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.
Friday, November 25, 2011
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.
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