; the shamed man has no option but to disappear forever, leaving a dark void behind. The corollary: Kunti (Nikhila Trikha) bears an illegitimate son, Karna (Ajay Devgan). Keeping to the ancient script, Karna is abandoned in a boat in a river. Kunti is aided in this effort by her brother Shakuni (Nana Patekar). Yes, Shakuni is on the depleted Pandav camp this time. He's also multi-faceted. He transforms himself into Krishna during the climax and otherwise acts as Bhishma in the political clan, but let's not jump the gun.
Karna is destined to procure a Dalit identity, even though he belongs to the most powerful political family of the land. Which land? Well, it's not Hastinapur or Indraprastha. It's a divided Patilaputra.
Cut forward twenty-five years (perhaps fifty, considering how swollen Devgan looks), and Kunti is the proud mother of two sons - Sonny and Michael Corleone, both perfect replicas of Mario Puzo's creations. Sonny is played by Arjun Rampal and Michael by Ranbir Kapoor. The former promises to diversify and become a good actor in the near future. The latter performs well in a couple of emotive scenes. For the rest, he's as deadpan as the script expects him to be.
Oh, we forgot all about the Kauravs, didn't we? Let's get to them. I mean, him. There's Duryodhan (Manoj Bajpai), aided ably by Karna. Dhirdharashtra acquires his physical disability late in life, on time to trigger a power struggle between Sonny Corleone and Duryodhan. Unconcerned by all this, Michael would have returned to America and presented his thesis on "subtextual violence in 19th century Victorian poetry", except that Pandu is assassinated by Karna (or someone acting on his behalf). Michael must now fulfil his destiny. He must overnight become a vampire in a butcher's shop. From now on, no machination will be beyond him. No local Patna brain will be able to outsmart him. He will destroy everything in his path. He will also make a convenient sacrifice - the Panchali (Katrina Kaif) who loves him passionately and unconditionally will suddenly find herself marrying the senior Corleone.
No need for alarm. Panchali will not practice polyandry. And her feminine mind is flexible enough to see the shimmering soul crouching behind Sonny's mass-murdering exterior. She will copulate with him, efficiently (once from the look of it) and give the wonderfully bloodthirsty family the next generation politician. Much required, that, because Sonny Corleone and Kate (played by Sarah Thompson) will perish together in a car explosion. Mercifully, this does not instigate a romantic liaison between Panchali and Michael. Unmercifully, this means that Panchali will now occcupy the political centrestage because, well, Indian political berths must be inherited by family members and we can't assume otherwise even in fiction.
The Corleones emerge victorious in the election and the Kauravs are shot dead without compunction.
Had enough? I did. After Gangaajal and Apharan (not to mention the serenely executed Hip Hip Hurray from the 80s), one expects so much more from Prakash Jha. More so because of the talent he had at his disposal (except, of course, for the ravishing Kaif who manages half an expression more than usual, allowing her to demonstrate a grand total of one and a half expressions).
Devgan is so underused that one is tempted to see his role as a Special Appearance. Manoj Bajpai plays a narrow character and is thus wasted. Naseeruddin Shah doesn't return even to provide a proverbial twist in the tale. Nana Patekar has been given the most complex character of the lot and he does justice to it. But given the flawed screenplay, even he can do nothing but look aghast when Kunti tells Karna that he's her "jyest putra!" The performances of the Corleones, I've already mentioned.
But most of all, Rajneeti does not enliven the landscape it is set in. And with the screenplay remaining uniformly high-pitched, there just isn't sufficient space for subtlety, layered characterization and dialect-heavy dialogues - Jha's strengths. Moreover:
1) The whole saga is supposed to happen during one election campaign, within a matter of weeks. Jha does himself a disservice here. The Mahabharata takes place over a century (from Shantanu to Parikrit). The Godfather consumes half as much time. There's sufficient time for characters to develop, change and change some more. But how does one justify Panchali's penchant to reinvent at the drop of a hat? She's a bubbly, spoilt, independent, lovey-dovey gal to begin with. She then succumbs to parental pressure to marry the wrong man, fall in love with him, mourn his loss, then assume political leadership. All this happens in weeks? Really?
Why couldn't Jha have envisaged this over four election campaigns, with the pendulum swinging either way, with the clan perishing in small doses and each character adjusting anew to the situation? Everything in the plot could have fit in neatly then.
2) Why does the top brass of the biggest political family feel compelled to participate in gun fights? I was given the impression that Bihar is full of trigger-happy henchmen. These filmy turns in an otherwise realistic depiction (the glamour notwithstanding) stick out like a sore asses.

Final verdict: even a flawed Jha movie is better than a template-driven Rahul/Raj candy romance. Go see it without expectations. Better still, buy the DVD. That way, you can pause, have a hearty laugh once in a while and see some more.

P.S: On a personal aside, I stepped into a theatre after a gap of six years. I must say that multiplexes built inside malls are such logistical disasters that I'd sooner sit on an electric chair. On the plus side, the audience reacts incongrously and that allows one a seat-shaking snigger.
P.P.S: If you're looking for a decent adaptation of the Mahabharata, read Tharoor's The Great Indian Novel.

A doomsday prediction comes true

2010-05-22T14:22:00.007+05:30

A dark day. I feel the bile creeping up my throat. I feel like crying out, "We told you so. WE TOLD YOU SO!" Who's responsible? Decide for yourself.

Here are excerpts from the cover story I wrote (along with Mahesh Nayak and Vikas Kumar K. C.) for Mangalore Today (Oct/Nov 1998 issue). I remember this issue very clearly because of a tough deadline. I wrote the story through the night and finished it by dawn. By dusk the same day, the magazine had been put to bed. I remember this story also because of a controversial remark made by the then Senior Airports Officer in charge of the Mangalore aiport. He had said, "If an international airport is not set up here, I see no future for this airport. It might as well close down." I asked him thrice if I could quote him. Yes, he replied on each occasion. He was suspended for making that statement.

Anyway, here are the excerpts:

With a table-top runway of just around 5300 ft, the sheer drops on either sides, it is acknowledged to be the second most hazardous airport in the country after the one at Port Blair. The only consolation is that when the aircraft reaches the edge of the cliff, it really takes off, unlike the scientist-aviators before the Wright brothers. At least they have been unfailingly doing so, thanks to the expert pilots whom the airline companies specially depute for the Mangalore-bound flights.
...
"According to international conventions, Boeings should not be allowed to land at [the old airstrip of the] Bajpe airport" - quote by Yashwant Kamath.
...
The existing runway strip is only 5300 ft long, has got a slope of five degrees and is unsuited for use by bigger aircraft like the A-320s.
...
Indeed, the limitations posed by the table-top runway will prove to be major hurdle [in the operation of international flights]. There may not be many takers for this potentially hazardous task. Even for domestic flights, due to the short length of the runway, the aircraft weight has to be carefully monitored, and the ratio between the number of passengers, weight of cargo and the weight of fuel have to be precisely balanced, failing which the aircraft will not get the necessary lift within the available runway space. Often, the number of passengers has to be limited to 80% of the capacity or eve lesser.
...
The site where the Avro carrying the then minister Veerappa Moily almost had a peek down the cliff edge. Fortunately, the only mishap so far.
...

I've not exactly been tuned to the happenings since this story broke. I do remember that 208 families had to be evacuated to create the new airstrip. They fought long and hard to hold on to their land, but apparently lost.
What amazes me is that today, the TV channels showed the aircraft that tumbled as having used the old airstrip. If this is true, then it's the worst kind of irresponsible behaviour possible. An airstrip that was unsafe for even domestic flights can be employed for international flights only by the most irresponsible people on the planet.
I'm going to find out what happened to the new aistrip. But felt like getting this out at the soonest. Watch out for more updates.

=============
Alright, more updates.
The new runway was used. Thank God for that. This doesn't mean that this runway is long and comfortable enough. It's only longer than the old one and gives the international pilots a tad more legroom, as it were.
And there are questions to be raised about planning as regards the new runway. A few more relevant excerpts from the 1998 cover story:

They [a committee formed by civilians] also accuse the AAI of several serious violations of the norms as prescribed by the International Civil Aviation Organization (ICAO) of which India is a member:
1) The geography will allow a runway width of only 200 m instead of the statutory 300 m.
2) It will lie within four-km aerial length of the corporation garbage dumping ground, instead of the prescribed 10 km. This means the risk of bird hits is high.
3) The proposed Indo-Rama polymers plant at Kenjar will fall within range, violating airline regulations.

The committe instead suggests that the airport will be better served if it takes the expansion along the other side at Sunkadakatte where, he says, a 12000 ft stretch will be available. "But the land is dotted with concrete buidings occupied by the rich. A minister's (B. A. Moideen's) house also comes in the way," he [Fr. Ronald D'Souza] added cynically.

Remember that this report was filed in 1998. The new runway became operational in 2006. In this duration, one hopes that the concerns raised above were addressed and the alternative location of the new runway considered. Thankfully, my journalist friends are on Ground Zero, covering the event. And we now have a few pointed questions to ask.

And one more question begs itself: the new International airport was a fresh start. A new airstrip, a new terminal. Everything was built from scratch. That being the case, why was an alternative location not considered? Why Bajpe? Why not Padubidri, as proposed by many? Padubidri has a more docile terrain and would have been more cost-effective as well.
Because the Bajpe location was never meant for civilian landings. It was merely a convenient landing spot for the military and government aircraft during the British rule, used mainly for refuelling the aircraft as they flew between Cochin and Bombay.

Having said that, it's a little too late to make a fresh start now, at least for the hapless victims.
Answers. Need some answers.

Capital punishment? WTF?

2010-05-06T23:34:00.000+05:30

So Kasab will hang.
Many have rejoiced on TV. I suppose many more are rejoicing in the real world too. Leads one to tricky interpretations, doesn't it? Is it ethical to dance at the prospect of a body swinging in mid-air? Can such a desire be termed gruesome, even bloodthirsty? I won't attempt to answer those questions. The Hawk versus Dove debate will perish only when we do. So let that be.
Instead, let me puff my chest with pride today. Because today, I learnt that only two people have been hanged in India since 1995. Many more have been sentenced to death, but their fates hang in limbo at the moment. And, believe it or not, a city like Mumbai does not even employ a hangman anymore.
Now, why should I feel pride at this statistic? Because we, as a society, could so easily have swung to the other extreme and hung people around every corner. After all, we're being attacked from all sides, even as we accumulate internal enemies by the thousands. There's every temptation to resort to violent measures. Restraint is a huge luxury right now. And we've chosen this luxury. Against all odds.
Of course, this doesn't translate to the generic conclusion that our laws are humane and progressive. They're not. Many of our laws are shocking and atrocious. Also, a lot of our affirmative actions do not take recent social developments into account (the misuse of 498a is a strong case in point). Add to this the telling fact that the powerful and rich can use unscrupulous but brilliant lawyers to go scot free even as the underprivileged spend eternities behind bars for lesser crimes, we get a true picture of what's wrong with our judicial system. We have a long way to go before we can state, with greater pride, that every human in India is deemed equal by the law. Crusades - long-drawn and impassioned - are required to bring about this change.
But today, I want to say with pride that we theoretically believe in nonviolence. We've instinctively learnt that societies that dole out capital punishment by the tons host more crime and hatred, not less. We will not become Texas.
And, therefore, we can yet aspire to become a "rarest of rare" society. :)

Run for the Nightingales Medical Trust

2010-04-17T14:24:00.000+05:30

The Nightingales Medical Trust is asking you to run for them in this year's Sunfeast Marathon. I've personally seen the work done by this NGO and have no doubts whatsoever that they have the best of intentions and make a great impact at the grassroots.
I hope you'll run for them and help address a gaping hole in Indian society - the care of the elderly, especially those suffering from Dementia.

Since you may find it difficult to read the text in the accompanying poster, I'm affixing it below:

You’ve experienced the frustration that comes from misplacing your keys. An Alzheimer’s patient experiences the same feeling every moment of his life. Except that he has misplaced his whole life. His memories, true personality, skills and even his ability to display affection become locked in the dark recesses of his brain.
This could happen to any of us. Incidences of Alzheimer’s are not restricted to people of a particular gender, social strata, profession, ethnicity or dietary habits. Recent studies reveal that a whopping 3.2 million people in India live with Alzheimer’s today. And we’re still trying to figure out how many more remain undiagnosed.
We at Nightingales Medical Trust remain committed to addressing the issues stemming from Alzheimer’s. Our activities include:
• Medical care of patients through our Day Care centers and home visits. This cycle begins with the preliminary assessment and extends till palliative care.
• In-depth and sustained counseling of family members so that they can cope with their loved ones.
• Professional training of caregivers.
• Running a Helpline for Elders and Dementia patients.
• Conducting frequent workshops and support group meetings to spread awareness and hope.
• We’re also inaugurating our very own Nightingales Centre for Ageing and Alzheimer’s, a 70-bed facility in Bangalore, on 24 April 2010. This will be the first center of its kind in India.
Some of these activities require only the belief, love and patience of our staff and volunteers. Others require money as well. Right now, we’re seeking funds for a Mobile Memory Clinic that will cover the whole of Bangalore city plus a major part of the Bangalore Rural District. The clinic will facilitate the early detection, intervention and rehabilitation of Alzheimer’s patients, which in turn will lead to comprehensive and timely care.
Will you help us? Come, use your legs and heart to telling effect. Run with us in the Sunfeast Marathon as an iCare participant and make that crucial difference.
For more details, click here

If you're more ambitious, you could run as a Care Champion. And if you're in an influential position in your organization, then you could encourage it to participate in the Corporate Care program.
All details about the marathon are available here.
All details about Nightingales are available here.

Revisiting my past

2010-03-24T01:21:00.000+05:30

Am off to Trichy tomorrow for a bit. Used to visit the town every summer vacation while I was in school. But ever since my maternal grandfather moved out, I've had no occasion to visit Trichy. The last visit was in 1990, I think.
So after a gap of twenty years, I'll be revisiting my birthplace and seeing it with new eyes. Of course, the place itself has changed drastically. It's a veritable 2nd tier city now, with highrises and whatnot.
Should be interesting, more so because I just might end up making a long-due investment.
Ciao, folks. Catch you next week.

A new era in cricket statistics?

2010-03-17T05:58:00.000+05:30

This post is a few years delayed. Why? Because the suggestions I mention here are so self-evident that I assumed they would be incorporated by the statisticians serving the game sooner than later. Well, it hasn't happened so far, so here goes.
I think it's high time we measure the following in our players:

1) Weighted Batting Index
This will be the product of a batsman's average and his Strike Rate per ball.

WBI = Average * (Strike Rate/100)

In the era of T20, the WBI is a better indicator of a batsman's performance as compared to the Average. Let's compare two players using the WBI.
Sachin Tendulkar's average in ODIs is 45.12 and his Strike Rate is a healthy (considering the era he debuted in) 86.26.
Virender Sehwag's average in ODIs is 34.25 and his Strike Rate is an awesome 103.51.
Comparing the averages, Sehwag performs at 75.9% of Sachin's benchmark. But comparing the WBI gives a different picture altogether.
Sachin's WBI is 38.9.
Sehwag's WBI is 35.45.
This means that Sehwag actually performs at 91% of Sachin's benchmark. Now that's a very different picture, isn't it?

In summary, the WBI incorporates two parameters of batting - consistency and aggression - to arrive at a new measure of prowess.

2) The Weighted Bowling Index
Exactly the same concept as the WBI, except that this combines Average and Run Rate per ball.

WBoI = Average * Run Rate/6

As an easy corollary, the WBoI incorporates two parameters of bowling - wicket-taking ability and thrift - to arrive at a new measure of prowess.
I daresay that the WBoI will show that we've not given sufficient due to many thrifty bowlers.

3) The All Rounder Index
I've never understood why the two aspects of an all-rounder's game have never been combined together to create an All Rounder Index.

ARI = (Weighted Batting Index) * (1/Weighted Bowling Index)

Self-explanatory, right? An all-rounder, by definition, is one who can claim his place in the team either as a batsman or a bowler (I'm excluding wicket-keeper all-rounders here). So someone who has a reputation as an all-rounder but consistently underperforms in either batting or bowling will be revealed in his true colours. Similarly, an all-rounder who's just good in both aspects will be shown as "better than good" overall.

4) Safe Hands Index

Just when will we start collecting metrics on dropped catches? Why hasn't this been done so far? Is it sufficient to say that a Test player has, over twelve years of slip fielding, taken 130 catches? What about the 45 catches he dropped in the process?
The SHI is a simple percentage formula.

SHI = (1 - (Catches Dropped/Catches Taken))*100
An SHI of 65 means that his hands are safe 65% of the time.

I have more ideas, but I guess this should suffice for now.

That wispy connection

2010-03-11T00:23:00.000+05:30

The past 4 days have been great. First, Vanilla Desires happened. And this morning, we inaugurated our new office off Double Road. Scalers & Victors Innovations Pvt Ltd will now operate out of this 16-seater, right on the fringe of downtown Bangalore. Not having slept last night, I returned home from the pooja feeling dog tired and found an unopened package awaiting me. I knew what it was even before I hurriedly tore it open.
When I did, out tumbled two copies of Chicken Soup for the Indian Spiritual Soul. Every contributor gets two copies gratis and my essay That Wispy Connection had made it into the book. The book has eight sections and my essay is in the eighth section titled "A Matter of Perspective". Well-known names whose essays feature in this section include Arun Shourie, Anita Nair, Shashi Tharoor, William Dalrymple and Resul Pookutty. Of course, other illustrious names like APJ Abdul Kalam, Kiran Bedi, Mother Teresa, K. R. Usha, Jaswant Singh, Rabindranath Tagore, Saeed Mirza, Sudha Murthy, Dr Sonal Mansingh and the Dalai Lama also feature in the book.
What an honour! Somebody please wipe this Cheshire cat grin off my face.

I only wish I could have called Risha and given her the news, even though she wouldn't have understood a thing. One day, a few years from now, I hope she feels proud of me.

P.S: You can view the book here.

Vanilla Desires

2010-03-09T00:07:00.001+05:30

There's usually a story behind every story. My short story Vanilla Desires has one too. A very filmy one.
As 2008 was coming to an end, I was acutely aware that the Unisun-Reliance Timeout short story contest deadline was midnight on the last day of the year. I kept slogging away at my non-writing work even as I promised myself that I will reserve the last week - from Christmas to New Year's Eve - for the short story that I would write for the contest. And sure enough, I finished my chores on the 23rd and went to bed contemplating the opening gambit for Vanilla Desires. On the morning of the 24th, I was awakened by a phone call from Chennai. My brother-in-law had met with an accident. Multiple injuries to his skull. He was in the ICU.
My mother and I packed for ourselves and my incapacitated father and the three of us rushed to Chennai. We reached late at night, despite hiring a car, and found that the situation was dire. The doctors were speaking only in cliches. 50-50 chance, God's watching and all that. My sister looked ashen yet brave. The moment felt surreal, funereal. I looked at my 8-year-old niece and 3-year-old nephew and saw their futures disappearing in a mist. It took me a moment to realize that my eyes had welled up.
'Not this,' I muttered, conversing directly with God after ages. 'Everything else is screwed up. My sister's life is the one bright spot left in the family. Don't screw this. Not this, goddamn you!'
Thankfully, I did not have the luxury to become hysterical. There were things to do. Medicines to buy, doctors to consult. And someone had to stay outside the ICU through the night in case something was needed. I, being a creature of the night, was ideally suited to play the role.
So Christmas Eve, a little after midnight, I sat on the landing of the staircase leading up to the ICU and wrote the first sentence of Vanilla Desires. It ran like this:
As she caressed the utensils with soap, Sanaa gazed out of her kitchen window, inviting the afternoon breeze inside with her eyes.
It seemed as good a beginning as any, so I continued writing. I wrote around half the story that night. My subconscious already knew the characters and the story inside out, but it refused to divulge these secrets to my conscious mind.
'You'll know soon enough,' my subconscious said haughtily.
'But,' my conscious mind protested, 'you must keep me in the know. Because we must write something optimistic. We must reaffirm life. There's too little good news out in the world.'
'That really isn't my problem,' my subconscious replied, switching off for the night.
I sat there on the landing till dawn unraveled its day's plans for the city. Soon, my sister returned to the hospital and I went to her home to sleep. A couple of hours later, I was woken up. One of the consulting doctors felt that my brother-in-law must be shifted to Malar Hospital, the best in the city for such cases. So we arranged for an ambulance, waited in suspense for it to arrive and eventually managed the transfer to a bigger, better-equipped ICU.
So it came to pass that on Christmas night, I was sitting outside a different ICU with the same story on my hands. Again, a little after midnight, I resumed writing Vanilla Desires. By 3 am, I was done. I reread it, felt good enough about it and closed my notebook. I think I slept till a janitor rudely awoke me.
The next two days were crucial. CAT scans were performed, even more doctors were consulted. By the 27th, the doctors were willing to offer more hope. He would live, he might even become completely normal again.
So I went to a cyber cafe and typed out the story. I sent it to a select group of long-suffering friends who have always, always, given feedback on my writing. On 31 Dec 2008, I returned to the cyber cafe, corrected a couple of typos and submitted the story, as usual, in the twelfth hour. I then went to T Nagar to get drunk in multiple bars in the company of total strangers.
2009 came with the good news that my brother-in-law's chances of complete recovery were quite high. A month later, I was in Singapore, attending the Asia Journalism Fellowship. The wonderful excitement of the program made me forget all about Chennai and Vanilla Desires. During my first long weekend in Singapore, I went to visit a dear friend in Penang, and while at his home, as I was admiring the view of the bridge from mainland Malaysia into Penang, I saw an email pop into my inbox informing me that Vanilla Desires had been shortlisted in the contest. A while later, I was informed that it had won the first prize.

After a long wait, on 6 March 2010, Unisun launched Vanilla Desires and other stories in the Reliance Timeout outlet on Cunningham Road. It was worth the wait. The book has some wonderful stories by promising new authors and showcases the world-class production and design capabilities of Unisun. The launch event also allowed me to forget my life for a happy couple of hours. I sat in the company of fellow writers, talking literature; we flitted from one literary topic to another like greedy sparrows wanting to empty the granary.

Incidentally, this year's contest deadline is 31 March and I have the vague outlines of a story forming in my mind. I hope the story delivers itself soon enough because, as always, time is running out.

Lash, the human tongue

2010-03-05T02:35:00.001+05:30

Many headlines this week seem to be bound together by a common theme: what is tolerance?

The first story is that an article written by Taslima Nasrin years ago was translated by a Kannada daily, reading which Muslims in Shimoga and other places in Karnataka turned violent and clashed with cops and Hindus. Lives were lost. In case you haven't read Madam Taslima's article, here it is.
The second story is that of M. F. Hussain accepting Qatari citizenship because he was hounded out of the country by Hindu fundamentalists who opposed his depiction of "Bharathmata" in the nude. This issue, too, is years old. The painting came up for auction more than four years ago and looks like this.
The reason I've provided these links is because our mainstream media believes in talking endlessly about such controversies without showing us what the fuss is all about.

Anyway, the easy parallel between both stories is that two people belonging to creative professions offered viewpoints that supposedly hurt the religious sentiments of Indians. Indian Muslims in the first instance and Indian Hindus in the second. In both cases, the hurt public believed that burning, shrieking, hurling stones and issuing threats were excellent ideas and would certainly bring the artists to their knees.
They, of course, had alternatives:
1) Ignore the works
Indifference is more resounding than a slap and more scalding than fire. An artist fears nothing more.
2) Ask for an explanation
If the anguish by the works was so deep that it needed a response, then can one not demand an explanation from the artist? Are our Gods so weak that we cannot use their wisdom to counter the viewpoint of a mortal artist, assuming that the artist indeed was dreadfully wrong?
For better or for worse, the Constitution is the only holy book in a democracy. We know who wrote it, when and why. And the best part: it's subject to change. We can always reassess this holy book and align it as per the changes occuring in society. Religious books, on the other hand, offer metaphors that define a past era. That they are often profoundly valid in our time is a tribute to writers and visionaries burned and buried long ago.

Extrapolating, I cannot but wonder: can it be ethical or even legal to ban an artist's work? How does one justify that in a democracy? Why can't even rabidly vulgar works be brought out and examined for what they are? Is this because we're a developing country with unenviable literacy rates? Is tolerance a matter of education? If so, how did Gandhiji manage to acquire our Independence by selling his vision to the illiterate millions of India? Aren't we typically smug by suggesting that intellectual debate requires refinement as we understand this word?

I really cannot fathom these expanding fringes in our society, but I wouldn't mind their existence in the very least if they were just rabble-rousing tongue lashers. If only they shunned the easy short-cut: violence. These people probably underestimate the power of the human tongue. It's not just a festering ground for germs and a sensuous barometer of the kiss. It's also a potent weapon. Haven't we all slayed with our tongues? Haven't our dear ones, especially, felt its venomous darts? Perhaps we can argue that the tongue doesn't work half as well when used to lash strangers. Ah! The proper practitioner of this banal - yet dark - art can reduce even strangers to tears. Bertrand Russell and, more recently, Simon Cowell come to mind.

And speaking of lashing tongues, I'd like to ask anybody who'd care to listen: just why is it so unacceptable to criticize Sachin Tendulkar? I think now is the best time to ask this question - when he has made the transition from immortal to divine. I particularly want to ask those former captains of Indian cricket (Mumbaikars, most of them) why they felt it so necessary to crucify Sanjay Manjrekar for making unflattering remarks about Sachin? Again: are our Gods so weak?
Reminds me of 1989. I and my then best friend Stephen Pinto used to sit on our building terrace and discuss Sachin deep into the evening. Any nitwit who has held a cricket bat in his hand could immediately see that the 16-year-old Sachin was a phenomenon like no other. Stevie and I were convinced much before the Indian think-tank that Sachin must open in ODIs. We were also always critical of Sachin. Simply because Gods must save the universe every single day. Because the man who was born Spiderman cannot have the weaknesses of Peter Parker. Sorry, that's how it is. It's cruel, yes, but true nonetheless for puny humans like us. We expected Sachin to play the 1997 Sharjah sandstorm innings every time he went in to bat. And for so many years in between, Sachin heaped the numbers without leaving a lasting impression in my mind. I daresay Stevie would agree.
That changed in March 2008 when he won us the Triseries Down Under. We didn't even have to play the third of the best-of-three finals. Since then, Sachin has been playing the way he was designed to. He's consistently winning us matches and, in the process, pointing us to the gap between him and a Ponting or a Lara. The God himself is putting finishing touches to the temple we're erecting for him in our minds. That's how it should be. And if experts believe that the extraordinarily few criticisms have spurred Sachin to greater heights, then there's all the more reason to lash our tongues.
I think Gods do welcome a little challenge thrown at them by mortals. So Sachin: do you think you have enough gas left in the tank to lift the World Cup? Really? Show me.

We won despite the stupidity

2010-02-19T01:27:00.000+05:30

What a day! If you're a diehard cricket fan, you would have spent it like me. On the edge of your seat - perhaps your cubicle seat. Me? My work allows me to lounge on the edge of my couch :)
Anyway, it was a great day. After the pasting we received in Nagpur, I was certain that we would hand South Africa the #1 ranking on a platter. We just couldn't win without Dravid and Laxman, could we? Then came the news that Laxman would play. I breathed a little.
By the end of Day 1 at the Eden Gardens, we had engineered a batting collapse and clawed back into contention. Then four centuries by the four most experienced batsmen in the side ensured that we were firmly on the driver's seat. Sehwag set the tone. And when he does that, the opposition bowlers lose the will to live. Which, in turn, makes it easier for the batsmen who follow. But that takes nothing away from Laxman and Dhoni. They could have fallen cheaply and embarassingly like Badrinath. Instead, they stuck it out and gave us a large enough lead to press for an innings defeat.
We know what happened over the next two days. Harbhajan lived up to his billing - he does this once in a while while at other times looks like the most overrated cricketer in the world. Mishra too spun a few good ones. Ishant showed grit. And we managed to win despite the absence of our pace spearhead on Day 5.
En route, Hashim Amla made our bowlers shed blood-red tears. Talk about being on a royal purple patch!

But despite our heartwarming performance, I feel annoyed at the BCCI. More specifically, at the way they choose the venues for our beloved sport. Surely these folks have been given rudimentary lessons in subcontinental geography? Surely they know our climate patterns (considering that the incumbent President is also the Union Agriculture Minister)? And surely they know that we have one time zone for the whole country and therefore the light fades a lot earlier in our eastern cities?
Apparently not. There is a rotation policy in place for venues. And the BCCI sticks to it. Well, in a manner of speaking.
Nagpur has its very own "special rotation policy". Sometimes the first match of the series is played in the Jamtha stadium, sometimes the last and sometimes a match in the middle is played there. That's probably because a certain politician-cum-cricket administrator wants to ensure that the people of Viderbha remember him at all times. How else can one explain the fact that since November 2008, Nagpur has hosted two Test matches, two ODIs and one T20 match? You haven't heard a peep about this from any of our prominent experts, have you? Well, we'll let it pass. We'll assume that the visiting cricketers insist on playing in regions that grow oranges. And therefore Nagpur must figure in every series (and it has except for the India-Eng series in 2008).
But let's look at some other interesting choices of venue:

1) The first Test between India and England in 2008
The chosen venue was Chennai. The dates: December 11-15. Even a crackling dry city like Chennai expects rainfall in December. I remember my 7th standard geography teacher mentioning something about the North-East monsoon. This, if memory serves me right, affects the eastern parts of the country and is particularly active in the south-eastern coastal cities between October and December.
And guess what: the Met department issued a cyclone warning on Dec 9th, denying the visiting team sufficient net practice on the ground. It was a small miracle that the Test was played out fully and there was a result: a brilliant batting display in the 4th innings, especially by Sachin, ensured an Indian victory.
This brilliance, mind you, almost didn't happen. Chennai in December indeed!

2) The second Test of the same series
The chosen venue was Mohali. The dates: December 19-23. Peak winter in North India. A few score miles east, the Delhi airport would have been foggy enough to halt flights. Mohali would have been marginally better. Marginally. Luckily, only 18 overs were lost to bad light and that happened on Day 1. The match was a dull draw. It would have been duller had bad light intervened each day, as it did in Kolkata in four out of the past five days.

3) The first Test between India and Australia in 2008
The chosen venue was Bangalore. The dates: October 9-13. Well. Tough one. September is statistically the rainiest month in Bangalore. October is not far behind. Bangalore receives rainfall from both the South-West and the North-East. It also receives pre-summer showers, post-winter showers and pre-monsoon showers. In all, it receives a fifth of the rainfall the other side of the Sahyadri range receives. But, well, the point is, the light fades fast and it could rain at any time of the year. If I must schedule a Test match in Bangalore (and I don't see why I must, since we have such a poor track record there!), I'd do it in February-March. Other months, we're better off playing elsewhere.
And guess what happened in this particular game? Sachin and Laxman plodded through Day 5 and gave us a draw. Bad light halted play, just as I had predicted on my city column in the New Indian Express, which appeared on the morning of Day 5. Vindicated :)

These are just three stark examples from recent Test matches. If I start scanning the ODI venues, I'd find more such issues.
So to the head honchos of the BCCI, I'd offer the following thumb rules:
1) Play our summer matches on our eastern front. A city like Guwahati hosting, say a day ODI in November, is a bad, bad idea. Let Guwahati, Kolkata, Cuttack, Ranchi and Vizag get matches between March-August.
2) Play our peak winter matches in the western and south-western cities such as Mumbai, Pune, Ahmedabad, Baroda, Kochi, Panjim etc.
3) Avoid peak winter games north and east of Bhopal.
4) Pay heed to the monsoon. If you schedule a match in Mumbai in July, you're making a mockery of the sport and showing disrespect to its fans.
5) If you want to ignore the single time zone factor, convince the ICC to allow the use of floodlights in Test matches. The white apparels will not get tainted by artificial light. No, they won't.

Overall, it was a miracle that we won today at the Eden Gardens, given that we lost two-thirds of Day 4 to bad weather. Had Morkel survived another 4 overs, we'd have been cursing the weather Gods instead of cursing the decision-makers.

Mrs Craddock was nice

2010-02-17T23:31:00.000+05:30

Keeping me company these past couple of weeks was one of William Somerset Maugham's lesser known novels - Mrs Craddock.
If you are a keen reader of Maugham, you'll realize by the third page that this is an early work of a writer still seeking his artistic voice. It's more verbose and stylistically less accomplished. It uses unpalatable writing techniques to offer insights into the human psyche - Maugham's biggest strength in later years.
But it's still the work of a master. Because by Page 30, the characters have gripped you and you feel compelled to read through the placid plot.
I especially loved this quote in chapter 30: "I've learned by long experience that people generally keep their vices to themselves, but insist on throwing their virtues in your face."
Now how true is that? The racuous crusaders of today - me included - can benefit from mulling over these words. And doesn't the true angel seal her lips to brighten her halo?

P.S: For those of my dear readers who haven't read Maugham, I have a question: do you think breathing is synonymous with living? It isn't. And you haven't lived till you've read The Moon and Sixpence. Read it to be inspired. And to know that Howard Roark - Ayn Rand's unforgettable character from the novel The Fountainhead - had a predecessor. His name was Charles Strickland.

To all my guardian angels

2010-02-11T19:15:00.000+05:30

Writing this from a cyber cafe in Bhubaneswar. It's going to be a sentimental post, so if you aren't in the mood, read no further.
The last 30 months of my life have been as pleasant as the dentist's drill for reasons that most of you are well aware of. And yet I found the past fortnight to be particularly jarring on the nerves. As if the dentist's drill smelled of the last patient's puke, resembled a jackhammer, was sluiced with infected blood and had been hooked to a Dolby system.
In other words, I've been dealing with a nightmarish legal matter, a matter that enunciates the massive failure of another person and I. At the end of this legal battle, neither of us will emerge winners. But I must fight this battle for the sake of someone more precious than I.
Wow! I never thought I'll dare blog about this, even in a cryptic way. But hold on. This blog post, at least, gets happier.
So here I am, in Bhubaneswar, after a fortnight that offered the following:
1) Weeks of creative client work squeezed into days
2) Brief time capsules to heal the unfinished-ness of my novella
3) Long days of travel &
4) Last but not the least: legal jaw-jaw, sleepless nights & deadlines that only I cared about.

And just when I was wrapping up the humongous legal document, a day before it had to be filed in court, I lost my wallet. Just like that. It contained replaceable items like my ATM/Debit cards, PAN card, a respectable stash of dough and visiting cards. It also contained a few irreplaceable personal effects:
1) A happy photograph
2) A lovely hand-written letter that did much to nullify the pain of the legal matter
3) A one-dollar bus ticket that, in Milwaukee, would have taken me from Juneau Ave to the city library on Wisconsin & 9th.
4) A recipe that contained the secrets of my mother's world-famous sambhar

Anyway, you could imagine my plight. I would have had no option but to beg outside Bhubaneswar station to pay for the legal paper and the printing charges and the notary's fee. Thankfully, I was not alone. I was a welcome guest at the Malu household.
I've known Chandan Malu since 1997. His wife Swati is fast becoming an equally good friend of mine - just as sweet and dependable.
Swati, as flustered as me, helped me search for the wallet. We soon gave it up as a lost cause, and she called Chandan and gave him the news. Chandan, who had much work pending in the office, swiped out without another thought, rushed to the nearest ATM, withdrew some money, arrived home, searched for the wallet himself, then escorted me to the lawyer's house - on the other side of the city. He sat patiently as I indulged in the by-now familiar legal jaw-jaw. We then went searching for a printer who had the ability and the desire to patiently take printouts on legal paper. We finally found one, finished the mind-numbing chore and left in his car only to discover that some of the pages had to be reprinted. Without a word, he turned the car, back towards the printer. This time, we finished that task well and then went for a late biryani dinner. Despite being dog-tired, he then drove me to the police station to file a complaint about the missing wallet (I needed this to travel back on Indian Railways using my e-Ticket.) He then drove to another ATM to withdraw sufficient money for my use. We reached home where Swati was anxiously awaiting our return. She wouldn't rest till the Debit cards were blocked. Chandan sat through the whole thing, as I called a million numbers to get the cards blocked.
The next morning, as I left for the ordeal, there wasn't sufficient time for Swati to give me breakfast. So she found a packet of sliced cake - which I consumed on the court premises, while waiting for my tardy lawyer.
Ever since, they have been calling and ensuring that I'm doing well.
And this is not the first time that the Malus have showered their love and hospitality on me. Whenever I come to Bhubaneswar, they open their doors with a smile. I don't know what I've done to deserve friends like them.

Today, I think back about those million instances when my friends cared more than enough to help me out of a tight spot. I counted and am now certain that I have at least 34 such friends, accumulated over the years. And guess what: the list keeps growing longer! I must be doing something right in my life.

To all my dear guardian angels out there - thanks for being such beautiful people and such great friends. You are the reason the dentist's drill looks squeaky clean and smells minty fresh. Life will extract its pain. Meanwhile, there's reason to smile.

Wanted: more idiots

2010-01-22T01:27:00.001+05:30

There's every reason to delay this post. I'm buried up to my neck in work, cooking and housework. And my unfinished novella greets me with electronic shrieks every time I gaze at the screen. But some things must not wait. Some things demand the idiotic approach. So I must praise "3 Idiots" before the night is through.
Saw it twice in one sitting last night. The second time, I was just trying hard not to get caught in the story, trying desperately to analyze how the creative team pulled it off.
Because Rancho aka Rancchoddas Shyamaldas Chanchad aka Phunsukh Wangdu could have so easily been a despicable character. He's idealistic, ideological, intrusive, holier-than-thou and the spitting image of Mr Know-It-All. Why then is he so lovable? Because Rancho was propped up by a fantastic script and the best performance Aamir Khan has given till date. Because Rancho, in addition to being all that, is also curious as an elf and in love with all of humankind. He doesn't have a wicked vein in his body. He's just trying to raise the bar for everybody. In short, he's flawless.
All the more reason to nail him on to the nearest lamppost and treat him to a 11 KV jolt. But Raju Hirani, Abhijat Joshi and Aamir Khan manage to pull off this character. Indeed, Rancho joins my elite list of unforgettable movie characters - the likes of Sunil (Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa), Forrest Gump (title role), Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean), Nalla Sivam (Anbe Sivam) and Amelie (title role). No marks for guessing that all these characters flowed against the tide to support their distinct worldviews :)

But again, 3 Idiots is not just about Rancho. Rancho deserves an intricate plot, filled with flawed characters. He gets both. And as is to be expected from a Hirani movie, the supporting cast don't let the benign protagonist down. Boman Irani is spot on as usual, Sharman Joshi's mother delivers her poignant lines of comedy like a pro, Mona Singh gives cuteness, glow and warmth to her character of an expecting mother, Omi Vaidya as Chatur Ramalingam stands out throughout, Madhavan does one of the most convincing drunken scenes I've seen and Sharman Joshi is competent and pat.
But I must sheepishly confess that Kareena Kapoor surprised me. She was actually nice. Alright, she was great. She even managed to look nice.

If I must nitpick - although I really don't feel like it - I'd say that Hirani is falling into a pattern. Everything in 3 Idiots has a likely parallel in Munnabhai MBBS. There's the larger-than-life hero and he has a fan following. There's a death scene, physical handicap, drunken scenes, a caricaturised antagonist and ideological conflict. And in the end, the protagonist's victory is unambiguous.
But who cares? One laughs out loud, one feels the lump in the throat dislodge the Adam's apple and one weeps unashamedly at times. If this isn't a great movie, then what is?

Happy New Year!

2010-01-01T02:00:00.000+05:30

Happy 2010, everyone. The occasion gets on to you, doesn't it? Even if you don't want it to. Especially if you don't want it to. So here I am, at 204 am on Jan 2010, having the luxury to introspect on everything that went wrong with my life and the few things I did right.
I'm going to let you in on a lil secret. Every New Year's Eve since 2003, I assess my writing skills and ask myself: "Am I still on the right path? Should I still pursue my journey as an author?" It's a serious, life-challenging question. The day I answer in the negative, I know that I need to move on.
Thankfully, so far I've responded with a resounding "yes!" to this question. The year I do otherwise, everything will change.
But anyway, secrets apart, this New Year's Eve, when I saw those fireworks explode, triggered by the hands of people I'll never meet, I realized that there's a reason this night is special. It's special in a very "Peter Keating" way. It's special because all of us are celebrating it. Indeed, the collectiveness of the moment makes it special. That set me thinking. What if we show the same collective spirit in answering the challenges of climate change? What if we decide in the same collective spirit that we must disarm our nation's weapons, disengage from our vices, dismember the charred remnants of our pettiness?
What if we can look beyond the Julian calendar? Ayn Rand didn't realize that Peter Keating, being the man of the masses, being the mass itself, was sending a coded message to her readers.
Let's decode. Let's celebrate what matters.
Again, Happy 2010, fellas. Hope you fare well in the new universal time zone.

Je t'aime Amelie

2009-12-29T18:50:00.000+05:30

What happens when a resourceful introvert decides to become the Madonna of the Unloved? You find Amelie, another great piece of poetry from the French film industry.
I've watched Amelie a good many times already (twice in the past 24 hours) and this has made me ponder over its many cinematic elements that connect so powerfully with me. The connection begins as soon as I see Audrey Tautou on the screen. Composed on the outside, seething with passion inside, that's Audrey playing Amelie. She doesn't speak about herself unless cornered for a response, but the camera captures her every nuanced emotion. It speaks of her dysfunctional childhood and her fierce determination to hold on to hope and goodness. It conveys her rich inner world - a world that can belong only to the shy. It captures her yearning for justice, romance and even the elusive "happily ever after". It follows her as she manipulates her immediate world - and the people who populate it - using subtle yet intricate means.
The two central characters - Amelie and the camera - pivot the narrative in refreshingly unexpected directions. The dialogues make love to life and Paris. The plot explores the seed of bravery underneath every shrub of cowardice and vice versa.
It all falls into an unmistakable pattern - we're all fallible, we're all divine. We have one life to live. Amelie chooses to live hers on her own terms. And one fine summery day, everything she wants comes within her grasp. She latches on.

2 wheels to love

2009-12-23T02:53:00.000+05:30

Man loves Bike. Period.
Unless Man loves Car. But we shall not go there.
In this case, Man loves Bike. More so because Man has had Bike in his life longer than any romantic relationship. Under such circumstances, it's quite a challenge to keep the (man-machine) relationship on an even keel. I sometimes congratulate myself for not having given my bike a gender or a name. I refer to it simply as 652 - the concluding part of its license plate.
652 and I have had 12 adventurous years of togetherness. We were together when I was madly in love. And we're together now. All these years, we've put up with each other's idiosyncrasies. I tend to be amongst the faster moving traffic on the road (which, let's face it, depends quite a lot on 652). On its part, 652, though not moody as bikes go, has been downright obstinate. Its indicator lights have never operated as per the design, it still sputters between 44 and 45 kmph and it inevitably requires an annual de-carbonization.
Small price to pay for the kind of kinship this beautiful bike has accorded me. I've taken it deep into uncivilized territories, kept it baking under the sun for months on end, abandoned it during the years I was onsite, refused to keep it sparkling clean and not even bothered to service it more than once a year. Yet, it serves me faithfully. It's never left me stranded. It has stood patiently as I picked arguments with corrupt cops. And it's never skidded under my hold, although it has given timely and wobbly warnings on a couple of occasions.

Despite all that, I did something quite drastic to 652 last week. I changed its seat assembly. Yeah. 652 now has a brand new seat, not one with fragments of the sponge exposed. Frankly, I was getting tired of the squishy welcome my bum received whenever it rained. But now, when I sit on this bone-dry new seat, I feel a little sad. This isn't the seat that ferried that breathtaking woman in my life, and later, my cutie-pie daughter. This isn't the seat with memories.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I may not have given my bike a gender or a name, but I never doubted for a moment that it has a soul.

War of the neocons

2009-12-14T23:38:00.000+05:30

Ah! Fox News!!
As a thumb rule, I avoided watching Fox News while in the US. Because, you know, I wanted to retain whatever sanity I had left. I made an exception to this rule whenever I had entered a prolonged state of vegetation on the couch. Like during Thanksgiving weekend, day three, with my blood slowly freezing due to inactivity. At such times, I felt the need to thaw my blood. Fox News was always around. Within minutes, this channel would bring my blood to a boil.
Geez! How neoconservative can one get?
We're indeed blessed that Fox News has continued to do its thing. It has not slackened even for a moment. Four days ago, this happened:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lo3CLQ1vAZI

And I found out about it while watching the inimitable Arnab Goswami on Times Now. Mr. Goswami was fuming as usual: how could Glenn Beck say such things against India and Indians? Isn't there a limit? (or something to that effect).

I found Mr. Goswami particularly hilarious on this occasion. I mean, the irony cannot have been lost on even him. The first time I saw him, I felt that he was modeling himself on Bill O'Reilly of, surprise, surprise, Fox News! I felt the same jingoistic, chest-thumping vibe as on that Fox program titled, what was the name now, yeah, The O-Reilly Factor.
So it was really amusing to see Mr. Goswami defend India against Mr. Beck. I guess people who are too similar to us get our goat.

On a personal note, I'm happy to note that neocons - the American variety and the Indian - have ceased to have a detrimental effect on me. Aren't they an amusing bunch? I, for one, am ready to kick back and laugh.

Telangana. Now?!

2009-12-11T02:44:00.000+05:30

The second chapter in Rosaiah's stint as the Andhra Pradesh CM began with the fast-unto-death (right?) of K Chandrashekar Rao of the Telangana Rashtriya Samiti. The TRS currently has a single-point agenda to establish a separate state of Telangana, although you can rest assured that the party will be around if and when the state of Telangana becomes a reality.
I won't comment much on the politics of fasting because the most important man of the last century used it effectively (and usually for the right reasons), so we as a nation cannot become anti-fasting just because we managed to install democracy.
What I'd like to comment on is the manner in which the high-pitched, high-salaried, law-unto-themselves anchors of national news channels have confused the issue. To these Brands-within-Brands, the formation of Telangana poses a serious threat to national interests. Why so? Because our identities are getting narrower by the day. Because Telangana proclaims a strong regionalism within linguism. And aren't we already suffering the consequences of linguism?
True. We are suffering the consequences of linguism. We, as a nation, are like a divided Europe and our Constitution works a tad better than the EU. Of course, we don't even have the advantage of a single script. So we're more deeply divided by language. (I won't even get into caste and religion.)

To such a divided India, does Telangana offer good news or bad? Good, the way I see it. If this really is the beginning - and if this does lead to the formation of Vidharba, for instance - then it means that linguistic borders don't make sense to people any more. People are looking for something else - sociopolitical equality and economic prosperity. At least, that's what the people of Telangana are looking for. I'm reasonably certain of this because I spent a great deal of time in Telangana a couple of years ago.

I was then researching on the Naxalite movement in AP, for which I camped for different periods of time in all three regions of AP, namely coastal AP (Vizag), Rayalseema (Anantapur) and finally Telangana (Hyderabad and Warangal). In both coastal AP and Rayalseema, most people I met dismissed the idea of Telangana as subversive politics. Damned politicians harping for their own gains, they said.
In Hyderabad, almost everybody was happy with the status quo. In fact, many of my friends - who lived in Hyderabad but were from outside AP - did not even know that Hyderabad fell within the Telangana region.
But in Warangal - where I stayed for almost a month - I heard a different song. The professors of Kakatiya University I met were convinced that the region will prosper only if a separate state was formed. The labourers I interviewed were seething with anger because they felt that the state's developmental work focused on Rayalseema because the most powerful politicians belonged there. Auto rickshaw drivers thought it would be cool to have a separate state. A schoolteacher in the town of Pasra, when I asked him if he wanted Telangana, replied that he was keeping his fingers crossed. One Human Rights activist felt that it would be infinitely easier to administer a carved up AP.

I see immense wisdom in his words. India is an administrator's nightmare. We must find a more delegated model of governance, and if this requires carving up existing states, then so be it. Such an approach offers enormous advantages:

1) Regional parties that do astonishingly well in one election will find it more difficult to blackmail the Central Government. Take the case of Bihar and Laloo Prasad Yadav. The man has been cut down to size, not just by the emergence of Nitish Kumar but also due to the formation of Jharkhand. I can think of many more regional czars who can do with some trimming. Imagine UP being further dissected into Purvanchal, Mithilanchal and more such. Imagine a Saurashtra with a shot at secularism (don't know about this, though). But you get the drift. More players in the Central Government, a more fragmented coalition, but with more leverage for the truly national parties.

2) The ultimate administrative model for India would be decentralized to the extent possible. A model wherein 75% of day-to-day governance is run by the Panchayats. This suggestion usually sends shivers up our spine, huh? But consider this. A rural mango man (aam aadmi) who wants help from the law and order machinery can more easily approach a sarpanch than a District Collector. Been to the DC's office? It still runs on the Raj mentality. The earthquake-proof building, the guards at the gate and the red tape are sufficient to prevent the mango man from entering it. Of course, local governance comes with its own challenges. Village landlords can quickly, and more effectively, use the system for their personal gains. But despite all the challenges, local governance is the way forward. If you're still not convinced, then consider this: when there's a power failure in your area, you call a local number of the Electricity Board. Would you like it if the entire city had one number and someone in that one central office decided if and when your message will be conveyed?
Let's also concede that each region has its own peculiar issues. Blanket policies issued from across hundreds of kilometres are often useless, even counterproductive. Local Thinking will help.

3) End of linguism, as I mentioned before.

4) A more unique landscape. Every new state can use the opportunity to honour their own heroes, resurrect their own distinct arts and crafts etc.

5) A less socialistic distribution of revenue. What the region earns, it spends. There's more incentive to develop. A harsh example of this is the formation of the predominantly tribal state of Chattisgarh. Bhopalis can now say (although they won't) that they no longer fund the darker region. Good for MP.
Of course, the formation of Chattisgarh has not yielded positive results so far. Mining-oriented "development" is happening, but the benefits never reach the mango man. The state is also dealing with Naxalism in Dantewara and Bastar (in the worst manner possible). These are glaring failures, but they are failures of our democratic framework, not the concept that led to the formation of Chattisgarh. Perhaps one day the land will throw up a leader who will solve its own unique problems.

At the moment, the politicians of AP are measuring the formation of Telangana using a political seismograph. Once the dust settles, we will perhaps see it as the will of the people.

A giant crashes, the neighbourhood rumbles

2009-12-11T00:02:00.000+05:30

The political turmoil in Andhra Pradesh hasn't ceased since YSR's chopper crashed in early September. The central leadership of the Congress Party began the churn by making K. Rosaiah the caretaker CM of the state, and later made his appointment more permanent. Odd choice, it seemed to many. It wasn't. YSR was a mixed blessing for the CWC. Although he had delivered impossible political gains to the Centre, he was too large a persona and too much in control in the state. Quite unlike the garden variety Congress CM of today. That's just one reason why the Centre chose a practically unknown and mild - almost unwilling - Rosaiah. There were other reasons as well. Rosaiah was a YSR loyalist which meant that any dissidents who showed up will eventually fall in line. Besides, the man showed no desire to wear Destiny's shoes. Perfect.

Having made their choice, the strong central leadership of the Congress implemented it with an iron hand. YSR's son Jaganmohan Reddy was none too pleased. His supporters created storms in a few afternoon teacups. He was, therefore, summoned to Delhi where he was retold that Rahul baba wanted him at the Centre. He must join the elite club of Congress scions and await his time. Perhaps - and I'm speculating here - he received some empathy from Scindia Jr and Pilot Jr (What would they have said, btw? That at least YSR's accident wasn't as freakishly mysterious as it could have been?) At any rate, Reddy Jr returned from Delhi much more sober and willing to linger over the stalemate.

Within weeks, Rosaiah seemed more visibly determined. He made a few surprise moves, including a visit to Bangalore and a photo-op with B.S. Yeddyurappa. Now. Did the Congress top guns plan this? If they did, then hats off to them. What a move!
For those who came in late, here is what was happening: on the surface, a newly crowned Congress CM of one Indian state was paying a courtesy call to the BJP CM of a neighbouring state. This in itself is unusual. On top of that, Rosaiah arrived with a pleasing ringtone for Yeddy:
Cut the Bellary Reddys down to size,
You are the king, claim your prize

You see, the mining barons of Bellary - the Bellary Reddys - were underwear friends with YSR. Significant if you know where to place Bellary on the Indian map. You guessed it! Right on the Karnataka-AP border. The Bellary Reddys had their business stakes distributed between the two states. So during the YSR era, the Reddys had a super-close CM to take care of their interests in AP. At the same time, they virtually controlled the BJP government in Karnataka. One might say that they had their bread buttered on both sides. That would be incorrect. They had their butter breaded on all sides.
One can imagine the mining excesses that happened in the recent past. 'Mine, mine, mine,' they said. Rather refreshing when you consider that most people say, 'Me, me, me!'
So. They mined with impunity and nobody minded. But then a chopper came crashing down and, as we've already discovered, a Mr. Rosaiah left his calling card at the Vidhana Soudha.
Not surprisingly, B. S. Yeddyurappa - such a clean guy when you consider the company he keeps - went on an overdrive to rein in the Bellary Redddys. He transferred errant officials, imposed a new levy on mining trucks and publicly hinted at inappropriate business practices in Bellary.
We all know the public drama that followed. For weeks, the state machinery in Karnataka lay paralyzed, awaiting an end to the Yeddy versus Reddys battle. We all know that the flood-affected populace faded from public and media memory. They did not get the relief and support they deserved, but Rosaiah - the darkest horse in our political landscape today - has delivered some relief and support to Yeddy. He asked for a CBI inquiry into the illegal mining activities of the Reddys. At the same time, the Supreme Court of India has passed a stronger indictment: Guilty. The SC also recommended a complete halt to mining activities by the Reddys and seconded Rosaiah's demand for a CBI inquiry.

This has led the Yeddy-likers to hope that the Bellary Reddys might fall after all. Of course, we have a long and glorious history of punishing the powerful for their sins. So we can expect justice to be delivered. Soon.
Actually, despite my deep cynicism, I hope that something resembling justice is delivered in this instance. Why? Take a trip through Bellary, (nearby) Hospet and then further north in Karnataka - through towns like Bidar. See what mining and miners are doing to an already impoverished land. How and why does India's mango man (aam aadmi) accept this? That's the eternal riddle.

There's another - almost Shakespearean - reason why the Bellary Reddys must fall. Because YSR - who was felled by the Gods of Nature and Technology - was standing on the cusp of political immortality. He was a giant. So his fall must precipitate the fall of others.

Splitting the 50-over ODI

2009-09-10T15:23:00.001+05:30

Sachin's suggestion that the 50-over game be split into two innings of 25 overs each gives fresh legs to an important idea. Chopping up the format will certainly help it stay alive in the T20 era, mainly because it offers the following benefits:
1) The toss becomes less significant. Both sides get almost equal use of pitch conditions and daylight.
2) It creates new strategic possibilities in the game, a different approach to deploying resources. (Four sets of slog overs, anyone?)
3) It increases the commerciability of the game.

I'm all for this change in format. Except that I would suggest a twist to the new format. How about this?
Team A bats 25 overs.
Team B bats 50 overs at one go.
Team A bats its remaining quota of 25 overs.

Of course, this format has its drawbacks. In fact, some might say that Team B gets a huge advantage because it gets to bat without interruptions. Set batsmen can keep going. Moreover, in a day game, Team A will have to grapple with a fresh pitch to begin with, and also with twilight towards the end of the game. So Team B seems to get the best batting conditions in the day game.
But consider the day-night format. Morning dew ceases to be a factor - and if the pitch is a Sleeping Beauty, then Team A gets to whack the ball around in the first inning. And when they get down to bat during the final inning, the bowlers might have a tough time gripping the wet ball. So in this case, Team A gets some advantages in exchange for Team B's advantage of batting without interruptions.

I also love the idea that both teams get to set and chase targets in the same game. The possibilities really open up.
Now, if only someone in ICC will read this humble blog and not dismiss it in an instant...

He's back!

2009-08-17T16:36:00.000+05:30

Rahul Dravid is back where he belongs!
Here's a crazy hope on my part: hope he's become even better than he was during the 2007 ODI series against England. More fleet-footed aggression, more hooking and less ducking, more of the light anchorage than heavy.

This could be good.

The flower girl

2009-06-22T19:27:00.000+05:30

You go downtown to buy yourself some books and beer. Yes, it’s an evening for vices and kicks (wisekicks?).
After gorging yourself at the Premier Bookshop, you’re ready for beer. You turn the corner and walk down Church Street. The evening crowd is beginning to thicken. As you’re about to follow the invite of the Carnatic music and climb up the stone steps into Coconut Grove, you’re stopped by a girl.
She’s pretty as the setting sun. Dressed immaculately in turquoise. Selling flowers. Speaks impeccable English. And, oh, she’s twelve or thereabouts.
It’s ten bucks to the rose, but you cannot refuse. Because you sense an urgency buried under her calm and pleasing demeanour, a quality that whispers like a distant waterfall. You ask her a couple of questions and learn a little about her life. She attends school in the morning and sells roses in the evening. She’s been doing it for many years now. No, she isn’t scared.
The last answer is given on the trot, for she spots another customer and hails him. A middle-aged man. Who puts an arm around her shoulder and caresses her. Makes her walk alongside. Bends to talk to her, till he’s a whisker away from kissing her. Meanwhile, his hands continue exploring. The girl neither turns away nor conveys alarm.
You watch, and beg your legs not to turn into jelly. The girl’s past-present-future flashes in front of your eyes. You turn away, walk up the stone steps. Beer. Need beer. A moment later, you find your jelly feet firming up, returning down the stairs, and walking towards the middle-aged man and the 12-year-old girl. You stop two feet away. You gaze at the man intently. He ignores you for 30 seconds, then asks, ‘Yes?’
‘It’s not right, what you’re doing,’ you say.
‘Huh?’
‘Not right.’
Your “insinuation” finally “dawns” on the man. He’s outraged.
‘Bastard and all that! How dare you? I’ve known her for years. Ask her,’ he shouts. Some people halt and watch.
‘Is that right? Do you know him?’ you ask the girl.
She nods-shakes her head. She doesn’t know which side to take. The man shouts some more, then seeing no response from you, ups the ante. He now wants to beat you to pulp if you aren’t careful. You ask him to back his claim. He sizes you up and decides against it. He walks away, but he’s still outraged. Such allegations against such a decent man.
The girl has also disappeared through the cracks in the confrontation. Her “Uncle” must have watched the scene from a short distance. Uncle has a busy job. He has to make sure the girl – and others like her – delivers profits every day. When required, he brokers peace with (or wages war against) troublesome stakeholders of the street: cops, rivals and busybodies like you. He ferries the young girls and boys from distant suburbs every evening, and ferries them back late in the night, once they’ve sold their entire clutch of flowers. And from all accounts, he doesn’t mind the occasional groper amidst the public. Such folks indirectly train the girl for what lies ahead, her true calling, which could begin – why! – next summer.
These details, you’ll learn later. For now, you’ve borrowed outrage from the middle-aged man. You want to do something. You think this must be featured in newspapers. That would change the situation, huh? So you call this Page 33333333333 newspaper, which is situated right around the corner. You’re patched through to the beat journalist. She listens to your story, but only till you’re into your third sentence.
‘Oh yes, the rose girl in turquoise. I know.’
‘Will you, er, do anything about it?’
Not possible. They’re fine. It’s a benign operation run by that nameless Uncle. No need to worry.
You call friends with a more proven ability to feel outrage. Fifteen minutes later, you have the number of three NGOs and the Child Helpline. The latter is not available (after hours). The NGO representatives are sympathetic, even, yes, outraged. But, in direct and oblique terms, you’re told that you (and they) have no locus-standii. They would, of course, fare better than you when reporting the incident to a cop. Only slightly better. And with preparation, proof and all that, they could actually get custody of the girl. But it won’t happen in a jiffy. Not tonight. Not without a prolonged fight.
You slap the back of your head. Hard. You live in a country where even the father does not have locus-standii vis-a-vis his daughter unless the mother’s happy with him. You must shed your illusions. Fast.
Beer. You need beer.

What’s with Dhoni?

2009-06-22T18:50:00.000+05:30

When I returned to India after a brief hiatus, IPL 2 was in full swing. Of course, I had followed the action over the net, and for a couple of days, on a Thai hotel TV. But now, watching the matches in my own living room, often without multi-tasking, I observed subtle changes in Dhoni. The first change was the way he handled the post-match presentation ceremonies: the Chennai Superkings captain, I thought, had become quite verbose.

When the presenter asked him if the pitch offered something to the bowlers early on, Dhoni gave him a complete match summary, including what his boys did right, what they did wrong and what they must now do. This wasn’t the Dhoni of old. A couple of years ago, this surprisingly articulate man – from Bang Nowhere, mind you – was such a joy to listen to. His answers would be crisp, to the point. Almost as if he was challenging the presenter to ask the right questions. And suddenly, his answers were directed not to the presenter but to his own subconscious.

The Uber Cool had become Deliberately Cool. Now, there was an edge in Dhoni’s nonchalance. As if he had suddenly realized that he had much to lose. And since this was happening when the Superkings were comfortably placed on the League Table, I reached the intrusive and unkind conclusion that something’s not quite right in his personal life. Such is the price an Indian cricketer pays for his fame – a casual “expert” like me is entitled (ahem!) to let his imagination run wild.

As the games progressed, though, I felt a tad justified. Dhoni was messing up behind the stumps, but not because he was in a flurry. Rather, he was losing a few micro-moments to the slow-motion playing in his brain. Even more telling was the fact that he was occasionally showing his displeasure when one of his boys erred on the field.

Well, it bothered me. No, I wasn’t cheering the Superkings. But the T20 World Cup was right around the corner – there was barely enough time for Dhoni to get his act together and knit a team out of our mavericks. Everything depended on that.

Needless to say, the first warm-up match against New Zealand was a good enough indicator of things to come. The All New Unimproved Dhoni had showed up to defend the cup. I wrote a Facebook entry: Not getting positive vibes this time, and left it at that.

Meanwhile, the rest of the fraternity was getting uppity about a different failure on Dhoni’s part: his batting. The fact that he wasn’t unleashing the huge hits that signalled his arrival on the world scene. Hello? Where has everybody been? Dhoni hasn’t played a swashbuckling innings since… well, here’s the thing and there’s no escaping it… Dhoni hasn’t played a swashbuckling innings since Dravid was unceremoniously chucked out of the Indian ODI side. Yeah. Once Dravid left, Dhoni choose to be the sheet anchor, the Dravid-like finisher.

What other option did he have? Gifted though the Indian batting lineup was – with the likes of Gambhir, Sehwag, Yuvraj, Rohit and Raina – it would have evident to the new captain that all of them were stroke-makers. None was natural in the ship-steadying business. So. Like a true leader, Dhoni decided to be the grown-up. Perhaps he had searched deep within and determined that he liked caution. Perhaps the role, once assumed, became his own. Either ways, Dhoni played this role superbly, winning us a series of ODI series. Over the past couple of years, he walked in at number 3, 4, 5, 6 or even 7, and did the job. Especially in the half-crumbling, half-sleeping sub-continental pitches. This was run-a-ball Dhoni. A half-century without a single boundary. Or 70 in 65 balls. Or 80 in 70 balls. The one aberration to this glorious run was an ODI we lost with Dhoni returning to the pavilion, not out, after a long innings. It had been a reasonable run-a-ball innings, but India had needed more. That evening, I cindered the memories of his early batting. I decided that his Nagpur blitzkrieg, his mind-numbing assault on the Aussies and Pakis, are unrepeatable acts. This T20 World Cup must have driven most fans to the same conclusion, I suppose.

But I still remain a fan of Dhoni. A huge one at that. Of course, I could have been a gargantuan fan had Dravid been around. (Remember, just before he was dropped, Dravid had scored 92 in 60 balls against a spirited English attack. So his days as a plodder were definitely behind him. He had become a true situational maestro in the 50-over game.) And with Dravid (or an apt replacement) wearing blue, we probably wouldn’t have seen the Dhoni Ferrari driving on the slow lane.

This transformation of the Jharkhand juggernaut, and his eventual inability to bat in higher gears, also tells us that batting – more so aggressive batting – is predominantly about pre-programmed hand-eye coordination. The body takes over, the retinas make the muscles move, the ball disappears. Not much to do with mental strength. That plays a role between deliveries, when the body is fidgeting.

In Dhoni’s case, the pre-program has changed. If he wants to bat in a higher gear again, he needs to go back to the nets and allow his body to relearn the Big Bang drills. He must bring that game to the T20 format. As for the 50-50 format, well, run-a-ball Dhoni’s as good as it gets.

Class act

2009-02-24T08:52:00.001+05:30

Tze wei poses for the mms exercise in the classroom.

Slumdog howls home

2009-02-23T12:44:00.001+05:30

So everybody who gives awards is in agreement that Slumdog Millionaire is an extremely good film. Heck, it's apparently a rare all-round package. Admirers might even call it a classic - the Indian film that was made when not many white people knew what Indian films were like.

But I belong to that contingent of Indians who can't see what the fuss is all about. I offer the following reasons:

1) The screenplay was brilliant in patches, but for the most part, it was unimaginative and even downright shoddy.

2) The casting - why should a spotless "white gujju", someone who looks like he's always lived an air-conditioned life, be cast to play a man who's had the harshest life imaginable? Travails do not smoothen your skin. Repulsive sensual assaults do not lead to a refined face. Have a look at the hero's elder brother. Now, that's great casting. And hey, please offer a better explanation for the accent. I've seen tourist guides in Agra and they don't magically develop Yorkshire accents. Sorry. They don't.

3) How could every successive question lead the hero down memory lane in a chronological order? Couldn't life have thrown him the answer to question 12 before the answer to question 5? Or did somebody decide that flipping back and forth in the narrative - interspersed as it was with the cop beatings - would be too difficult for the public to understand?

4) I'm not against anybody documenting the "truth" about India. It is a nation of paradoxes. It can shock. I've accepted this. But I have a problem with Slumdog Millionaire being termed fresh or path-breaking. Indeed, many Indian filmmakers have depicted urban squalor with far more poignancy and much lesser drama. Salaam Bombay came out ages ago. And films such as Ankush, Satya, Boot Polish, Do Bigha Zameen etc deal with certain aspects of poverty in urban India.

Technorati Tags: Slumdog,film

Anyway.

Congratulations, Danny Boyle. Enjoy the moment. But do watch Rang de basanti and Taare zameen par when you can. These films and their filmmakers will have to wait a decade more, at least, to win an Oscar. For now, they remain, well, slumdogs.

And so it goes

2009-02-23T09:52:00.000+05:30

I know what you're thinking. Will I use this space for smoldering rhetoric and cathartic cool-offs? Not really. I couldn't really come up with an apt title in the five minutes I had. But the idea of combining the fate of an unpublished novel and a doomed planet (?) seemed appealing in the heat and sluice of the moment.

So what would I use this space for? I don't know. I don't come from a land of planned cities. Things evolve. So will this blog.