Modern day Slaves

This is my first attempt at writing a blog post on my tablet. There are just too many gadgets all around us nowadays.
Our television is playing in the background - it always is as soon as I get back from work. We don't really watch anything seriously - we mostly flip channels, I catch a few snippets of some football matches on the sports channels once a while, catch a few headlines on news channels - flippant, nonchalant time pass - but it's on nonetheless.
On most days I spend umpteen hours on my laptop at work and often on coming back home, I spend a little more time surfing on my personal laptop - paying bills online, checking statuses and snaps of friends & family across the world, going thru my G-Mail inbox and mostly deleting umpteen unsolicited e-mails.
On the way to and from work, I connect my mobiles to my Bluetooth enabled devices to basically extend my office environment into my car as well. Once in a while, I also use mobile car chargers to keep my mobiles going.
And as for mobile phones, they are becoming more and more intrusive. With smartphones thriving all around, it is the first thing that I use in the morning (desperately trying to turn off an irritating new alarm app) and the last thing at night (checking a few messages on Whatsapp) and anytime thru out the day when I get some breathing time (checking out SMSes on my way up the escalator at office) etc. and yeah, it's my personal phone. The official one rings so much that at times, I can hear it ringing in my ear even when I am fast asleep.
There is a PS3 on which I have hardly ever played anything, although I make plans almost very other weekend; a MP3 player which I use at times for my jogging even though I have more songs on my mobile and I could have jolly well used the mobile only; a music system on which we keep thinking that we will hear our collection of CDs and cassettes, but end up mostly listening to the same inane repetitions of songs played by RJs on radio channels....
And to even think that I was even contemplating buying a SMART TV!!!

Childhood – Then and Now

When you think of it, we had a very different childhood from the ones that kids of today, are experiencing. And as I pen down that line, I am amazed at the length of time that has passed, at the enormity of the differences that have cropped up in the childhoods of then and now and also, at how things remain the same, the more they change!! Indeed, when I was young, my Maa would speak of her childhood with the same prefacing comment – “We had a very different childhood” and her descriptions would seem scarcely believable. I am sure that Gurhgurhee would feel similarly, when I speak of mine.

But amongst all the other things that have changed – and there are plenty – the most disheartening, I think, is the slow disappearance of the bonhomie and the accompanying fun and frolic with the wider family.

I grew up in Kolkata and we had many cousins around. The wider family was more or less concentrated in and around Bengal and East India and many would be in Kolkata. Meetings and get-togethers were frequent and there would be many opportunities for the younger lot, like me, to have fun. The fairly regular visits to Patna were the highlights of our holidays and the occasional visits from Mejo Jethumoni and family, from Bombay or our vice-versa trips, would be more eagerly looked forward to, than anything else in life.

Dada used to have so many posters of sportspersons & superheroes stuck on the walls of his room - his stories of Mike Tyson and Clive Lloyd and his interest in comics from Phantom to Flash Gordon to Captain America, rubbed off on me too. Weekend visits to Baromashi’s place at Garpar would be so much fun – if there is ever a place that I would associate with constant hustle and bustle and the unfettered fun that children so crave for, then Garpar would be the place. We would never want those visits to be over J

Afternoons at Pishemoshai’s place in Mahendru, devouring all available Enid Blyton books of Rintu Didi’s (and what fun they used to be, with their odd titles – Rub-a-Dub, Rat-a-Tat and what not); Didi visiting us at Salt Lake and writing down lyrics for the songs of Sound of Music [I still remember – she wrote – “Doorbells and sledge bells and something with noodles” – and I still don’t know that missing word ;)]; Kolaghat at Mejo Mashi’s place – my first ever outstation trip without my parents – always outdoors with Bapi Dada and playing so many sports - and tasting those heavenly Chilli Chickens and Roomali Rotis that Mejo Mashi used to make with such aplomb; my earliest hazy memories of Bhagalpur, riding pillion with Chhotomama and Shejomama and wandering around in the gardens – so many of the memories that make up the montage called childhood in the mind, invoke cousins, Aunts and Uncles.

Today alas, children have fewer cousins, they meet them far too infrequently to develop any lasting bonds and we, ironically, have become far too inward looking and self-centred in an age when the world is supposed to be coalescing.

Guess, I must give my parents and my Uncles and Aunts and everybody of their generation, a lot of credit for giving me a childhood, with so many memories to cherish.

I can now stand up.avi

Click here to view this video

The Rise and Fall of Roger Federer

There was a time, not too far off in the past, when his biggest rivals had an air of resigned indifference when it came to a match against Roger Federer. It was not just that Federer consistently beat his biggest rivals like Andy Roddick or Lleyton Hewitt or David Nalbandian – He destroyed them.

A game against Federer was akin to a toddler trying to match the might of an Almighty God. Federer made the men look like boys – he ripped apart their games, destroyed their morale, punctured their pride and humiliated them in front of their fans – to the extent that playing tennis itself became an existential question for some of them. Andy Roddick once famously said that he fervently wished that he was born in another era!!

Indeed, the rise seemed inexorable – When Federer entered into his 200^th consecutive week as the World No. 1, he had become the first person to have ever done so and eclipsed the previous record of Jimmy Connors by more than 40 weeks. In a span of 4 years from 2004 – 2007, Federer seemed to win Grand Slams at will – going from 1 at the start of 2004 to 12 at the end of 2007. Mighty Pete Sampras' record of 14 Grand Slams won over 13 years seemed destined to be superseded – there was even an eerily uncomfortable feeling amongst tennis aficionados that calling Pete Sampras a giant of the tennis court, a genius of his times, seemed distinctly incongruous in the presence of the awesome genius of Roger Federer. How could Pistol Pete be called a genius in the same breath as Federer – the way things were going, everybody seemed to agree that it could well be a two dozen Grand Slams before Federer hung up his boots. The problem was that there did not seem to be anybody who could even remotely challenge him, let alone defeat him –whether it was an ATP Tier – II tournament or the august Grand Slam – the champion was pre-ordained if Federer was playing in it. Rod Laver, indisputably the 'Greatest' willingly abdicated his crown – his famous words - "Oh, I would be honoured to even be compared to Roger", seemed to have settled it – the world had never seen a talent like Roger Federer's and he would scale the greatest of heights!!

But destiny had other designs – if there is ever a doubt as to whether the oft-repeated Law of Averages actually holds up – look no further than the career of Roger Federer.

Throughout the purple patch, the French Open and Rafael Nadal had managed to somehow be the only irritants. Federer huffed and puffed at the French Open – since winning the other Slams increasingly seemed like a mere formality each time, he concentrated all his energies into winning at Roland Garros, but Nadal seemed a step ahead each time. Even that was easily accommodated into the script – legends like Sampras and Lendl too had their failings at a particular Grand Slam and it only seemed to suffuse the aura of Federer with even more resplendence. But Nadal was the only person who begged to differ – on his favourite surface – clay – he did his best to ensure that he won each time and thus remain a worthy contender. He tirelessly played numerous tournaments across the world, zigzagging his way across tournaments of various tiers & accumulating precious points to slowly, but surely, emerge as the strongest pretender to Fed-Ex's crown.

2008 would prove to be a seminal year for Federer. The script remained true till the semis of the Australian Open in 2008, when he lost to Novak Djokovic, the first time since 4 years that he failed to reach a Grand Slam final. Very uncharacteristically for Federer, he lost in straight sets at a Grand Slam for the first time in 5 years. He however chose to dismiss the loss as a minor blip – a rusty start to the year because of lack of match practice – he would quickly set the house in order - the pundits agreed. In the next 5 months leading up to Wimbledon, he lost to Andy Murray for the first time in his career, lost the semis of the Indian Wells tournament to American journeyman Mardy Fish, lost to Roddick for the first time since 2003, lost to relative minnows like Radek Stepanek and then lost successive tournaments on clay to Rafael Nadal. He, however, remained unfazed and such was the immensity of the esteem in which he was held by all, that nobody seemed perturbed – i.e. till the French Open. It was a tournament where he would always be the challenger to Nadal, but he had seemed to make progress in each preceding year and everybody expected a cracker of a match when true to script, it was again Nadal vs. Federer in the final. On the contrary, Nadal pummelled him in straight sets – 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 – the final set washout was the first ever for Federer in 10 years!! Nadal had paid him back in the same coin – he had humiliated Federer, much like Federer used to do to his own rivals. Yet, it was clay after all – the situation could still be salvaged.

The tide however, turned decisively at the historic final of Wimbledon 2008 – this was Federer's own backyard – Nadal's greatest weakness was grass and Federer had his best chance to take revenge and nip the rising challenge in the bud. All sorts of records beckoned – a win would see Federer break Bjorn Borg's incredible tally of 5 consecutive Wimbledon titles and enable him to move to within a single title of Sampras' all-time record of 14 Grand Slams. Yet, after an epic 4 hrs 48 mins five-setter that John McEnroe hailed as the greatest ever of tennis history, it was Nadal who emerged triumphant. He had tamed Federer at his strongest bastion, stripped him of his aura of divine invincibility and the world would never be the same again for Roger Federer.

He rallied briefly – winning the US Open late last year to ensure that he did not end the year without a Slam for the first time since 2002, but 2009 has proved that the decline seems increasingly and worryingly, irreversible. While he still seems to be effortlessly gliding into the quarters and semis of tournaments and defeating his old rivals like Hewitt or Roddick, Federer has consistently failed to beat any of his emerging rivals this year – Djokovic or Murray. They have both triumphed against him at crucial stages in tournaments and he isn't even getting enough chances to take a pot-shot at the man who replaced him atop the world rankings – Nadal.

It is not that he has lost his skills or his hunger to win or his passion for the game – it is just that Nadal has taken away his inner belief in his own invincibility. Much like Federer had sucked the self-belief out from the hearts of his yesteryear rivals Roddick and Hewitt, Nadal has done the same to him.

The world can be so very cruel and harsh.

The Wonder that is India

I wrote this post on the day India went into the first phase of elections, around a month back - I am publishing this on the day on which the election results are about to be declared

The world's largest democracy goes into elections from today onwards – a massive exercise of franchise of a billion plus people, spread across a month over the length and breadth of the 7^th largest nation in the world. And as the Dance of Democracy, as most media houses in India are calling it, unveils, a comedy of epic proportions is being played out on the national stage.

Consider a few of its choicest examples:-

1. Anybody who has been following the elections news and rhetoric knows that the BJP considers itself as the only party that can protect India from terror. It trumpets the achievements of Advani as a Home Minister as if he were Superhero Ironman, while condemning tinny-voiced Dr. Manmohan Singh as the worst pansy to have occupied the exalted chair of Indian PM. The Congress took umbrage to this and declared that the BJP's claims were fraudulent – were they not after all the people who threw in the towel in the face of the Kandahar hijacking drama and released dreaded terrorists? The backroom boys at BJP had no answer to this and they did two things – i] Advani claimed that he was not consulted before the Government decided to submit to the hijackers' demands (would he have done differently?) & ii] they decided to paint the Congress in the same brush by saying that Dr. Manmohan Singh, as Leader of the Opposition was consulted and presumably, he agreed with the Government's line of thought. Are they kidding themselves? Their own Home Minister claims to have known nothing, while the Leader of the Opposition was informed of the details? Nonsense!!
   
2. By the same yardstick, is the Congress trying to fool us by saying that they would not have done the same as the BJP Government? Our erudite PM calmly pointed out that the Congress when faced with a similar situation had decided to take on the terrorists head-on and that shows the Congress resolve. Quite laughable – How can the two be compared as similar situations? IC 814 was hijacked and taken to a country, whose Government was decidedly inimical towards India at that point of time, while the 26/11 terrorists were operating on Indian soil and had been surrounded by Indian troops from all sides. Plus, unlike an aeroplane, where all passengers were trapped as a bunch and could be finished off in a single attempt, the majority of the guests in the Taj and the Oberoi had managed to come out and the terrorists had only captured people in clusters. Does the Congress mean that it would have launched a Mossad style commando operation in the heart of Taliban country? Figure out what comes to your mind when you think of that possibility and you will know how absurd the Congress' claims are
   
3. Even more hilarious is the attempt by the ex-Janata Dal leaders like Laloo, Paswan etc to rake up that issue. Perhaps they have forgotten that unlike the Kandahar case where 189 innocent lives were at stake, the Janata Dal Government of V.P. Singh released 5 dreaded terrorists in exchange for Rubaiya Sayeed, the daughter of the then Indian Home Minister, Mufti Mohammed Sayeed.
   
4. The number of times the word 'communal' is used in conjunction with BJP, one has to pardon the kids of today if they think the two are synonyms. One would imagine that the word 'communal' denotes any kind of activities that demonstrate a pronounced bias in favour of a particular community or bias against a particular community. By that yardstick, what would you term the following:- i] the Congress led Government's decision in Andhra Pradesh to give a 5% reservation to Muslims in Government jobs and educational institutions in a flagrant violation of the Supreme Court's diktat on a cap on reservations; ii] the decision by the CPI-M in Kerala to align with Abdul Nasser Madhani, an indicted criminal, who was arrested for his role in the 1998 Coimbatore blasts, that killed 60 people – incidentally, it is the CPI-M which makes the loudest of noises on the BJP's alleged communalism; iii] virulent casteist stratagems employed by parties like the BSP and the RJD – remember the famous slogan of the BSP – Tilak, Taraju aur Talwa: Inko maaro joote chaar?
   
5. Politicians of all hues and philosophies have been caught on air distributing cash – almost all of them have come up with ingenious excuses on account of tradition, ceremonies etc. Methinks, these are the next possible explanations for all peculiarities which afflict all our political parties:-
   

Crime	Justification
Booth rigging, Electoral Malpractices	Martial traditions of the larger Indian race – the BJP will go ahead and claim it to be true Bharatayita
Dynastic nepotism overshadowing democratic election of leaders in political parties	Close knit family culture in India – after all, even God Shiva entrusted the military command of the Divine Army to his own son, Karthikeya
No attempts at providing bijli/sadak to the long suffering people of their constituencies	Heightened levels of environmental consciousness – ensuring that electricity reaches to all corners of the country would mean commissioning even more thermal power plants, which means more burning of coal, leading to hideous consequences for the ecology; more roads will mean more of those obnoxious low-cost Nano cars will clog the roads – Shiva, Shiva
No attempts at ensuring the security of the Indian population	It contravenes Charles Darwin's axiom of Survival of the Fittest – those, that fall victims are simply obeying the laws of Nature
Humiliatingly agreeing that no Indian born leader is good enough to lead the oldest Indian party that led us to independence	Atithi Devoh Bhava – And if the foreigner is the God (Deva), then how can mere mortals hope to lead instead of the God?

They Flash upon that Inward Eye

I gazed – and gazed – but little thought

What wealth the show, to me had brought...

It's been more than a year, give or take a few days. And yet, I have never really done my heart's bidding – to have my meal at night, switch off all the lights and sit out on the ledge of the balcony of our 11^th floor apartment looking out over Croydon, London. To look down in silence over the glare of a city forever frothing with energy and gaze up at wondrousness at the expanse of a sky that seems contentedly becalmed.

Somehow, whenever I have stepped out, I have always looked down first – at the lights, shimmering all around in different shades; the myriad sounds that evoke a thousand confused connotations all at once; the cars, the buses & the pedestrians, all in an unseeming hurry to get somewhere - a collage of activity, energy, confusion, hurriedness.

And then, as if to set the mind at rest again and to soothe your soul, the eyes wander to the view above - to the ethereal serenity of the sky; the slow, but unerring trundle of the silver-lined grey clouds. The mind frees itself from the shackles of reality and wanders unhindered, into the realms of fantasy. Cotton balls floating around on a grey sea, dragon shaped monsters lining up in formation for a battle, serrations of a mountain range hanging upside down from the firmament – there arises, almost a childlike innocence in the vivid imaginations of the mind. Dozens and then with the passage of some more time, perhaps hundreds of the twinkling stars come into view, each assuming an identity of its own, if you peer at them hard enough – till you get oblivious to everything around you and that tiny speck of light far, far up there, seems to be the only thing that you can see. The silver glow of the moon creates a séance like atmosphere - It is fascinating – the feeling of being one in harmony with an unknown cosmic order at large.

And then a cold breeze blew and with a shudder, I realized that it has been almost an hour. As I switched on the lights again, I can almost hear myself groan. But, then every good thing has to be momentary, for us to recall it with pleasure.

 ..... For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my Heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the Daffodils

---------- William Wordsworth

A Talent Gone Waste

As Jesse Ryder and Ross Taylor created an exquisite symphony on the benign track of MacLean Park in Napier and pummelled the Indian bowlers to all corners of the field, it made sense to remember that they have been playing together for a long, long time. Jesse and Ross are both from the Wairarapa region; have been friends since childhood and have been plying their trade together for Napier since their school days. And they had both been earmarked for further glory, right since their teens – though, they have taken diverse routes to the New Zealand senior team – Ross reaching there a couple of years earlier and staying thereafter as the poster boy of Kiwi cricket, while Jesse took a longer route and has been in the news for the wrong reasons more than the good.

Does this schoolboy friendship, dreams of playing for the country together turning into reality, different characters and yet firm friends; ring a bell for us Indians? Indeed, it reminds one of the extraordinary duo of Sachin Tendulkar and Vinod Kambli. And more so, in a very poignant manner for somebody like me, who adored his style; it reminds us of probably, the greatest regret of Indian cricket in the modern era – Vinod Ganpat Kambli.

People, born and bred in the Mecca of Indian cricket – Mumbai – would have heard of Kambli much earlier than the rest of us, in India. A precocious talent since his early teens, he was 17 and Sachin, 16, when they put on a World Record partnership of 664 in a school match in Mumbai. Their fortunes somewhat diverged thereafter – while Sachin went on to make his India debut later in the same year, Kambli trudged on, unrewarded, in the domestic arena till he was called into the senior squad, 3 years after his friend – for the Test series against England in 1993 (he had made his ODI debut earlier – towards the end of 1991). But when he finally did take his place on a Test field, Vinod Ganpat Kambli had the kind of start to his Test career that budding cricketers can only see in their wildest dreams. A half century in his second Test was followed by a double century in the third and this was followed by another double century in his next Test innings. This lifted him among the elite group of Don Bradman and Walter Hammond as the only scorers of two double centuries in successive innings. In fact, his 224 against England came close to upsetting Sunil Gavaskar's then Test record of the highest score by an Indian (236) and involved a marathon 180 run partnership with Sachin Tendulkar for the 3^rd wicket.

Anybody who has watched that innings; either live at the Wankhede or on the television would never forget the supreme arrogance with which Kambli treated bowlers of the likes of Phil DeFreitas and John Emburey. Many would later say that this flamboyance would be his undoing, but when he was on song, Kambli could give even the likes of Sir Viv Richards or Brian Lara, a run for their money. Those twinkle-toed dances down the track to send the balls disappearing above the spinners' heads into the stands were simply breath-taking, as was the chewing gum nonchalance, which he had undoubtedly copied from the Caribbean maestros. Much before Sachin would torment Shane Warne in Sharjah, in the late nineties, Vinod Kambli would bludgeon him for 22 runs in an over in an ODI. In many ways, Vinod Kambli was more West Indies than west Indian J

Unfortunately, just as his rise was meteoric (4 centuries in his first 7 Test Innings), his fall was spectacular and sudden. He had always seemed a little suspect against quality pace and his flash to gully against anything aimed at his ribs proved to be his downfall. The West Indians led by Courtney Walsh had the measure of him in the 1994 – 95 Test series at home. The runs dried up but more devastatingly for Kambli, the swagger deserted him and his confidence was battered. He was never the same again and he would play just one more Test series before being dumped forever from the Test scene before he was even 24 years old. Rahul Dravid and Sourav Ganguly emerged the next year to take away his middle-order position and though a series of comebacks to the ODI side happened right till 2000, Kambli had already been branded a 'had-been'. He made the news for all the wrong reasons – his razzmatazz lifestyle, flings with Bollywood beauties, his own acting aspirations, flashy clothes, missed practice and injuries – and soon, Kambli disappeared from even first class and Ranji games.

If you look back at his statistics, his average of more than 50 in Tests with 4 centuries and close to 3,000 runs in ODIs would be far more favourable than many international cricketers. But if you take a closer look at his first-class statistics – close to 10,000 runs @ an average of 60 with 35 centuries and then look at Sachin Tendulkar and see, how he has carried on for what seems like forever – it is then that you can't help but shake your head at Kambli's career and wonder, what could have been.

Perhaps, that infamous World Cup semi-final vs. Sri Lanka at the Eden Gardens in 1996, when he unashamedly shed tears, summarises his career, the best.

Where have they all gone?

It was one of those typical grey, bleak, wintry London mornings when you go through the motions of the whole day, having seen nothing but different shades of grey. I had woken up later than usual and later than what would leave me with a decent amount of time to get ready and go to office – I decided to work from home. So, it was that I had the luxury of time in my hand and was standing in the balcony of my 11^th floor apartment overlooking the expanse of Croydon, when a house sparrow decided to pay me a visit. It flitted on to the railing to the right of me, hopped around my legs a couple of times, wandered along the length of our balcony in a rather forlorn manner and then took flight and disappeared as suddenly as it had come.

It was there for a mere 5 minutes, but it suddenly made me realize how infrequent sparrow sightings have become in urban areas (and I am not speaking of London alone – I was in Bangalore and Mumbai for considerable periods of time before coming to London and try as I might, I couldn’t recollect seeing a single sparrow ever). Yet, they had been such a familiar sight when I was growing up that one would pass by without even a glance or not notice their chirping amidst the general din and even, I guess, get irritated at times, when too many of them would hover around, on the balconies and the rooftops.

What exactly is the reason for their diminishing numbers in the cities, I do not know. But what I definitely do know is that their numbers must be drastically falling for I do not see them up and about ever and I doubt my children, when they grow up, would ever see one outside of a text book.

My guess is that they have fallen prey to technology and have lost their nestling sites – how many houses do you see today that have holes and nooks from which, straws are sticking out?

How I wish mine in London had not been a modern apartment, but an older house with its sealing not so tight. That fleeting sparrow visit definitely made my day, a lot less greyer.

Sports and the Brits – A Media & People Circus

I have been in the United Kingdom for a few months now and thankfully, I have been blessed to see quite a few important sporting events happen during this time. In fact, one of the reasons I was keen to come across to the UK rather than the US was the very simple fact that while I have never really followed the sports that set American pulses racing (NASCAR, MLS, Baseball, NBA etc), the Brits have been our close cousins when it comes to the games that they follow (of course, in most cases, we just inherited their likes and dislikes – except perhaps Rugby, which is not so popular back home and is thus, duly deleted from the list of games that I discuss, for the purpose of this post).

And so it was that in the few months that I have been here, the English Premier League came to its closing stages, the Champions' League football followed, EURO 2008 rounded up the football season, the Kiwis came to English shores for cricket, Ricky Hatton and Amir Khan boxed foreign opponents and Wimbledon is reaching its climax, as I write this post - In short, enough sporting events to observe the peculiar traits of the English media and the English people when it comes to sports.

Peculiar because I have never really come across a more biased view of one's own country's superiority in sports as the ones expressed with impunity time and again by the British media and echoed through different channels, by the gullible junta. Let me state my case –

1. In the days leading to EURO 2008, I was surprised to see a football crazy country like Great Britain put on a charade of complete indifference to a continental showpiece – the reason for such petulant behaviour was obvious – England had not qualified for the tournament and the likes of the Rooneys, the Lampards and the Gerrards had been overshadowed by the Modrics and the Villas of the continent – such an ignominy for six-figure earning superstars to be shown their places by relative paupers from the backwaters of Bucharest and Thessaloniki. No surprise that the English found solace in feigning ignorance of the tournament at large!!!
   
2. However, when the tournament got underway and the media here realized that the flowing football on display was winning hearts and rave reviews from the world at large, the media pundits at BBC and the newspaper sports editors chose to focus on the exploits of EPL stars and made them the lynchpins of their teams' displays – thus Fernando Torres was crowned the "King of Spain" in newspaper headlines, while the wily exploits of Andres Iniesta and the goal scoring prowess of David Villa were conveniently glossed over
   
3. In between the football mania, the New Zealanders came visiting for a summer of cricket – and yeah, they got thrashed by the English in the test matches. Great news for cricket in a country where it is by far a much poorer cousin of football – and then, that's where the coverage stopped. The ODI series that followed saw the Kiwis overrun the English and typically, the media chose to look the other way proclaiming that Test cricket was still the ultimate and the English were, in any case, ranked just above West Indies and Zimbabwe, perhaps
   
4. And then came Wimbledon – and the British press never stops reminding you that it is the Mecca of Tennis – never mind that the grass court season is shrinking every time the ATP comes out with its new schedule. And if it is Wimbledon, it comes associated with that eternal Brit mania of trying to find out a home grown hero who can give Great Britain a singles' Wimbledon champion. Now, when was the last time, somebody amongst the men, who supposedly "gave the world the game of tennis", win the Wimbledon Singles' title? Has it been 15 years, 25 years, 35 years since a British bloke last held aloft the trophy? No, it is going to be 70 years now and still counting – but nonetheless, Andy Murray was given all the hype and support he could dream of – in fact, apart from Roger Federer, Murray was the only other guy to be given the privilege of playing all his matches in Centre Court this year. And what did he do with all this pampered treatment? He made heavy weather of the likes of Xavier Malisse, Tommy Haas and Richard Gasquet [does that sound as if he has scalped any worthy pretender to the crown?] before being summarily dismissed by Rafael Nadal in the quarter-finals, as if he was a speck of dust bothering the Spaniard!!
   

The Olympics are approaching and something tells me that I need to read newspapers back home and catch Indian TV news channels to get a fair picture of what is happening J

For They were Jolly Good Fellows .........And so say all of us

Two glittering careers in cricket are on the verge of receding into the sunset in the coming week. It is not surprising that this year has already seen many such farewells – after all, World Cup years often see the end of the run for many a veteran stalwart in any game, more so with cricket with two World Cups in the same year. Newer stars emerge and the older lot often finds itself unable to hold its own against the younger challengers. Undoubtedly, some survive to fight another day, some come back for final hurrahs but many succumb to the inevitable. Some, however, are still willing to pack a punch, but find to their dismay, that there is no ring to fight in.

Such is the peculiar scenario in which the burly Inzamam-ul-Haq finds himself in. After 15 years of distinguished service to Pakistani cricket peppered with the most test centuries for his country [25 of them, no joke], close to 12,000 runs in ODIs [3^rd highest ever], an average of more than 50 over 119 test matches and long years of stewardship of Pakistani cricket through some of the most tumultuous phases of its history, Inzy has been run out one last time – his own team mates are wary of him occupying the crease again.

Today, at a sombre press conference in Karachi, Inzy decided to bid farewell to Pakistani cricket after being given the chance to play one last test for Pakistan against South Africa at Lahore next week. Many hailed it as magnanimity on the part of the Pakistani cricket establishment, while some called it timely from Inzamam, a parting shot which would help him leave cricket with some dignity. And therein, lies the cruel irony of it all. For it is sad that somebody like Inzamam had to ask for largesse from his own cricket establishment to be a part of a team, of which he was the lead just a little while ago. Yes, he is touching 38 and he has achieved much in cricket and this valedictory gift allows him a chance to leapfrog Javed Miandad to the top of Pakistani run-getters’ list – but here was a person who had clearly spelt out his desire to play tests for Pakistan a little while longer and if statistics are to be believed, was still performing as well as anybody else. But it seems the new team command in the dressing room does not want him pottering around and Inzy himself pointed that out – “I have played cricket all my life and I felt I had 12-18 months left in me still. But I realised the boys are playing well since the World Cup and felt that the age gap between me and them, in the dressing-room, might have been too much. It could have affected the dressing-room.”

Marvan Atapattu in Sri Lanka has not announced his retirement yet, but his international cricketing career is all but finished as well after he chose to burn bridges with the Sri Lankan selectors by refusing to meet them and consequently, seeing himself dropped from the Sri Lankan team for the Australian tour. A former captain, Atapattu too, was humiliated by the Lankan cricketing establishment after being taken as a tourist for the Caribbean World Cup and being overlooked for all matches immediately thereafter.

At the ages of 36 or 37, admittedly, time was running out for both Inzamam and Atapattu. But the way their sagas wound up is a lesson in life for all – how fickle fortune can be – captains and undisputed leaders not too long ago, they found themselves dumped not too long after – Inzy, after his cubs decided that they no longer needed a pater familias guiding them, Atapattu after realizing that all around him had become used to his absence and were better off with it, post his injury which saw him losing his captaincy and then his place in the team.

In a way it is good, for both Inzy and Atapattu epitomized cricket, the way it was – a lazy and sublime sport for entertainment – not the power-packed, frenzied, big moneyed, winner takes it all avatar, that it has turned into with Twenty 20 and all that.

"There are many things you want to achieve but you can't always. Overall, I can look back and thank God for the career I have had." Thus spake Inzamam at the end of that conference in Karachi and I say the same – Thank God for giving us players like Inzamam and Atapattu to tell us what sublime beauty is all about.

[For my post on Inzy's ODI retirement announcement - check out]

Bow Barracks Forever

Anjan Dutta had disappeared from the world of movie productions for a long time and one could be pardoned for thinking that he had taken the commercial failure of BADA DIN too much to heart [remember the Marc Robinson, Tara Deshpande, Shabana Azmi starrer?] Thankfully, of late, he has dispelled such notions with two back to back releases – THE BONG CONNECTION, which I have not been able to catch so far and BOW BARRACKS FOREVER, which I just did, over the weekend in Mumbai.

BOW BARRACKS FOREVER provides a delightful insight into the trials, the tribulations and the triumphs of a forgotten community of cosmopolitan urban India – the Anglo-Indian community. The story has a real backdrop – the setting is that of a quaint corner of North Kolkata – the Bow Street, where a varied assortment of Anglo-Indians struggle to cope with a city that has outpaced them in changing to a different equation of life, where they are an unwanted hangover of the colonial era. Living in a set of old, dilapidated barracks which once housed the American soldiers of World War – I, the inmates seem to live with a cloud of destruction perennially hanging over them – destruction of their abodes which is under the malevolent gaze of a land-grabbing builder; destruction of their culture in a city, which has bypassed them on its path to the future; destruction of their destinies, as embodied by a young Clayton Rodgers who says that the best that he can hope for is to become a waiter in a Park Street restaurant. The gora sahibs may have gone, but their colonial cousins desperately hang on to the remains of the day. So much so, their mongrel existence has left them schizophrenic, neither completely Indian nor completely phirang. In Potter terms, they are the original half-blood prince and princesses who build their local bands on terrace tops, while dreaming of making it Beatles' land.

Anjan Dutta has woven beautifully rendered tales of human relationships, the highs and lows around each character – Peter, the Cheater, a former soldier and the proud descendant of an American World War officer, but who now specializes in con jobs as a vocation, under the guise of an antique dealer; Mrs. Emily Lobo, forever dreaming of severing her links with the crumbling world around her by shifting to London to her eldest son, making infinite calls to her son, only to be repeatedly met with voice messages and a stony, obdurate silence from the other end; Tom, an Armenian Christian wife-beater who has taken to smuggling and his wife, Anne, trapped in a dysfunctional, abusive relationship; Mrs. Rosa D’ Costa, desperate to latch on to anybody who is willing to take her away from Bow Barracks and thus, away from her husband, who is too much in love with his ancestral dwelling.

Remarkably, each one of them show a tremendous resilience to rise above their destinies – Peter may well be a fraudster, but he is a gentleman to the core and that too with a huge, kind heart and the old soldier’s blood still boils over in the face of injustice and Mrs. Lobo realizes that her younger son, may well not succeed as much as her elder son, but is a much finer human being, while Mrs. Rosa finally realizes the worth of true love and a nice human being and Anne is rid of the trauma of her abusive husband. And of course, the jolly and rambunctious community with all its idiosyncrasies, still has its guitars and trumpets and the wannabe John Lennons and George Harrisons to tide over the worst and rekindle the love for one’s own sweet home in the midst of each one’s hearts.

On the negative side, one may say that Anjan Dutta has perhaps chosen to go with a stereotyped image of the Anglos in Kolkata and the editing of the movie could have been better to make it a little tauter. Certain actors like Rupa Ganguly, George Baker and even the wonderfully talented Sabyasachi Chakraborty have been wasted. The sex scenes are quite uncalled for and most awfully picturised, leading to sheer misery as a cinema-goer. Interestingly the term Anglo-Indians is a loose umbrella term for all kinds of Eurasian Christian minorities in Kolkata and the uninitiated might find it strange that distinctly Portuguese sounding surnames like Lobo or D’ Costa or the Armenian Christian Tom are all passed off as Anglo-Indians.

But, watch the movie for the stupendous performances from Victor Banerjee as Peter, the Cheater [you have to pardon a few instances of him going overboard, in Fagin like mannerisms from Oliver Twist] and Lillette Dubey as Mrs. Lobo, apart from the interesting sepia tinged look at this fast dwindling heritage community – of course, a certain acquaintance with Kolkata and its Anglo-Indian community would help make it that much more meaningful.

Come Play !!!!

"I can't quite understand what motive one can have to kill a person like Bob Woolmer." crooned former Pakistani great Imran Khan.

A youngster seated next to me, snorted in derision - "Can't quite understand?? Kya bakwaas hai. It is obvious that the betting mafia used the underworld dons to eliminate him because he was about to spill the beans."

Really? Is this what cricket has become? Is the "murder" of a cricket coach during the World Cup the culmination of years of corruption that has seeped in or is it just the tip of the iceberg? And to think that when my father used to watch cricket avidly, teams didn't even have coaches !!

Indeed, so much has changed for the game. Hanif Cadbury, Saleem Langda, Arshad Pappu - are these then, the characters that decide the fate of international matches today instead of the Brian Laras and Glenn McGraths, that we are made to believe? Why, the names remind me of typical Bollywood masala flicks and indeed, that is typical of the drama that is now unfolding in the Caribbean.

"It is time for cricket to exorcize the ghosts of yore once and for all and start afresh" says Alan Border. But who will do that? Is anybody beyond reproach? Pardon me, but all the conspiracy theories have demented my rational thinking - can it be possible that just like in a typical Hindi film flick, when our honest cop finds out that even the Police Commissioner is in cahoots with the bad boys (recollect all those insufferable rehashes), perhaps all and sundry are involved - perhaps, Malcolm Speed is the very Head Honcho who is driving this all??? Not plausible? But then, what is? That gun-toting mafia dons who are planning to blow up railway stations and World Trade Centers are also determining the outcome of cricket matches? Perhaps, this is the example of the growing clout of cricket internationally that the ICC boasts of !!

There was a time when cricket was just a sport. Or at least, most of the times back then. And it was not too long ago - I was a kid then and I am still a young guy. When one would be all pumped up for a cricket match and invite anybody and everybody in the neighborhood for a good day of cricket watching. There were no odd coloured Pepsi colas or batsmen with weird drawings under their eyelids. But it was still enjoyable. Television channels did not disseminate information about the details of the Thai cuisine that the newest kid on the block likes or which brand of toilet paper he uses to wipe his ass in the morning, but then we still liked our players. Cricketers did not endorse everything from multi-grain biscuits to flavoured condoms, but people still bought those products. When 250 was a winning total in 50 overs and the first 10 overs were still about consolidation and not inane power-hitting without any semblance of technique on subcontinental dustbowls - one still had exciting matches. Dickie Bird would not raise crooked fingers at people or spectators were not addled by concepts like Power Plays - fixed and flexible and what not. One did not have telvision channels like Set Max which is all so eager to air the same ads zillions of times, that it often eats up the last delivery of an over or the first of the next one and God save you, if that last ball ended up as a wide or a no-ball. Don't even expect to watch the extra ball which was about to be bowled because by then the idiot box is spewing out some cranky ad where a bunch of ruffians are shouting "Ooh - Aah India" [how obscenely kinky words :)]and cricketers are transmogrified to tigers - the fact that they are soon to become lambs for slaughter only increases the irritation levels.

I had read somewhere that Erapalli Prasanna took a break from cricket to complete his education so that he has some recourse to good jobs once the cricket days were over. The other day, Lala Amarnath was recounting the early days and how cricketers from different parts of Mumbai would catch the train that would take them to their next test match venue, at different local stations depending on where their residence were. Now, with a huge army of support staff that does everything from massaging their legs to pressing their underwears, with stays in the most deluxe of hotels in the most elite of company, with brand endorsement moolah rivalling those of the Bollywood Badshahs, are the cricketers still not satisfied? Perhaps, such is the slavery of Mammon.

No Cheers for 300

So this is some new genre of film-making and Frank Miller is supposed to be its high priest? And like we have found inane euphemisms for all kinds of things in life these days, we have started calling comic books as graphic novels?

I must admit that I had really looked forward to 300 – the battle of Thermopylae occupies quite a distinguished place in history and for history buffs like me, the spectre of watching an action filled historical with the heroic Spartans and the legendary armies of the Achamaenians was quite mouth-watering.

Unfortunately, 300 is not a historical movie at all – the visuals might look stunning to naïve 10 year olds who perhaps are only interested in that kind of stuff, but it does no justice to more serious pursuers of historical movies. The fanatical heroism that Sparta has always been known for has been treated, for want of a better word, in some kind of an immature manner – you do not feel any kind of a glowing pride as one might have expected of the bravery shown. I also could not fathom the reason for the sudden volte-face of the Judas of Thermopyale – Ephialtes (who for no reason that I can think of, is shown as a hideous, diseased hunchback – a kind of throwback to the Golum of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings – must things be unnecessarily distorted, just because it is a comic book?) – He says that he wants to fight for Sparta and redeem his father’s honour etc and yet, rejection of admission into the Spartan army suddenly makes him so vengeful that he turns against them? Or for that matter, even if Leonidas is unable to employ Ephialtes as a member of the phalanx, couldn’t he possibly have given him some other role to play in the Spartan army? Historically, there have never been any reports of Persian armies employing war elephants and Frank Miller perhaps deserves credit for introducing war-rhinoceroses for the first time ever.


The Monument to Leonidas in modern day Thermopylae

But perhaps, most of all, what was so disconcerting to me, as a viewer in India, was the not-so-subtle racist underlining that permeates the movie. And while some may just call it historical inaccuracies, I can’t buy that line of thought. It is quite simply put, an effort to show everything Asiatic and Oriental as quite debauched and barbaric, as against a superior and honorable Occidental culture. Can anybody pray tell me who gave Frank Miller the absurd idea of showing Xerxes as some weird, body-piercing Nubian assassin rather than the Achaemenid prince with full beard, long gown like dress and a crown on his head that stares at all in countless stone reliefs found in Persepolis? And are those Halloween type mask wearing monsters supposed to be a good illustration of the legendary Immortals of Xerxes? Perhaps, one would do well to remind Miller that both Iranians and Greeks, neighbours in the Mediterranean for centuries, do not look all that different from each other – his fetish for depicting all the Persian soldiers as some kind of dark devils is rank racist.

A depiction of Xerxes-I from a stone relief in Persepolis

So Long and Thanks for Everything, Inzy

It has been the most unusual of times for Pakistani cricket over the last 2 weeks in the Caribbean. Even the cataclysmic loss to Ireland which saw Pakistan tumble out of the World Cup was overshadowed by the sudden and mysterious death of Bob Woolmer which has shrouded the World Cup in a pall of gloom and unleashed the many dormant evils that have plagued the game of cricket in the recent past. Unfortunately, all this has kind of pushed the ODI retirement of Inzamam-ul-Haq to the background. And that is so very unfortunate.

This was sadly, not the way Inzy would have liked to end his long innings on the international platform. Over the last one year, so much has changed for Inzamam. After being hailed as a hero after standing up for Pakistani pride in the Oval test fiasco, Inzamam’s pictures were supposedly stomped on in Lahore and even his hometown Multan and his house attacked, post the disaster at the World Cup. But for one last time, when he trudged back, teary-eyed, to the pavilion after another typically belligerent innings against the hapless Zimbabweans, everything was forgiven. Like a supernova, which flashes brilliantly before its final imminent collapse, all that was good and great about Inzamam shone forth in our eyes and minds, one last time.

That brutal assault which zapped the Kiwis into submission in the 1992 World Cup semis was the first to spring to mind – Inzy, then a cherubic, clean shaven youngster, staked his claim for inclusion into the pantheon of cricket greats with that impudent, audacious knock. Through the years, he mellowed, the clean shaven look transformed into the bearded patriarchal look that the later generation would perhaps, remember him for; religious moorings took shape and press conferences and post match tête-à-têtes started increasingly with “First of all, thanks to Allah….”. Some things however, never changed – the innocence and general amiability that always characterized and in many ways defined him as a gentle giant, the ever bumbling running between the wickets, the safe pair of hands in the slip cordon, the sometimes bemused and absent look on the field when things were not going his way, the elegant bendy flicks off his hips, the hunched cover drives and savage cuts, that almost lazy stride to the middle when he came out to bat – beautifully and quite ironically, epitomizing both an aversion to any kind of hurriedness in life as well as a supreme confidence in his self and utter disdain for any bowlers, the constant gum chewing which would put the most arduously ruminating of cows to shame – we will definitely miss all of these. But perhaps, what Pakistan would miss most of all was the eternal hope that Inzamam provided, every time he walked out to the middle, irrespective of whether he was in form or not. Like his illustrious predecessors Salim Malik and the peerless Javed Miandad, no opponent could ever heave a sigh of relief till Inzamam was at the crease to guide Pakistani fortunes, no matter how choppy the waters seemed.

Of course, he has only bid adieu to ODIs and that leaves a possibility of us seeing some more of Inzy in the Tests. But considering the tumultuous world of Pakistani cricket, you never know.

As the saying goes, the show must go on, but when people like Inzamam take a bow, somehow, it is never feels the same without them.

Polyester Prince - Dhiru and Guru - a la Mani Ratnam

The fact that it is a film made by Mani Ratnam automatically raised my expectations from it. And rumours that it has been inspired by the story of Dhirubhai Ambani only whetted my curiosity further. The grapevine had it that the movie has made a tremendous beginning at the box office and Amitabh Bachhan quite shamelessly, I think, endorsed son Abhishek's acting skills in the movie in an interview aired on NDTV. All in all, I was really looking forward to watching Guru and luckily, I got to see it this Sunday at the PVR multiplex in Forum Mall.

And I am a tad disappointed. The rumours are of course spot on – only that the movie is not merely inspired by, it is almost a biopic of Dhirubhai. And you can easily figure out the other characters in the movie are inspired by other historical figures – Arzan Contractor is definitely based on Nusli Wadia, Manik Dasgupta on Ramnath Goenka, Shyam Saxena is S. Gurumurthy, Champaklal Damani's character has been shown as a childhood friend and brother of Kokilaben. Kokilaben Ambani has hardly ever been in the limelight and I know precious little of her life's story – so I can only assume that Aishwarya Rai's character is based on her. Turkey replaces Yemen in the movie and curiously, Gurubhai in the movie is only shown to have two daughters – Mukesh and Anil bhai have been conveniently forgotten. Warring kinmen apparently have no place in family sagas.

But of course, Mani Ratnam has made biopics earlier and his Iruvar was widely appreciated. This movie, however, seems to lack a punch and finishes without taking a very clear stand between the two rival threads that run through the film. Abhishek Bachhan's defence during the RBI grilling is unconvincing and his attempt to relate his travails and fights with Gandhiji's fight against the British is ludicrous. Abhishek Bachhan has however turned in a stupendous performance in a role, which, though it was author backed to the core, required him to enact a person much older in age and maturity. Mithun Chakraborty makes a welcome return to mainstream Bollywood and excels in the role of the media patriarch. However, I did feel that the shift in equations between Guru and Manik Dasgupta from friendship to enmity was very sudden and out of sorts. Would a person suddenly dedicate himself wholly to finish off somebody, who, till the other day, was like a son to him? The chemistry between Abhishek and Ash is for all to see, otherwise, Ash really did not have much to do. Her introduction in the movie was however, quite spectacular and Rajeev Menon has handled the photography department with aplomb, as ever. Madhavan and Vidya Balan have however been wasted and the development of a parallel romantic angle between them is totally unrelated to the movie. I simply cannot comprehend the necessity of introducing an item number in a movie like this – perhaps the need to have Mallika Sherawat gyrate in a typical Turkish belly dance is what led to the shift of the background to Turkey from the historical Yemen.

Biopics, if they are simply visual rendition of a true story, without any kind of message being pushed forward or any other kind of embellishment, engender a sense of incompleteness to a movie and I think, that is the problem with Guru.

Hail the Prince

Sourav Ganguly has indeed, scripted a most remarkable comeback, a story as good as any other to be a parable for inspiration.

The last time, I had written about him, Ganguly had just been unceremoniously dumped from the throne of Indian cricket and pundits, all around were busy, writing his epitaph. In the long months of his exile, whenever he would talk of still nursing dreams of playing the World Cup in the Caribbean, people would dismiss it as mere wishful thinking; some would even proffer a few words of pity for someone who had risen so high, but had fallen so mightily. Even the most loyal of his fans had begun doubting a comeback, but it is entirely to his credit that Sourav Ganguly just refused to throw in the towel. Of course, the exile served him well – he has improved his fitness considerably, he has lost that air of “nothing can happen to me and my place in the team, come what may”, he has been playing Ranji trophy matches even in places like Dhanbad, unlike times when he would pull out of even international matches without batting an eyelid. But it is his confidence and the burning desire to prove his critics wrong that has propelled him towards another new innings in Indian colours.

May the Gods script a successful saga for this innings of his.

Who are we blaming??

Hardly anybody in India knew who Jade Goody is, a couple of weeks ago. Now of course, she is perhaps topping the list of the most hated person by an Indian. And all because of a reality TV show – Big Brother – whose Indian spin-off – Big Boss – is one of the stupidest (and to attain that tag, you have to be really special) TV shows I have ever watched on sitcom.

As the racial row erupted and threatened to engulf all kinds of players [at last count, apart from the TV channel, the contestants and the gullible all-knowing audience; the Governments of both UK and India; leaders of the European Union, Bollywood actors, starlets, wannabe models; had-been TV stars turned TV hosts; cricket celebs; newspaper columnists across the racial divide – all had pitched in with their thoughts on this], I daresay, I watched with keen amusement the indignation that Indians and South Asians, in general, exhibited at the treatment meted out to Shilpa Shetty. At the very outset, let me state that I haven’t seen any episode of the concerned TV show and my knowledge of the events that unfolded at the show is purely from media reports and video clips of the concerned episode when it all started.

First things first – I was initially surprised that Shilpa Shetty, who is still going reasonably strong at the Bollywood sweepstakes, would want to participate in a much-rehashed reality show with co-participants, who can only be described, in polite terms as either have-beens, also-rans or wannabe gone wrong (Ms. Lloyd would fit the last category perfectly). But then, from what is all turned out to be, I think it was a smart move by Shilpa’s agent – for it has definitely made her a household name now in the U.K. and if not the Oscars, perhaps she can aim for a few BAFTAs.

While I am in no way, condoning some of the remarks that were passed around in the show, I am amused at the sudden bout of propriety being exhibited by all and sundry, when it must be borne in mind that a majority of these participants do not have the privilege of elitist up-scale education and class that Shilpa seems to have and infinitely more importantly, when it is widely understood that nobody would like to see a program where there are no tamashas, no fights and bitching, no envy or jealousy. Clean, nice, polite people, who are always adjusting, make compromises in the bigger interest, who are welcoming towards one and all, who never fight amongst themselves or take nasty, bitter broadsides against each other behind each others’ backs, do not make for good TRPs. That is just what it is all about – Channel 4 could not have just scripted a nice wonderful happily ever after kind of a show and still hope to catch eyeballs. I am not being sarcastic – sure, it has backfired to a big extent and there are plans of scrapping the program altogether, but all this muck still made national headlines and everybody who previously did not know of or did not see Big Brother, is now wiser about it. And who knows, perhaps the news that it will be scrapped altogether, might just make people nostalgic about this 7 year old program and it might just burn out like a supernova at the end and ah!, what a grand finale that would be.

But all this brouhaha brings me to the larger issue of racism. We, i.e. all who have melanin in different dosages and in higher content than whites in our system – are too quick to react to any kind of behaviour that mildly suggests a racial undertone to it. And yeah, it has got to do with our history, of the past unjustness exhibited by our fairer brethren etc. But the fact is that all of us are racist deep inside and it just manifests itself differently in different people.

Gujaratis in Mumbai are unwilling to allow non-vegetarian tenants or residents in their housing complexes, the same goes for South Indian Brahmins in different parts of cosmopolitan India – Bangalore may be the new buzzword in the global arena, but if you go to Malleshwaram and say, that you are a fish-eating Bong and would want to rent a house, the landlord is most likely to smirk. God save you, if you are a non-vegetarian in Borivali and you need to buy eggs urgently – all the best, trudge miles for a shop that stocks it. Try going to some of the most happening places in the sunshine beaches of Goa – some of the Hindu converted “Portuguesophile” Goans would treat you like dirt and through subtle means, would try telling you that those places are reserved for the gora chamdis. Imagine, being marginalized in your own country by your own people. And we display these traits copiously – go down to the Gateway of India in Mumbai anytime and you would see scores of us, always eager to help the white tourist, whenever he needs something or being over-enthusiastic in answering their questions or allaying their fears [there is the other kind too – the one that fleeces them like hell, but they too act in the most subservient manner to the whites]. Ask the same people to help out a Nigerian or Kenyan tourist and they suddenly remember lots of work or display plain disdain for people, who are more coloured than they themselves are. Sure, for the economically weaker section of this subservient domain, it is simply the power of the relative currencies that dictates their action, but notice the difference when some of the airlines crews interact with white and black foreigners and you will know what I am speaking of. We label backward places as “just like Bihar”; we tend to think that all Tamilians must say “Aiyyo” at every thing in the most stupid manner and we portray accordingly in movies and serials; we tend to believe that every Muslim in the neighbourhood secretly supports Pakistan in an Indo-Pak cricket match; we think that all Mongoloid looking young females in the cities must be sluts and the males, drug-addicts; we think all Bongs are too arrogant and feign intellectual prowess of the most irritating kinds; we believe that all Marwaris are nothing but money-minded ogres who would do anything to make profits; we believe all Parsis are zany idiots etc etc.

Who are we blaming then??

Why is Old not Gold?

Suresh Raina was hailed as the next biggest thing to happen to Indian cricket. He seemed to have all the requisites for stardom – he was a brilliant fielder; a superb athlete, eager to improve his fitness at every chance; besides having a claim to all the strokes that a good batsman should have in his repertoire. He had already made waves in the U-19 circuit and the wise men of Indian cricket (or a bunch of jokers, if you still remember Jimmy Amarnath’s comments) decided that the time was ripe to blood him in Indian cricketer. “We must invest in the youth”; “We are building a team for the 2007 World Cup” etc. In the midst of all this, experienced cricketers were given the boot – V.V. S. Laxman could not run the 200 m at sub 25 second timings, he could not slide for 3 feet to catch a ball in its tracks before it reaches the boundary rope, he cannot fling himself parallel to the ground to take astounding catches – more importantly, in any case he was on the wrong side of 30 and therefore was not a prospect for the future.

A few months down the line with the World Cup getting perilously closer, India seems to have lost the plot altogether. The bright young things that had been carefully groomed for the event have had their failings cruelly exposed in domains that are different from their usual backyards. And the veterans, having been allowed to rot in the cruel environs of our Ranji setup seem to have got rusty. We are facing a crisis.

Perhaps, it is time to reflect on what has been a usual trend in Indian cricket these days – the tendency to hoist young cricketers too soon on to the international stage. Raina may be a supremely fit youngster with immaculate skills in running between wickets and saving runs, but he is nowhere half as good as V.V.S. Laxman, when it comes to scoring runs, incidentally, his chief job as a batsman. And the reason this is happening is that these days, performances in the U-19 and U-21 levels are all that matter; the long years of hard toil in the Ranji and other domestic tournaments may well be damned. Irfan Pathan had a meteoric rise, straight from the U-19 level and now seems woefully muddled on the international scene; Yuvraj Singh and Mohammed Kaif have never quite seemed to be ready to accept the mantle of senior players; former U-19 World Cup champion Y. Venugopala Rao (Kaif captained that team in 1999 and Yuvraj was a member too) failed to find his feet in international cricket. Go back a few years and you will find more such examples of players who had been blooded a little too early – the spark that the selectors saw in their few matches unfortunately never quite translating into a flame on the biggest stage – I am not sure how many people would remember Laxmi Ratan Shukla – hailed as India’s umpteenth solution to finding a Kapil Dev clone – made his debut when he was stil shy of his 19th birthday and had been forgotten before his 20th; Reetinder Singh Sodhi (incidentally, another of the U-19 winning team of 1999) – vanished after around a dozen desperate chances , cruelly unprepared for international standards etc etc.

Curiously, if you look at the some of the strongest teams of the last decade in international cricket, you would not notice such rashness in introducing new players. Michael Hussey played for years in the Pura Shield before making his Aussie debut at the ripe age of nearly 30 – and boy, he took to international cricket like a fish to water. He reached 1,000 runs in test cricket in the quickest time ever, has made a reputation as one of the most brilliant finishers in the game of cricket ever, keeps piling on runs as if he cannot be expected to score less ever and is already being talked about as Ricky Ponting’s successor. When Glenn McGrath wanted a break from international cricket, the Aussie selectors brought on Stuart Clark, himself over 30 at the time and what a successful career he has had with Australia since. Justin Langer, Matt Hayden, Damien Martyn, Ricky Ponting, Glenn McGrath, Shane Warne - all of them are on the wrong side of 30 - some of 35 - yet the Aussie selectors continue to repose their faith in them and more often than not, with good results.

Unfortunately we, in India, are only too eager at dropping players who do not have some sort of a glam quotient – you would have to be breathtakingly spectacular in some game or sensationally young to warrant investiture as a future prospect. Ramesh Pawar keeps putting in decent performances in ODIs, yet never seems to be part of any stable Indian team; J.P. Yadav played solid, stable cricket in the few chances that he got, yet the selectors only seem to notice his age and little else. Even Dinesh Mongia, despite some good performances in his limited chances, never seems to have the team management’s support. And while some of the players named above can end their playing careers with the consolation of having still got the opportunity to represent India, the likes of Amol Muzumdar (long ago, touted as the next Tendulkar), Kanwaljeet Singh and Rizwan Shamshad would just have to spend their lives telling their grand-children of their monumental Ranji trophy feats, all in vain.

Perhaps, we need to reflect!!

The Charm of the Written Word

I am told that it is not that kids of today have completely moved away from books. Somebody I knew had read it somewhere. I hope it is true. For I for one, believe completely in the age old maxim of "Books are a man's best friend".

A lot of what I am today is because of the kind of things that occupied my mind and time during my youth and reading happens to be one of the chief activities that would keep me busy then. And boy, did I love reading? I used to have a voracious appetite for books, ever since I recollect - and this was for all kinds of things readable - books, magazines, newspapers and later e-books etc - I have never discriminated against any medium of readable information. The use of them however was dictated by the availability, weight of the wallet, ease of reading etc at different times.

As a kid, I used to go to my grand-parents's houses regularly during my school vacations - both sets - paternal ones in Patna and the maternal ones, a little yonder, in Bhagalpur. Both my grandfathers had a healthy appetite for books and they, thankfully, transferred their genes on to me, albeit in different ways.

My paternal grandfather would spend hours reading the morning newspaper (in fact, later, when we used to stay with him and I was much elder, there would be a fierce competition in the house regarding the primary possession of the morning newspaper between me, my father and my grand-father !!) and would regale me with stories and events from there and from the works of various other authors, of which he had considerable knowledge. As a kid, the newspaper fascinated me - it seemed to me, a mysterious fount of stories from all around the world - it was through its pages that I learnt of the splendour of Angkor Wat and Borobudur, it was through those pages that a certain Diego Armando Maradona kindled my love for football, it was through them that I first heard words like glasnost and perestroika. In fact, the habit of spending at least sometime in the morning, come what may, going through the pages of the daily newspaper is something that I have strictly adhered to over the years, since I was a 7 year old boy. The sections that aroused my interest have expanded - but the order has remained constant through the years - sports, headlines, world news and then the rest. As a kid growing up in Kolkata, THE STATESMAN was regarded as the finest epitome of the Queen's English and we were asked to go through its editorials religiously in order to improve one's vocabulary and spellings. I am not sure how many of those weighty articles really caught my fancy at that age, but I must say that the sessions have not been in vain.

My maternal grand-father, on the other hand, had bequeathed a fine set of tomes for his descendants, for he was, unfortunately, no longer around when I really began reading earnestly. I hardly have any memories of him that I can draw up, but I owe my interest in a plethora of esoteric subjects completely to his collection of books. On countless afternoons in Bhagalpur, when the rest of the inmates of our house would rest in slumber, I would take apart those weighty tomes - page by page. There was one book especially that I cherished the most - LIVING TOGETHER AS WORLD NEIGHBOURS - Don't remember the author , but I do recall Macmillan as the publisher - but I recall reading with rapt attention the description of the peoples , cultures and histories of the whole world. It used to have lovely photographs of different cities of the world - most of them in B&W - but they seemed to light up the world for you in front of your eyes - the minarets of Kremlin, a long liner passing through the Panama canal, two-humped Bactrian camels loitering in the vast steppes of Central Asia, a Russian family sitting down for breakfast in their traditional Cossack costumes (I still remember, how surprised I was at seeing the quantity of food they had at their breakfast table), students milling around Heidelberg University, regarded as one of the oldest and grandest seats of learning in Europe etc etc. It had also a spectacular set of maps of each continent (in fact, the maps in that book with vast swathes of colonial Africa with names like Belgian Congo, Rhodesia, Nyasaland, U.S.S.R etc would seem perhaps, to be completely from a different planet to a kid of today) and this book was singularly responsible for my keen interest in maps and geography, something that I retain, to this day.

Of course, there has to be constant encouragement from parents and a lot of interest from their side as well before any habit is really ingrained in the children. I have imbibed my love of reading and knowing things - all kinds, all over the world - from my mother (who, having been raised up in small-town Bihar, has never ceased to amaze me with her knowledge of global events and her keen enthusiasm of learning about things even now - guess, my grand-father is to be credited) and my father, who used to spend so much time explaining to me such diverse topics as the structure of the United Nations, stories of different wars, dictators etc.

Kids today have a much larger and mind-boggling variety of entertainment options to choose from. I am not sure whether the Famous Fives, Secret Sevens, Enid Blytons etc form part of the consideration set of kids these days. But I hope that they do - books maketh a man. Very true.