Sometimes, we forget that life is about the bigger picture. Trust the Gods to have to remind us of this. As with most questions in our school exam papers, the answer is obvious as soon as it has been revealed to us. How could we not have known? How could we have imagined another possibility?
When a man, nay, semi-God with 99 centuries to his name goes 19 innings without one, a feat which seemed impossible even if he tried, we must sit down and think. How easy it is to forget that the Gods make up their own rules, and he is simply playing by his. It is, aye, the bigger picture that we are missing here. He is simply paying back his dues to his first love cricket.
The IPLization of the game has eroded its vast (well, vast by cricket-world standards) test fanbase and (armchair) commentators have already begun sounding eulogies for the longer version of the game. Most fans are content to talk about the “glories of test cricket” than to sit themselves down and watch all 5 days of it. All this has not escaped the eyes of cricket’s most faithful devotee.
Sachin knew what he must do. With the future of test cricket in peril, he decided to do something about it. And what better way to do it than to make people wait...and watch.
When you realise that approximately 20% of the audience of Indian test series are those waiting for his 100th 100, you realise what a shrewd tactician he is. He had to make people wait, he had to make sure people patronize test matches often enough till they are hooked to them again, and for this, he had to commit a very selfless act indeed- he has kept himself away from the 100th hundred till the apostates return to the temples. To what depths go his devotion to the game!
It is the only logical explanation. None other is possible.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
8.
What I like best about the place I work, is that it doesn't have a Faculty of Arts. Science through and through. Now, judge me not, I would appreciate very much intense discussions on the post-colonial influences on attitudes to the global recession in third-world nations. I definitely miss the great language lessons and studying political theory. What I don't miss are the side effects that come with these. Namely, Fashion.
Now, I have nothing against fashion as long it’s something being discussed on highheelconfidential or splashed across the Bombay Times. I don’t even mind it being discussed by friends while I snatch some well-deserved (ahem) moments of blissful zoning out. I do, however, have a tiny problem if It is your visa into a place, and yes, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at NUS, I’m talking about you!
If someone blindfolded you and placed you anywhere in NUS, you could make out where you were by the average Fashion Sense of people around you. Engineering got a 1, Science a 2, Arts an 8 (those Economics majors bring down the average after all) and Business a 10. So you walked to your Chinese class in jeans, ratty t-shirts, floaters and lugging your school bag with you while designer bags and shoes and dresses float around you. Matching nail polish was a given. In other words, the Faculty screamed, “Welcome Stranger” to you. Well, if cigarette smoke is any welcome (I never figured why the Arts guys smoked more).
No such problems at TIFR! Everyone’s in shades of ratty, with Biology at the “Best Dressed” end of the spectrum (I finally know what those Arts students felt like!), and pretty much everyone else clumped together at the other extreme.
After a couple of months, though, the thing I rejoiced over is now with its own side-effects. Bathing at TIFR is apparently strictly optional. Here’s to my latest fashion accessory. Perfume. Lots of it.
Now, I have nothing against fashion as long it’s something being discussed on highheelconfidential or splashed across the Bombay Times. I don’t even mind it being discussed by friends while I snatch some well-deserved (ahem) moments of blissful zoning out. I do, however, have a tiny problem if It is your visa into a place, and yes, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at NUS, I’m talking about you!
If someone blindfolded you and placed you anywhere in NUS, you could make out where you were by the average Fashion Sense of people around you. Engineering got a 1, Science a 2, Arts an 8 (those Economics majors bring down the average after all) and Business a 10. So you walked to your Chinese class in jeans, ratty t-shirts, floaters and lugging your school bag with you while designer bags and shoes and dresses float around you. Matching nail polish was a given. In other words, the Faculty screamed, “Welcome Stranger” to you. Well, if cigarette smoke is any welcome (I never figured why the Arts guys smoked more).
No such problems at TIFR! Everyone’s in shades of ratty, with Biology at the “Best Dressed” end of the spectrum (I finally know what those Arts students felt like!), and pretty much everyone else clumped together at the other extreme.
After a couple of months, though, the thing I rejoiced over is now with its own side-effects. Bathing at TIFR is apparently strictly optional. Here’s to my latest fashion accessory. Perfume. Lots of it.
Monday, December 12, 2011
I saw a member of a nearly-extinct species today. It was shiny, bright green, and found in the most unlikely of places, a dusty Mumbai pavement. It was a typewriter, its owner an inconspicuous man unaware of the power his device exerted over a 20-something girl fed on a diet of computers, laptops and tablets. He uncovered it from a blue cloth bag, placed it onto a makeshift wooden table, and seated behind his instant desk on a ledge in the pavement, got busy with his morning newspaper. Bombay has one of the highest real-estate prices in the world. Try telling that to the countless roadside businessmen who create their offices in the heart of the city, all for free.
The only tales of typewriters I hear are of grandfatherly figures attached to their machines, and writers who prefer the zing of their ancient relics to mechanical clicks. Curious about these people who don’t pay a visit to the ubiquitous internet cafes that have sprouted all over the city,
I walked over and asked the owner what he did with his shiny oiled typewriter. He gave me the once-over, and recognizing I was no potential customer became brusque in his manner. “I type documents out for people,” he said. “Who are these people?” I pressed. A glare later, he replied, “Advocates from the court”. The High Court was across the road and it turned out lawyers would
walk over to this old man with sheets of paper to get documents typed. I wondered how I had never previously noticed that every single page of the 36-page deed of my mother’s new house had the stressed imprint of a typewriter and not the smooth emboss of a printer.
It’s impressive how these CEOs of sorts have carved out a niche for themselves when their trade is so much threatened by the onslaught of technology. Many typing centres are buying computers, but the future of these one-man centres is one they don’t know yet. The world’s last typewriter factory existed in Mumbai before it was shut down this year. Perhaps it is convenience they offer, perhaps it’s efficiency, perhaps a familiarity with official formats that a computer doesn’t provide yet. Or perhaps it’s a more mundane matter of a routine that lawyers are loathe to change.
But these are tenacious Mumbaikars, and if there’s one thing you can be certain of, it’s that that little area of real estate will be put to good use by them, with or without their shiny green devices. I’d watch out for roadside printers, if I were you. Remember, you read it here first.
The only tales of typewriters I hear are of grandfatherly figures attached to their machines, and writers who prefer the zing of their ancient relics to mechanical clicks. Curious about these people who don’t pay a visit to the ubiquitous internet cafes that have sprouted all over the city,
I walked over and asked the owner what he did with his shiny oiled typewriter. He gave me the once-over, and recognizing I was no potential customer became brusque in his manner. “I type documents out for people,” he said. “Who are these people?” I pressed. A glare later, he replied, “Advocates from the court”. The High Court was across the road and it turned out lawyers would
walk over to this old man with sheets of paper to get documents typed. I wondered how I had never previously noticed that every single page of the 36-page deed of my mother’s new house had the stressed imprint of a typewriter and not the smooth emboss of a printer.
It’s impressive how these CEOs of sorts have carved out a niche for themselves when their trade is so much threatened by the onslaught of technology. Many typing centres are buying computers, but the future of these one-man centres is one they don’t know yet. The world’s last typewriter factory existed in Mumbai before it was shut down this year. Perhaps it is convenience they offer, perhaps it’s efficiency, perhaps a familiarity with official formats that a computer doesn’t provide yet. Or perhaps it’s a more mundane matter of a routine that lawyers are loathe to change.
But these are tenacious Mumbaikars, and if there’s one thing you can be certain of, it’s that that little area of real estate will be put to good use by them, with or without their shiny green devices. I’d watch out for roadside printers, if I were you. Remember, you read it here first.
Friday, December 9, 2011
City of Djinns- A Review
He calls his book a memoir of a year in Delhi, but this is a book which transcends eras. Dalrymple sweeps past Delhi's physical landscapes and wanders into its nooks and crannies, exploring their raisons d'etre in the capital.
Countless are the times we have read about the impact of the Mughal and the British empires on India. Here, we get a look at what they changed on smaller scales and how they moulded the character of a city in a manner that makes it a schizophrenic mix of grand colonnades and derelict ruins, Delhiites with stiff upper lips and Punjabi cabbies who leer at women.
Vehicled in a taxi from the International Backside Taxi Stand, Dalrymple makes various trips to the past that he sees responsible for the Delhi around him. He takes us with him through his discovery of the Mughal empire, with its richness of art, poetry and court intrigues, which are recalled with a nostalgia, a lament for all that has been lost and for the prosaic nature of what has been left behind. The British are spoken about in view of their individual eccentricities and their unique relationships with Delhi. Throughout these periods, Indian civilians are seen as passive subjects who are subject to the winds of change swirling around them. How do the Anglo-Indians of Delhi live, abandoned without a country they are allowed to call their own?
It is to the partition of 1947 that Dalrymple traces the fissures and the structures of Delhi society, that has resulted in two Delhis, the old in perpetual disdain of the nouveau Delhi of immigrants who run beauty schools, to whom Urdu is but the title of the latest Bollywood film. It's here that the book pulls you in, with the human geography of Delhi a fascinating read.
There is an underlying wit in every age of the book at the Indianisms of everyday life (he narrates with great amusement a tale of the Indian customs officer who refused to let him leave the country for two weeks without confiscating every electronic equipment he had got from Britain to prevent them being sold in India, only to offer a price for them much later in whispered pleas). The prose is fluid, though there are instances when you grapple with how an incident connects with the bigger picture of the chapter. At no point, however, do you stop in boredom.
Cities are born, and they evolve, their state of being shaped by a host of events. We have only to scratch their surface to unearth a wealth of heritage that make them living breathing entities. As a travelogue, Dalrymple makes you want to step out into a Delhi (a city that I have never given much thought to) and discover the city as he has. The book should have perhaps be called "The Story of Delhi" and it is one he narrates very well indeed.
Countless are the times we have read about the impact of the Mughal and the British empires on India. Here, we get a look at what they changed on smaller scales and how they moulded the character of a city in a manner that makes it a schizophrenic mix of grand colonnades and derelict ruins, Delhiites with stiff upper lips and Punjabi cabbies who leer at women.
Vehicled in a taxi from the International Backside Taxi Stand, Dalrymple makes various trips to the past that he sees responsible for the Delhi around him. He takes us with him through his discovery of the Mughal empire, with its richness of art, poetry and court intrigues, which are recalled with a nostalgia, a lament for all that has been lost and for the prosaic nature of what has been left behind. The British are spoken about in view of their individual eccentricities and their unique relationships with Delhi. Throughout these periods, Indian civilians are seen as passive subjects who are subject to the winds of change swirling around them. How do the Anglo-Indians of Delhi live, abandoned without a country they are allowed to call their own?
It is to the partition of 1947 that Dalrymple traces the fissures and the structures of Delhi society, that has resulted in two Delhis, the old in perpetual disdain of the nouveau Delhi of immigrants who run beauty schools, to whom Urdu is but the title of the latest Bollywood film. It's here that the book pulls you in, with the human geography of Delhi a fascinating read.
There is an underlying wit in every age of the book at the Indianisms of everyday life (he narrates with great amusement a tale of the Indian customs officer who refused to let him leave the country for two weeks without confiscating every electronic equipment he had got from Britain to prevent them being sold in India, only to offer a price for them much later in whispered pleas). The prose is fluid, though there are instances when you grapple with how an incident connects with the bigger picture of the chapter. At no point, however, do you stop in boredom.
Cities are born, and they evolve, their state of being shaped by a host of events. We have only to scratch their surface to unearth a wealth of heritage that make them living breathing entities. As a travelogue, Dalrymple makes you want to step out into a Delhi (a city that I have never given much thought to) and discover the city as he has. The book should have perhaps be called "The Story of Delhi" and it is one he narrates very well indeed.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Eden Gardens, Wimbledon and Old Trafford remain on my bucket list, but there's something about the 'home ground' and I consider dusty, crumbling, rude and patronizing Wankhede mine.
As I joined the century-long queue at the Wankhede with a horde of people anticipating a century of a different sort, I knew what the Buddha was talking about- I felt at one with the world. There was one word on every lip and in every heart in that queue- Sachin.
I entered to find Viru and Ganbhir going about their business. Bombay made up for Kolkata's absconding- the openers' solidity was rewarded by the vociferous chants we reserve for our own...till the administrators at the Wankhede flashed His face onto the giant screen. All alse was promptly forgotten.
How much love can a person receive? It was 'Sachin, Sachin' on every lip again, and Viru and Gambhir went about their work, forgotten. We were waiting, and our urgency was beginning to be palpable. Ask anyone at the grounds how Gambhir got out. Chances are they won't know. What they will remember is that awkward moment when the finger went up, when the second of obligatory silence was followed by a deafening roar that erupted without thought, straight from the heart. How much happiness can a person spread by his mere presence?
We were united, heart and soul, from that moment on. Sachin might be India's son, but Wankhede is his home ground. Our 'moriya!'s made sure he remembered. His arrival brought on a pandemonium that lasted every ball and reached a crescendo at 94 not out. How can a person infuse so much energy into so many?
And then, a sheer drop into sheer silence. Stunned faces. Despair. A thousand hearts stopped simultaneously, the carnival was suddenly a funeral. He wasn't to reach his pinnacle at home, we were to be denied, but our spirits would be with him in Australia, where surely it would come. Perhaps this was retribution for the booing of 2006? So close, yet so far...as we stood to applaud him back to the pavilion, we wondered, how can one person break so many hearts?
The silence settled around us as we let the pain sink in. But we are not the raucous, unsporting Wankhede for nothing and we are not to be beaten. We had a renewed chant for our hero- "We Want Follow-on!"
Anything for Tendlya. Anything.
As I joined the century-long queue at the Wankhede with a horde of people anticipating a century of a different sort, I knew what the Buddha was talking about- I felt at one with the world. There was one word on every lip and in every heart in that queue- Sachin.
I entered to find Viru and Ganbhir going about their business. Bombay made up for Kolkata's absconding- the openers' solidity was rewarded by the vociferous chants we reserve for our own...till the administrators at the Wankhede flashed His face onto the giant screen. All alse was promptly forgotten.
How much love can a person receive? It was 'Sachin, Sachin' on every lip again, and Viru and Gambhir went about their work, forgotten. We were waiting, and our urgency was beginning to be palpable. Ask anyone at the grounds how Gambhir got out. Chances are they won't know. What they will remember is that awkward moment when the finger went up, when the second of obligatory silence was followed by a deafening roar that erupted without thought, straight from the heart. How much happiness can a person spread by his mere presence?
We were united, heart and soul, from that moment on. Sachin might be India's son, but Wankhede is his home ground. Our 'moriya!'s made sure he remembered. His arrival brought on a pandemonium that lasted every ball and reached a crescendo at 94 not out. How can a person infuse so much energy into so many?
And then, a sheer drop into sheer silence. Stunned faces. Despair. A thousand hearts stopped simultaneously, the carnival was suddenly a funeral. He wasn't to reach his pinnacle at home, we were to be denied, but our spirits would be with him in Australia, where surely it would come. Perhaps this was retribution for the booing of 2006? So close, yet so far...as we stood to applaud him back to the pavilion, we wondered, how can one person break so many hearts?
The silence settled around us as we let the pain sink in. But we are not the raucous, unsporting Wankhede for nothing and we are not to be beaten. We had a renewed chant for our hero- "We Want Follow-on!"
Anything for Tendlya. Anything.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Great Indian Family
All Indian family get-togethers (the ones at fancy air-conditioned restaurants with tables joined) have some things in common- comments on fluctuations in adipose content, a paneer dish, a discussion of the Indian economy (males) and extended family gossip disguised under genuine concern (female).
As my stomach struggles to digest the remains of the paneer tikka and the chinese platter, my brain tries to wrap its head around all that has changed over the years, at how family lunches of today differ from those of yore (yes I'm old enough to use that word).
Half my cousins are NRIs/foreign returns, and tales of London and Dubai are thrown around like those of Chembur and Mylapore. It's amazing to hear about the latest technological and architectural marvels...but sometimes you can sense the older generation getting a tad indifferent. It's hard being interested in something you can't connect to, isn't it? Despite Hindi and Tamizh being the common languages of the group, the conversation flowed in English (often British tinged), as we watched Tamizh fade away from our lives, waving a cheery good-bye. Each generation thinks in a different language, and while that doesn't affect inter-personal communication, it does bring about a disconnect, particularly when humour is involved.
And then came the master blow- as Uncle ordered prawns. At a Tam-Brahm lunch, where servers are normally issued the 'vegetarian only' rule in advance with each dish being subjected to further cross-examination upon its arrival. Awkward shuffling around the table ensued while everyone peered with intense concentration into their menu cards, Well, everyone except my 17 year old cousin who chose this precise moment to demand a glass of beer from his horrified dad.
Ah, how times change.
And then two things happened. My silent, introverted brother who I love very much hugged me out of the blue, and a distant grandmother tenderly kissed me on both cheeks and said she wanted to spend time with me with such warmth that my heart melted, and I thanked God that the paneer dish wasn't the only thing about these get-togethers that would always remain constant.
As my stomach struggles to digest the remains of the paneer tikka and the chinese platter, my brain tries to wrap its head around all that has changed over the years, at how family lunches of today differ from those of yore (yes I'm old enough to use that word).
Half my cousins are NRIs/foreign returns, and tales of London and Dubai are thrown around like those of Chembur and Mylapore. It's amazing to hear about the latest technological and architectural marvels...but sometimes you can sense the older generation getting a tad indifferent. It's hard being interested in something you can't connect to, isn't it? Despite Hindi and Tamizh being the common languages of the group, the conversation flowed in English (often British tinged), as we watched Tamizh fade away from our lives, waving a cheery good-bye. Each generation thinks in a different language, and while that doesn't affect inter-personal communication, it does bring about a disconnect, particularly when humour is involved.
And then came the master blow- as Uncle ordered prawns. At a Tam-Brahm lunch, where servers are normally issued the 'vegetarian only' rule in advance with each dish being subjected to further cross-examination upon its arrival. Awkward shuffling around the table ensued while everyone peered with intense concentration into their menu cards, Well, everyone except my 17 year old cousin who chose this precise moment to demand a glass of beer from his horrified dad.
Ah, how times change.
And then two things happened. My silent, introverted brother who I love very much hugged me out of the blue, and a distant grandmother tenderly kissed me on both cheeks and said she wanted to spend time with me with such warmth that my heart melted, and I thanked God that the paneer dish wasn't the only thing about these get-togethers that would always remain constant.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Taking tennis lessons feels a little surreal with the knowledge that people you once played with in the miniscule school grounds are now married with kids of their own while you've just kept playing, with newer friends.
A part of this lack of belonging stems from the fact that there are no other 22 year olds in sight. All my little hitting partners ask me which school I'm studying in. "I'm working" is no satisfactory answer. It's beyond their compehension that someone who works like Papa or Mama learns tennis with them. The sheepish glance that accessorizes my reply is met with a blank uncertain stare. They don't know where to place me in their circle of society.
Playing with underaged boys is fun, though. All that matters to them is playing. Spare us the small talk, the breaks, just get out of the way when it's my turn. That's how it is- no nonsense. There's nothing else these kids are thinking of while they're beating the stuffing out of me. No concerns about how they look or who is watching. They'd rather blast 9 out of 10 services into the net if they can rip the last one out of the water. In contrast, I gently lob my balls over the net where they're instantly dispatched back to me wrapped in a missile launcher. It doesn't help that I have a 100% first serve percentage. What I'd give for the confidence these kids wear on their sleeves. Will they still back themselves the way they do now 10 years down the line? I hope they do.
6-10 year olds are the best company. Often only a few inches taller than their racquets, they wobble around court and they are full of awe at anything anyone does. One little tyke said how he thought I looked like an international player playing, and I went into transports of delight till I overheard him say the next guy played like Roger Federer.
12 year olds are a little less fun, because they always want to win (but mostly because they're usually good enough to beat you). They treat you with the disdain you reserve for Harbhajan Singh after a series in Australia. All you need to keep them in check, however, is one fluke shot once in a while. Suitably awed by an outworldly winner, they subside for a while.
The 16 year olds- unbearable. Strong and capable enough to beat you thoroughly and egoistic enough to treat you like dirt if you happen to partner them in doubles, they are the kinds that make you want to transform into their mums and spank them sharply. You do the next best thing instead, serve at your partner's head. Nothing quite as cathartic after an hour of being ignored. Too macho to ask for a new partner and still too egostic to talk to you, he has no choice but to sulk and bear it (you can do the grinning on his behalf).
And that's the most important thing playing with kids teaches you- the beautiful art of payback.
A part of this lack of belonging stems from the fact that there are no other 22 year olds in sight. All my little hitting partners ask me which school I'm studying in. "I'm working" is no satisfactory answer. It's beyond their compehension that someone who works like Papa or Mama learns tennis with them. The sheepish glance that accessorizes my reply is met with a blank uncertain stare. They don't know where to place me in their circle of society.
Playing with underaged boys is fun, though. All that matters to them is playing. Spare us the small talk, the breaks, just get out of the way when it's my turn. That's how it is- no nonsense. There's nothing else these kids are thinking of while they're beating the stuffing out of me. No concerns about how they look or who is watching. They'd rather blast 9 out of 10 services into the net if they can rip the last one out of the water. In contrast, I gently lob my balls over the net where they're instantly dispatched back to me wrapped in a missile launcher. It doesn't help that I have a 100% first serve percentage. What I'd give for the confidence these kids wear on their sleeves. Will they still back themselves the way they do now 10 years down the line? I hope they do.
6-10 year olds are the best company. Often only a few inches taller than their racquets, they wobble around court and they are full of awe at anything anyone does. One little tyke said how he thought I looked like an international player playing, and I went into transports of delight till I overheard him say the next guy played like Roger Federer.
12 year olds are a little less fun, because they always want to win (but mostly because they're usually good enough to beat you). They treat you with the disdain you reserve for Harbhajan Singh after a series in Australia. All you need to keep them in check, however, is one fluke shot once in a while. Suitably awed by an outworldly winner, they subside for a while.
The 16 year olds- unbearable. Strong and capable enough to beat you thoroughly and egoistic enough to treat you like dirt if you happen to partner them in doubles, they are the kinds that make you want to transform into their mums and spank them sharply. You do the next best thing instead, serve at your partner's head. Nothing quite as cathartic after an hour of being ignored. Too macho to ask for a new partner and still too egostic to talk to you, he has no choice but to sulk and bear it (you can do the grinning on his behalf).
And that's the most important thing playing with kids teaches you- the beautiful art of payback.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Conflicted
Every once in a while, when you're usually just about to sink into the cushiness of life, it throws you a curveball which makes you question your very core, re-examine the fibres of your moral compass and in general make you feel as comfortable and prepared as Sourav Ganguly facing an Ntini bouncer.
When should Sachin score that blasted hundred?
As a self-respecting Indian, I have no choice but to have an opinion. The answer has been easy thus far- 2 years ago. The last, sigh, 9 tests have been dutifully followed with bated breath, and dutifully followed by acute heartache. Discussions on how Sachin being stranded on 99 centuries would be stuff of legend have been dutifully put to rest with rediff-style comments. But the current situation is delicate.
As a Sachin fan (Trivia: what is the opposite of 'Sachin fan'? Traitor? Correct.) in Bombay, I'm faced with a moral dilemma. As tomorrow dawns bright and sunny in Kolkata, dare I pray for Sachin's failure so that the Kohinoor of milestones be achieved before my eyes? Dare I align myself with the Dravid-wing extremists, the apostates, and the scum of Indian society who I've always thought deserve a couple of quiet years in North Korea?
The decision is multifactorial, you see. Everyone knows moving 2 and a half inches towards the north-east during the bowler’s run-up in the 49th ball of a Sachin innings is directly related to His dismissal two minutes later. Who knows what winds of change my butterfly will bring? Can I live with myself if he does *shudder* fail, or must I live with a perpetual albatross around my neck? Will I live out the rest of my life with the knowledge that I am personally responsible for Sachin’s century count being less by 2? I’ve clearly been jinxing Sachin these last 9 tests, will praying for his failure do the trick in Kolkata? Will this knowledge reverse-jinx him instead?
My daily prayers, and the Kolkata test, are set to start soon. I must decide what to ask the Gods (the one in white and the other ones),
Let it rain*.
(PS: Gods, Option 2 is a West Indian collapse of 100 and Sachin guiding India with an unbeaten half century)
When should Sachin score that blasted hundred?
As a self-respecting Indian, I have no choice but to have an opinion. The answer has been easy thus far- 2 years ago. The last, sigh, 9 tests have been dutifully followed with bated breath, and dutifully followed by acute heartache. Discussions on how Sachin being stranded on 99 centuries would be stuff of legend have been dutifully put to rest with rediff-style comments. But the current situation is delicate.
As a Sachin fan (Trivia: what is the opposite of 'Sachin fan'? Traitor? Correct.) in Bombay, I'm faced with a moral dilemma. As tomorrow dawns bright and sunny in Kolkata, dare I pray for Sachin's failure so that the Kohinoor of milestones be achieved before my eyes? Dare I align myself with the Dravid-wing extremists, the apostates, and the scum of Indian society who I've always thought deserve a couple of quiet years in North Korea?
The decision is multifactorial, you see. Everyone knows moving 2 and a half inches towards the north-east during the bowler’s run-up in the 49th ball of a Sachin innings is directly related to His dismissal two minutes later. Who knows what winds of change my butterfly will bring? Can I live with myself if he does *shudder* fail, or must I live with a perpetual albatross around my neck? Will I live out the rest of my life with the knowledge that I am personally responsible for Sachin’s century count being less by 2? I’ve clearly been jinxing Sachin these last 9 tests, will praying for his failure do the trick in Kolkata? Will this knowledge reverse-jinx him instead?
My daily prayers, and the Kolkata test, are set to start soon. I must decide what to ask the Gods (the one in white and the other ones),
Let it rain*.
(PS: Gods, Option 2 is a West Indian collapse of 100 and Sachin guiding India with an unbeaten half century)
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Bombay 1
There are two places that make me aware, in a very visceral way, of just how many people there are in this world. One of them is Tirupati, the other Victoria Terminus in Bombay. I step onto its dusty platforms everyday, and everyday I jump into a moving train, numbing, for a moment, that part of my brain that says "watch out!" This throbbing mass of a city makes you gasp- for time, and for space.
Bombay reduces you to one body in a multitude. Arms, faces and entire torsos are flung without thought into within a few inches of your skin as you shrink away, aghast. Later, in calmer environs offering more room for thought, you realise that it's merely the natural order of things. The only way to live with the absence of space is to ignore it. Unlike its other populous counterparts across the country, the city doesn't objectify, stereotype or denigrate you, it is merely oblivious to your existence.
You learn to live with it yourself. Without realising it, you’re most at peace while staring out the window, squished between two sweaty ladies in the filled-beyond-capacity compartment of the Bombay local. Such a sense of space doesn’t come by very often, and you guard it so fiercely you refuse to let the world in, and refuse to be swept away by the human side of Bombay, the side that makes you a friend to tired mothers-of-two in train compartments who will soon confide everything to you, if only you weren’t so intent on shutting them out in favour of your book, your iPod or your thoughts.
The enormous gap between resources and people who need them etches itself starkly on a Mumbaikar's life and influences behaviour like nothing else. It turns life into a zero-sum game, and everything you do, from jostling the lady next to you at the station, to running towards the auto stand to get the last available auto is done with one thing in mind- the fear of losing out. You wonder, with admiration bordering on amazement, at how this enforced need to be selfish manages to sit at ease with the graciousness and easy camaraderie that characterize the average Mumbaikar. “Fear of missing out” is perhaps the wrong term; more accurate would be the knowledge of how easy it is to miss out, an acceptance that makes you shrug and brush failure off, an acceptance that banishes fear. It’s what journalists, in times of duress, call the “resilient Mumbai spirit”, even if this is a more mundane manifestation.
It’s a difficult city to live in. It makes you play by the rules(unless you’re Mukesh Ambani with a personal helipad), makes you play dirty, and it makes life as much about ticking off days to the weekend as about relishing each one. And it leaves you speechless when you catch sight of the beautiful Victoria Terminus against the twilight sky and know you’re home.
Bombay reduces you to one body in a multitude. Arms, faces and entire torsos are flung without thought into within a few inches of your skin as you shrink away, aghast. Later, in calmer environs offering more room for thought, you realise that it's merely the natural order of things. The only way to live with the absence of space is to ignore it. Unlike its other populous counterparts across the country, the city doesn't objectify, stereotype or denigrate you, it is merely oblivious to your existence.
You learn to live with it yourself. Without realising it, you’re most at peace while staring out the window, squished between two sweaty ladies in the filled-beyond-capacity compartment of the Bombay local. Such a sense of space doesn’t come by very often, and you guard it so fiercely you refuse to let the world in, and refuse to be swept away by the human side of Bombay, the side that makes you a friend to tired mothers-of-two in train compartments who will soon confide everything to you, if only you weren’t so intent on shutting them out in favour of your book, your iPod or your thoughts.
The enormous gap between resources and people who need them etches itself starkly on a Mumbaikar's life and influences behaviour like nothing else. It turns life into a zero-sum game, and everything you do, from jostling the lady next to you at the station, to running towards the auto stand to get the last available auto is done with one thing in mind- the fear of losing out. You wonder, with admiration bordering on amazement, at how this enforced need to be selfish manages to sit at ease with the graciousness and easy camaraderie that characterize the average Mumbaikar. “Fear of missing out” is perhaps the wrong term; more accurate would be the knowledge of how easy it is to miss out, an acceptance that makes you shrug and brush failure off, an acceptance that banishes fear. It’s what journalists, in times of duress, call the “resilient Mumbai spirit”, even if this is a more mundane manifestation.
It’s a difficult city to live in. It makes you play by the rules(unless you’re Mukesh Ambani with a personal helipad), makes you play dirty, and it makes life as much about ticking off days to the weekend as about relishing each one. And it leaves you speechless when you catch sight of the beautiful Victoria Terminus against the twilight sky and know you’re home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)