Friday, January 04, 2013

And the truth shall set you free..

He could build a story out of anything and everything.
 
When he walked down the street, his feet falling in turns between the tiny cracks on the sidewalk that no one else can see, he built up his own story. Brick by brick, crack by crack, looking around at everything and nothing, until the faces at the windows of a passing bus, the bearded man smoking aimlessly at the street-corner, the twinkle in her kohl-lined eyes, the droplets of rain that clung to his own hair, the ice-cream man in front of the mall, the group of pretentious girls outside that eatery and the unclad, uncared for child crying at the roadside swirled into one crazy mesh of abstract forgotten meanings that were so random that he couldn’t put them together anymore.
 
By the time he used to reach home, all that was one screaming chaotic mess of whimsical nonsense in a corner of his brain.
 
He sat in front of his grey-black laptop, opened an empty, inviting text document and placed his hands on the keys, the tips of his fingers fitting satisfyingly into the depressions in them where the letters were painted in bold white.
 
And he waited.
 
And he waited.
 
And he waited.
 
Like he had never tried before. Willing it all to come through. It was not a long way. Not really. Just out from the corner into the front, down through his neck, his shoulder, into his arms and out…OUT… through his fingertips. Like he had imagined and pushed and pushed and pushed so many times.
 
Oh, he could too. Make up stories out of everything and anything. But he wished sometimes that he could tell them. For real. Not just that fading dull scream tucked somewhere into the back of his brain. They only came alive for him. Only for him.
 
The unlimited expanse of human expression lay before his eyes and ears. He succumbed to its tempting call and was lured away to serenity. For a few moments, he found happiness, and for now, it was enough..
 
There was always a bit of him in every story he wrote.
 
This time he had no problem moving his fingers over the keys.
 
And this is what he wrote..
 
Once upon a time, in a city far, far away, there lived a girl with a smile to die for and eyes that weaved magic. She worked in a bank that liked to see (Read: _C_C_) everyone eye-to-eye (Read: I_I_I) and made their employees work on the last day of the year and the first day of the next. But, that’s beside the point..
 
Fact is, it so happened that there was a boy who lived in a city far, far away who.. well, who composed mediocre poetry & cracked really poor jokes.
 
Now, this boy once went to this girl’s city, met her, stayed for three dream-like days & they had a lot of fun. At the end of it, he had to go back to his city, & he missed her a lot. She never asked him why he had come to her city; if she had, he would’ve said, in an instant, “For you.. I came here for you.. because you need no reason.”
 
Soon after the boy had returned, there arose an opportunity for the girl to visit him in his city. He couldn’t believe it when he heard, & he wanted her to come visit him like he had wanted few other things in his life. But she said she wouldn’t..
 
She told him that they’d only have about 72 hours, that it was better to cherish what they had had already and carry on.. he reasoned that it was like putting up a score in the first Inings of an ODI; whatever you set, in hindsight it would always seem inadequate.. He believed that they would only add to the good memories they’d have; he wanted her so visit him.. But she said she wouldn’t..
 
He realized of course that it was perfectly understandable for her to not come; not to himself, but to her maybe.. What did it matter that he could prepare life for that moment, that second, that bit of eternity - waiting, training, living, till that moment came..? What did it matter that finally, when that point came, when he would get to meet her again – they would have immortality for that one second, that one heartbeat, the one cubicle in the history of the chaotic universe would become completely theirs..? What mattered was that she said she wouldn’t visit him..
 
 

Wednesday, January 02, 2013

Bangalore diary


Day 1 – 29th December, 2012

The moment I saw that smile, I knew coming to Bangalore was worth it. Never mind that I saw it first through the glass doors of a ‘Mast Kalandar’ outlet (I was inside & she was outside) – the smile has this otherworldly allure that.. well, that makes me want to see her smiling. Always.
Let’s hope the hourglass doesn’t come apart again..
Luggage dumped, sweatshirt pulled on. [Yes, unlike Bombay, it was rather pleasant there & the hilly region was expected to be cold.]
Very happy that she liked the few pages document. Very happy. Had been smiling to myself when I had been making it, but had thought that the end-product was somewhat juvenile.. Very happy that I made her smile.
‘Enigma’. Couple of beers each, & the masala peanuts. Nice lighting. The light drizzle outside. Engaging.
Cab booked for Nandi Hills. [Still couldn’t believe I was actually in Bangalore & we were indeed going to Nandi Hills.. Felt like a dream.]
A stop at her PG so that she could get into something warmer, & we were off.. A cab, a packet of cigarettes, money & an open road. The Sobhon-story; one of my favourites.
Putting her head on my lap in an attempt to sleep for a while. Cute. Poking was fun.

 Day 2 – 30th December, 2012

Cold. Not very, but pleasant enough. Deserted café. Only one tent outside. Hookah, with maggi. Order taken down by a really sleepy kid. More people. A change of seats. Sleepy kid now fully awake. A beer each & onion pakodas. Intermittent smoking.
Okay.. Quite cold at the sunrise-point. Biting wind that carried the otherwise light rain pretty well into hair, moustache, beard, eyelashes. Some really nice photos., that I so want to put up. Not if she doesn’t want them to be. Will always be in my memory. Coffee & cigarettes helped against the sudden onset of sneezing; thank her for that idea.. Walking around in the fog. The sun didn’t come out to play; only saw the light clearing once we were on our way back. She had a dream; was a little scared by the expression on her face when she woke up suddenly after that.
Morning coffee at a Costa Coffee outlet. Kurkure to go with it. Planning the day.. Sleep dismissed. I knew she was very sleepy & so was I, but I’m glad we banished it.
Dominos for lunch. Her game. MIB classmates revisited. Girl for each guy. She’d always be the one for me; reasons are self-explanatory. For me, at least. Movie options looked up; decided against. A little fiasco regarding the tendering of change after the payment of the bill.
Street side shopping. Loved he star-earrings. Loved the other ones too, but for the defect in them.. Nose-piercing. She has a little star with her now.. Truthfully, was a little anxious that it wasn’t a gunshot, but very glad she got it. Once again, as always, the smile was worth it. Looking for a dress.. Purple skirt. My choice. Stupid shop with no proper arrangement for trials. Very thirsty. Bottle of water & two glasses of watermelon juice. Drew a face on her right arm. & wrote ‘Monkey’ beneath it. & the wash-your-hand-with-your-favourite-soap game. Fun! Also tried to sketch her eyes, nose & lips. Agreed to my earlier opinion of a failed attempt at sketching a flawless depiction; crumpled the tissue paper. Took what is no doubt one of the best snaps of her during my stay. The smile is so enchanting..
UB City. Talking about Presidency elections.. The water-spouts & the kids..
Met Shaunak. Talking about the recent India-Pakistan t20 matches. Memories of the cricket matches during the hostel days.. Games. MIB classmates revisited again. Whyte & MacKay on the ‘banana beach’.  The what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-moment: Shaunak assists with the number, & she calls up Sunita to suggest that I wish to meet her & what not! I mean, what the hell! She was laughing a lot, though, so I was happy..
Auto back to hotel. The frantic deciphering of unclear directions.. The walk to her PG.. & she came back with me.


Day 3 – 31st December, 2012

D Day. The end of the year. Noone’s supposed to work, right? Not true, apparently.
Couldn’t sleep after she left. Watched ‘17 Again’ on her laptop. Horrible speakers. Some random surfing on the Internet too.
The biryani for lunch was decent. “Probably the first time I’ve ever had veg biryani..” said the owner of the smile. 10 good & 10 bad things about 2012. Walk after lunch. The dreaded phone-call that she’d have to go back to work, sooner or later.
Chetna.. I wish I had a Bengali friend called Chetna.. She’d never have heard the end of it from me!
Mall. Shopping. She was gorgeous in the red dress & ravishing in the black. She really wanted the red one, but then someone seemed to have beaten her to the L size. So, black it was. & yeah, I picked up a tee. White. Contrasts well with black. White & black, black & white. True colours.
Okay. I know she looked good in the dress outside the trial room, but then there’s good and there’s “ekghor”. Stunning, jaw-dropping, sexy. Loved the loop-earrings too. “In MIB, who would’ve thought that Andy & I would be going to a New Year’s party together..” the lady in black said in the auto-rickshaw. I certainly wouldn’t have thought. [Yeah, ever since I had been there, I had had to pinch myself now & then to ensure myself that it wasn’t all one very happy dream.]
Loved the setting in Black Pearl. Nice skull-stamp too. Was reminded of Depp of course. “Today is the day that you’ll always remember as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow..” One chair less at the table. Damn them for arranging it! Other prospect seemed.. interesting. Liked the music. Mostly. There’s a wonderful sense of abandon in the way she dances, much like in other things. They played her song too.. “You’ve never seen a girl like her before..” WTF moment 1 – 2 kids (one looking drunk) running around & playing in a corner; later spotted trying to take the camera off a cameraman. WTF moment 2 – Baby-girl-in-mother’s-arms seen at next table. Back to hotel.

Day 4 – 1st January, 2013

Who works on both 31st December & 1st January? Nonone, right? Wrong. ICICI Wealth management does.
The walk back to the hotel after dropping her at her PG was a loooong one. As expected. She’d just gone off to work, & I knew an empty room awaited me.
Bangalore-time definitely flies waaaaaaay faster than everywhere else. Hadn’t I just reached the city? How could it be that January 1 was already here?! Didn’t want to pack.
Was very happy to hear that she could choose to not go back to office & instead could go home & rest.. Looked & looked & looked (& looked some more) at her as she related the ICICI HR meet incident. [Yeah, I can just keep looking at her..] The “Your heart is beating really fast..” She was right there; why would it not?
The rush-across-town to get to the departure point of the bus in time.. [We’re in India, after all; a touch of the ‘filmi’ is bound to be there!] I half-wanted to miss it.. The two lines of ‘Shopno dekhbo boley..’ she hesitantly sang.. The end of a wonderful 3 days was drawing near, & I somehow wanted it to go on..
‘filmi’ reminds me, apparently saying ‘palat..palat..’ silently to oneself as one sees the girl walk away works only in the movies. She walked away without as much as a turn & look.. my own Richard Parker.. which made me go, if I may be permitted to borrow one of her trademark expressions, “Huh!”

Note to myself: Going away was difficult. This girl is addictive.. Very.

p.s. Did I mention I love her bottom-lip? And her hair? And don’t even get me started on the dimples.

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Aajke ekta oshadharon English class korlaam. Class 12-er por ei prothom. Two hours very well spent. Shondhye ta khuub bhalo kaatlo.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Growing up with Sachin

How Tendulkar helped a generation of Indians make sense of their lives

Siddhartha Vaidyanathan
December 24, 2012
 
Sachin Tendulkar has retired from one-dayers.
 
Does this mean anything to you?
 
Did you feel numb on Sunday morning? Or maybe it was Saturday night in your part of the world. Did the various stages of your life flash in your head, as they are supposed to in the instant before you die?
 
Do you remember one-dayers 23 years ago? Travel back in time. What do you see? Red leather balls, players in whites and some one-dayers in England with umpires stopping play for tea.
 
What else do you see? Doordarshan - the feed hanging this moment, back live the next, your grainy screen filled with men who sport stubbles and bushy moustaches, the camera facing the batsman one over and the bowler the next, commentators screaming "that's hit up in the air".
 
Gradually the texture changes. Coloured clothing and floodlit games become commonplace, fielding restrictions alter the definitions of a "safe total", Duckworth and Lewis appear, so do Powerplays, Supersubs and Super Overs. Pinch-hitters, a novelty for a few years, lose their sheen. Now everyone must pinch, everyone must hit.
 
Tendulkar has seen it all. Sometimes he has initiated the change, on other occasions he has adapted. A master of the game in the mid '90s, a master in 2011. The one constant in a wildly changing format. He was around when one-dayers were blooming, he was also around when they were allegedly dying.
 
You have been around too. Are you a kid from the '80s? Or the '90s? Or are you a straddler, part of the Tendulkar generation that has one feet in both decades?
 
Ah, you stand on the threshold. You have experienced Doordarshan before leaping to the riches of satellite, you have seen Shah Rukh Khan as a fauji on TV before he soared onto the silver screen, you know of life before the internet but are quick to embrace the wonders of technology, you have watched monochrome but are a child of the colour TV age.
 
What else do you see?
 
Tendulkar in a white helmet, his white shirt unbuttoned to his thorax, blitzing Abdul Qadir in an exhibition game in Peshawar. Until that point cricket is merely a fuzzy idea. Tendulkar gives it shape, adds meaning, wraps it in colourful paper and winds a ribbon around the packing. He makes you understand the game's place in your life, teaches you its significance.
You grapple, trying to swerve banana out-swingers with a tennis ball. Standing in front of a mirror, you imagine the opposition needing six off the last over. The stadium is a cauldron. A hundred thousand fill the stands. Can you restrict the batsmen?
 
One morning in 1994, when large parts of India slept, you awake to life and freedom. What a rebellion at Auckland. Eighty-two off 49 balls. A cameo that unshackles the mind. The greatest one-day innings you have seen. Can anyone better this?
 
You are carried along the Tendulkar slipstream. When he is stumped off Mark Waugh, after illuminating the Mumbai sky, you sense the game will slip away. It does. A few days later his hundred against Sri Lanka in Delhi ends in defeat - the first Tendulkar ton in vain. You hope it's an aberration. You wish.
 
You observe his every move. In 1996, when he fires a swinging yorker to dismiss Saqlain in Sharjah and sends him off with an emphatic "f**k off", you blush. Four years later your vocabulary has expanded. When he mouths off Glenn McGrath in the Champions Trophy in Nairobi, you puff your chest, as if vindicated.
 
It's 1998, a time for decisions. Academics or sports? Arts or science? Biology or computers? To meet her or to continue with phone conversations? To buy a copy of Debonair or to take a sneak-peek? These are the burning questions that occupy you.
 
Do they matter? Tendulkar is dismantling Fleming, Warne and Kasprowicz in Sharjah. A desert storm, a birthday hundred and a ballistic Tony Greig. A straight six off Warne when he starts around the wicket. Another straight six off Kasprowicz. "Whaddaplayaa," screeches Greig. It imprints itself in your head.
 
In your inconsequential gully matches you bat with an amped-up ferocity. You nod to tell the bowler you are ready, you hold your pose during the follow-through, you reverse-sweep and attempt straight-bat paddles. You pump your fist when Tendulkar manhandles Henry Olonga in Sharjah.
 
You start college. You are ragged, often with little imagination. Some of the courses don't interest you. Many of your classmates speak about things you have never heard of, in languages you are not fluent in.
 
You are sipping tea in the canteen when someone switches on a television set. India are playing Namibia in the World Cup. You find your bearings. This is a familiar world. Tendulkar is nearing a century. This is your comfort zone. The next 10 days are some of the most joyous of your life. That six off Caddick, those fours of Akram and Shoaib ... you feel you have turned a corner.
 
You hate your job. You begin to care for little other than your pay-cheque. This is not what you expected when you graduated. You assumed this job would be interesting. How wrong you were. Tendulkar is still at it, obsessed with his craft. Despite a lean patch, he says he must go on. He knows no other way.
 
You are engaged, then married. Life gets busier: an apartment, a car, daily chores. Tendulkar is brutalising Brett Lee in Sydney. An uppish cover drive, then a bullet past the bowler. Lee offers an angelic smile, Tendulkar stands still, zen-like, unconcerned about the past or the future, immersed in the present.
 
You switch jobs. You like your new role but your boss sucks. He is a slave-driver. You take sly peeks at a live scorecard tab that is open at your desktop as India chase Australia's 351 at Hyderabad. Tendulkar is flying but there is no TV. You wish you could get back home but what if he gets out when you are on your way? Would you be able to forgive yourself? India lose. You call out sick the next day.
 
You relocate abroad. Cricket matches are on a different time zone. You scavenge illegal internet streams, slap your head when the feed hangs. You are reminded of your days of watching Doordarshan. The sun is yet to rise outside your apartment, and Tendulkar is batting in the 190s against South Africa in Gwalior. Cricinfo is hanging. Cricinfo didn't even exist when Tendulkar started. Your twitter feed is on valium. He has reached 200.
 
You watch every ball of India's World Cup campaign. How could you not? A hundred in Bangalore, a hundred in Nagpur. You suffer palpitations in Mohali. Then the eruption in Mumbai. Kohli raises him aloft and talks of Tendulkar's burden. He speaks for you. He understands how you feel. There are tears everywhere, including on your cheeks.
 
Here's John Steinbeck in Cannery Row:
Someone should write an erudite essay on the moral, physical and aesthetic effect of the Model T Ford on the American Nation. Two generations of Americans knew more about the Ford coil than the clitoris, about the planetary system of gears than solar system of of stars ... Most of the babies of the period were conceived in Model T Fords and not a few of them were born in them ...

You can apply the same to your generation. To understand us is to take into account the moral, physical and aesthetic effect of Tendulkar. To feel your pain, when he retires from a format he made his own, is to know what it means to grow up with him.
 
You are the lucky ones. Cherish the memories. He was, and will remain, your Model T.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

'Sach' is life..


Full name: Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar
Born: April 24, 1973 in Bombay, Maharashtra
Current age: 39 years 243 days
Major teams: India, Asia XI, Mumbai, Mumbai Indians, Yorkshire
Nicknames: God, SRT, Tendlya, Little Master, Master Blaster, Batting Maestro
Playing role: Top order batsman
Batting style: Right-hand bat
Bowling style: Right-arm offbreak, legbreak, googly
Height: 5 feet 5 inches

463 ODIs (452 Inings), 18426 runs (Avg. of 44.83 & S/R of 86.24) with 2016 fours & 195 sixes, highest score – 200*, 49 centuries, 96 fifties, 140 catches, 154 wickets (ER: 5.10) with best figures of 32/5 [all of this achieved across 90 different grounds across the world]

 ***************************************************************

He made his debut on December 18, 1989, as a 16-year-old against Pakistan. He played his last ODI on March 18, 2012, also against Pakistan in the Asia Cup.

His last ODI hundred came in the Asia Cup in Bangladesh in March 2012, a feat that completed an unprecedented 100 international tons (across all formats).

He has opened Batting 340 times in ODI cricket, a record.

First player to reach 10,000-11,000-12,000-13,000-14,000-15,000, 16,000 and 17,000, 18,000 ODI runs. Only player to score 5, 150+ (186*, 152, 163*, 175 and 200*) scores in ODI cricket.

He  has scored 1,000 or more ODI runs in a calendar year a record seven times - 1994, 1996, 1997, 1998, 2000, 2003 and 2007. His tally of 1894 runs in 1998 is a record for the highest number of ODI runs by anyone in a calendar year. Also his 9 ODI centuries in the same year is also a record for the highest number of ODI centuries recorded by anyone in a calendar year.

He has the most Man of the Match Awards (62) and the most Man of the Series Awards (15) in the history of ODI cricket.

Most Runs (2120), Most Fifties (13), Most Hundreds (6), Highest Partnership runs for 3rd wicket (237, with Rahul Dravid) in World Cup cricket. He was the Man of the Tournament in the 2003 ICC World Cup, in which he scored 673 runs (the highest by any player in any World Cup).

****************************************************************

So, the greatest ODI batsman India (and arguably, the world) has ever seen will not get to 20,000 ODI runs. Nor will he get to his 50th ODI century. The many who wanted him to roll back the years and still be around when the 2015 ICC World Cup came around will be disappointed. Pakistan, who are just about to embark on an ODI series against India, will be happy to not have to bowl to him. The growing number of people who have been calling for his head will be happy to see him go. Cricket, though, both Indian and of the world, has been left with a gigantic hole.

His statement (released by the BCCI on the morning of 23.12.2012) read, "I have decided to retire from the One Day format of the game. I feel blessed to have fulfilled the dream of being part of a World Cup wining Indian team. The preparatory process to defend the World Cup in 2015 should begin early and in right earnest. I would like to wish the team all the very best for the future. I am eternally grateful to all my well wishers for their unconditional support and love over the years." Sachin Tendulkar, perhaps the most-worshipped cricketer of all-time, will not pad up for India in ODIs again. Many, including myself, were somewhat puzzled when he did not retire after winning the 2011 ICC World Cup, simply because it seemed as if he had nothing left to achieve in this format. Yet, the batting legend has always maintained that he will go on playing as long as he enjoys the game, and he now goes on his own terms. It is strange to think.. no, to know.. that the name ‘Tendulkar’ will never again appear on an ODI scorecard for India.
 
 For as long as I have followed the Indian team (& cricket in general), SRT has been a constant figure in the sea of change. Questions have been raised – about his big-match-situation performances, about his captaincy, about his match-winning abilities, about his supposed lack-of-sportsmanship, about his unwillingness to retire & so on & so forth – but Sachin has always let his bat do the talking. 23 years is one hell of a long time..

 Comparisons have always been part & parcel of any & all sports, & many are of the opinion that Dada’s contribution to Indian cricket is bigger than Sachin’s. To me, while Dada is without a shadow of doubt the better leader among the two, there is no comparison when it comes to their batting – Sachin is head & shoulders above & beyond the southpaw, be it in Tests, ODIs or IPL. On who was more inspirational of the two, it’s a difficult question to address simply because of the drastically contrasting styles of the two – Dada’s in-your-face aggression to Sachin’s subdued stay-in-the-background approach.

They say a hero is immortal only until he dies. R.I.P. the immortal Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar, veteran of 463 ODIs and World Cup-winner. To say that you will be missed would be the biggest understatement in the history of understatements.. A true champion and one of the last of the gentlemen cricketers has just left the building. Thank you for all the memories..

A large part of the cricket-fan in me died today morning. Maybe the world should indeed have ended on 21.12.2012.

 

Saturday, December 22, 2012

unnamed

“Dilon mein tum apni betaabiyan leke chal rahein ho, toh zinda ho tum..
Nazar mein khwaabon ki bijliyan leke chal rahein ho, toh zinda ho tum..

Hawa k jhokon k jaise aazad rehna seekho -
Tum ek dariya k jaise lehron mein behna seekho..
Har ek lamhe se tum milo khole apni baahein,
Har ek pal ek naya samaa dekhe nigahein..


Jo apni aankhon mein hayraniyan leke chal rahein ho, toh zinda ho tum -
Dilon mein tum apni betaabiyan leke chal rahein ho, toh zinda ho tum…”



Yours is the language of the smile.. one that be comprehended by all..
and mine.. mine is the madness of the pen.. tending to this social circus’ curtain-call..
May the odds be ever in your favour, and may that smile never die..
And if you struggle to find a reason, let me be the reason for a while..


I give you a balconyful of moonlight and buckets of starlit evenings,
and skies of rain to stream down your cupped hands..
May you hold them close, as the emotions stir & swim inside you –
May they be the contours of your happiness, may you always do what your heart demands..


Toke dilaam shokaal byala’r shishir-bheja ghaash,
Tokei dilaam sheet-er diin-er unun ghyasha aanch..
Tui nili prothom brishti’r diin-er shobuj-ronga paata –
R tor jonnoi ei onek kotha olpe’r moddhye bola ei kobita..


Jodi toke r ektu kom shundor dekhte hotoh,
r tor haashi-ta r ektu kom dushtu hotoh,
Tahole hoytoh ei kobita’r tui r aashol tui ekii hotoh..


Nahole, tor nikhhut chhobi aankte boshe emon shahosh kaar?
Toke niiye kobita lekhar aashpordhaa khoma korish aamar...

 

Monday, December 10, 2012

Note to myself

You.. Yes, YOU! I'm talking to you, Arindam.. and to Ankan, Mimoh, Gaju, Piklu, Babai, Mithai and all those who live within you..

You remember "A tale of two beauties.."? Yes, that is how deep you'd fallen in love with her. And you know how much that hurt you in the end, how much it made you want to just stop living.. Remember. ALWAYS.

A Letter

A letter written six years back.. or maybe five and a half.. a letter that was forgotten, hiding in the black-text-on-white-MS word-document on my personal laptop forever.. Came across it today as I was going through some of my old writings, looking for something else.. Was telling a friend how I almost cannot believe how deep into my heart I had delved into back in those days.. I think I can put it up now; it's part of the letting go, I guess..




Hey.

I guess I’m not, by nature, one of those who shares feelings easily. It’s not that I don’t want to; it’s more so that I cannot. And the times I’ve tried to, I’ve found it undoable. It’s not always easy for me to explain, even to you – one of the people I consider closest to me, the complexity of my feelings and the depth of my reaction to certain experiences. I just couldn’t bring myself to talk to you straight about the random stuff I was hearing. You know, because I couldn’t talk to you and it was all getting stuffed and hot between my ears, I quit asking people stories about the trip to Dooars.. Believe me if you will, but the fact of the matter is that I was really, really stretched thin and yet not for a moment did I actually believe any of the stuff I was hearing.. 

Remember the SMS I had sent you pleading you to inform me at least when you started liking a guy as more than a friend ? Well, that’s about as close as I could come to talking to you about it.. That is, until yesterday.. when I felt like my head was about to explode and finish me off for good.. Might not have been so bad, it appears in hindsight. All I could so for the last I-don’t-know-how-many-days was hope.. Hope..

There was this feeling of helplessness.. Like a fear that decisions – decisions that would render me unable to function normally ever again – were being made in my absence, that not everything that I wanted to know, NEEDED to know, was being made known to me.. and yet I dreaded knowing them.. One of the reasons I can never manage to ask you thing about your.. love life, so to speak.. is because I am mortally scared of what the answer might do to me.. Yes, I know I’m a weakling, but that’s just the way it is.. And you’ve never done anything specific to make me feel this way; it’s just the way I am.. Also, keeping in line with what I said in the SMSs, I’ve always kind of had this feeling that I’m downright lucky to have found someone like you.. and that it was wonderful enough to me that I could make you laugh and spend time with you and.. I’ve just never thought that I had any right whatsoever of asking you personal stuff.. and when I have, it’s taken a lot of courage or a hasty, desperate impulse.. Like when I was in ****** and heard about the ***** incident and subsequently asked you about it over SMS.. I typed, erased and re-typed that SMS about ten times before I could not take it anymore and sent it.. It’s like I’ve always felt that you weren’t as such answerable to me.. I mean, really, who was I ? A friend, yes.. but nothing more.. Heck, I myself don’t consider myself answerable to all my friends! Why should you be any different, I thought.. Maybe you’d feel I was trying to invade your privacy.. It’s not your fault, I repeat. It’s the sad creature I am..

There is also a reluctance to be thought a complainer. I mean, how many times have I sort of complained about this issue? I myself don’t know.. I feel an ocean times of what I say and I think I’ve managed to say my grievance quite a few times.. There is the feeling of a lack in confidence, the subconscious feeling that perhaps my thoughts are a manifestation of my own inadequacy… There is the conflict between the terror of eternal loneliness and the desire to be left alone.. I’ve kept these feelings dormant inside of me for I don’t know how long.. I guess they don’t matter.. because this isn’t about me, really.. It’s about you. Look, I just wanted you to know that I really, really thought that I was losing you.. And it hurt.. so much.. You’re possibly true when you say that I’m hurting myself, but it appears that I’ve developed quite a liking to it.. Maybe I’ll grow prone to it one day.. I’ve told myself that the inevitable must be faced and accepted; perhaps not with dignity, but accepted all the same.. that one day I will lose you.. that one day I will become like the man who comes back from a tiring ordeal far, far away and finds no one waiting for him at the airport.. It’s just taking a rather long time.. But I’ll keep going at it..

I hope I’ve got across to you. Thank you for reading this through. Take Care.

Friday, November 30, 2012

To a prolific run-scorer, and the man I detested

168 Test matches, over 13000 runs in the format, with an average in the higher 50s and a joint-record of 16 consecutive victories in Test matches (although he did lose three Ashes series, a dubious distinction that he’s the only Australian captain to be in possession of). 375 ODIs, yet another 13000+ runs, with an average in the lower 40s and three World Cups in his extensive CV. 17 T20 Internationals, 400 odd runs, with a SR of 132.78. A combined tally of 71 centuries in International cricket (2779 boundaries and 246 over-boundaries) in all formats, across continents and against varying opponents. Add to that his fantastic fielding (there really should be some sort of ICC-recognized system for calculating the runs saved by each player in the field; he would surely have been a frontrunner in that record book), especially in the slip cordon and at cover (364 catches in total), and there remains no doubt that the retiring almost 38-year-old Tasmania-born Ricky Thomas Ponting is no doubt an Australian cricket legend (he only sits below the great Donald George Bradman in his country’s overall ratings) and one of the most prolific and consistent run-scorers the world of cricket has ever seen.
 
Is that all that one defines a sportsperson, you wonder.. Will the fact that he assured the umpire that Sourav Ganguly was caught cleanly, when it was evident that the ball had been grassed and Michael Clarke – the fielder who took the catch – himself was unsure (Gavaskar said on air “Why is Mr. Benson asking a person who didn't walk off when he was caught behind at 14, and it couldn't be possible that you are lying when you are batting and true while you are fielding. That is nonsense! Utter nonsense! I am sorry Mr. Benson, you got it all wrong.”), be remembered by anyone?
 
Notwithstanding the many victories that his team achieved during his tenure at the top, Ponting’s achievements as the captain of the Australian national cricket team has also been questioned – a common belief is that he stood on the shoulders of giants such as McGrath, Warne, Lee, Hayden, Langer, Gilchrist, Symonds and only then could he reach for the stars.
 
I enjoyed thoroughly every time an Australian team led by him was defeated, more so on the biggest stages (T20 World Cup, ICC World Cup, the Ashes, the Border-Gavaskar trophy, etc.) anywhere, and by any team whatsoever. Punter’s definition of “The Spirit of the Game” was to do whatever it took to get a decision in his favour and then define it as the ‘Aussie competitive spirit’, and I admit it was marvelous to see him sledge, cheat and lose.
 
Your aggressive batting (the best shot of which was undoubtedly the perfectly-controlled pulls of both the front and back feet) will be missed, but your attitude won’t.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

"Yeh zindagi joh aaj -
tumhari badan ki chhoti-badi nason mein machal rahi hain,
tumhari lafzon mein dhal rahin hain..
Badalti shaklon, badalti jismon mein chalta-phirta woh sharara
yeh ghadi jo naam hain tumhara..
issi se saari chahal phehle, issi se roshan hain har nazara..
Sitaare todo ya ghar basao, kalam uthao -
tumhari aankon ki roshni taley yeh khel saara..
yeh khel nahin hoga dobara, yeh khel nahin hoga dobara.."

Dedicated to more than one person. End of all the stories.

"Life of Pi"




Go watch Ang Lee’s “Life of Pi”. In 3D. As soon as possible.

In what is an absolute extravaganza for the eyes, the treatment takes an otherwise difficult-to-believe story and turns it into a testament to desperation and bravery in equal measure. All the actors playing the different ages of Piscine Molitor (or “Pi”, as he will tell you) Patel do justice to the character; goes without saying, it’s the actor playing the Pi-stuck-in-the-lifeboat (Suraj Sharma) who delivers the most stellar performance. Irrfan Khan and Tabu are both as good as ever, and so is the actor who plays Pi’s father (NSD-alumni Adil Hussain).

For tiger-lovers, Richard Parker’s magnificence cannot be put into words - he is fiercely terrifying in some scenes and grudgingly submissive in some others, almost-humanely wi
stful in a few, majestically enthralling in every.

 
 
That said, Ang Lee’s subtle additions to and subtractions from the original script (and by original I mean Yann Martel’s book by the same name) are wonderfully easy on the eye and do nothing but add to the overall viewing experience. The parts of the film shot in India are exquisite, the special effects are mind-blowing (watch out for the scene with the jellyfish and the whale) and I have neither the courage nor the words to even begin to try to describe the brutal beauty of thunderstorm-at-sea that changes Pi’s life forever.
 
 
 
p.s. I had missed out on watching Cameron’s “Avatar” on 3D, but this one did somewhat make up for it. Yes, it’s that good.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Wednesday, November 07, 2012

I do NOT believe this.. True story, though.


...
Me: Oh shut up.. You’re crazy! You think I look like Bhagat Singh! :O :D Even if that is a joke, it’s crazy!

Her: bhagat singh is handsome :)

Me: Yes, precisely. I am nowhere near the great Mr. singh.

Her: u r handsome
           u r blind

Me: No. But it seems that you are. :D

Her: beauty is in the eye of the beholder
           so lemme decide that :(
           u underestimate yourself

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Something to think about..


Maa shediin bolchhilo j aamader motoh shohure bacchader naki kono chhotobela nei. Diwali’r diin bolchhilo. Aami chhotobelaay baaji phatataam, ekhon r phaatai na. Mone hoy ekguccho taaka puriiye (quite literally, too) ki hobe ? Taar cheye borong oi taaka diiye ekta duto bhalo second hand boi kinte paarbo.. Kintu sheta onno proshongo. Maa bolchilo j maa-maashira jokhon chhoto chhilo, tokhon o’ra oder graam-a kali pujo te khub moja kortoh.. Kaali pujo’r onek diin aage thekei maa’ra paat-kaathi jomiiye raakhtoh, r oi diin shondhe-belaay ek haat-a ekta jolontoh paat-kaathi o onno haate arekta emni niiye shara paara chhute beratoh.. Jolte thaka paat-kathi ta jokhon nibhu-nibhu, tokhon oi aagun thekei onno ta dhoriiye niiye aabar dour.. Otai oder kaachhe baaji-porano.. Kotoh kom-ei manush-er mon khushi hotey pare, tai na ? R aamader khali chhai r chaai.. R noy..

Sunday, October 28, 2012

"Ckaravyuh" - a review


Watched Prakash Jha's "Chakravyuh" today. Good movie, with strong performances from Rampal, Abhay Deol, Manoj Bajpayee and particularly from Anjali Patil. Loved the way the movie ended - so different from the preachy endings that one sees. The overall storyline along the lines of "There’s a storm coming, Mr. Wayne. ..when it hits you’re all gonna wonder how you ever thought you could live so large and leave so little to the rest of us." is refreshing in the sense that it does not outrightly condemn the Maoists/Naxalities agenda; instead it tries to give an insight into how things are and the factors at play.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Review of "The Roger Federer story: Quest for perfection"


Nobody expected greatness from Roger Federer—even in Switzerland. When he first appeared on the scene, he was overshadowed by the success of Hingis, who just became a major force in women’s tennis. When he was on his way to becoming the world’s best junior, Hingis, his senior by just 312 days, was already at her zenith. She won three of the four Grand Slam tournaments in 1997 and took center stage—especially in Switzerland. Why should one be at all concerned about Federer, a talented junior with an uncertain future, when Switzerland had the current No. 1 ranked woman in the world?


This book chronicles the life and times of (The Great) Roger Federer, taking off right from when he was a little Swiss kid dabbling in tennis & football (& a variety of other ball sports), paying a lot of attention to his formative years (you know, an angry-young-man’s-racquet-smashing days) and finally landing in his glory days (when he became the Champion that he is, with the tennis world lying conquered at his nimble feet).

“One should just be able to play a perfect game.” (- said by a 15-year-old Federer) Playing a perfect game—that’s what motivated him. He didn’t want to just defeat opponents and win trophies, even if he liked the idea of becoming rich and famous or both, as he admitted. For him, instinctively, the journey was the reward and the journey involved hitting and placing balls with his racquet as perfectly as possible. He seemed to be obsessed with this, which would explain why he could become frustrated even after winning points. He didn’t want to dominate his opponent in this rectangle with the net that fascinated him—he wanted to dominate the ball that he both hated and loved.

Stauffer’s book also contains jems like -

“He has so much potential that it sometimes confuses even himself,” said John McEnroe, himself, a one-time artist with the tennis ball. (towards the end of 2000)
 The New York Post meanwhile called out any critics who insisted that Federer’s dominance of the sport could make tennis boring. The tabloid wrote in 2005 that “Roger Federer can win eight of the next 10 Slam finals, reach the semifinals of all the rest, and if Who and When at every tournament becomes inevitable, the How will remain captivating. We will watch it, in mesmerized fatalism.”

The only thing that can perhaps be called a let-downer in this book is that fact that it portrays Federer’s tennis career only till the end of 2006, but then again considering that that is when the book was penned, it’s unrealistic to expect more.

We however, the till-death-do-us-part fans of the immortal Roger Federer, know that our Champion will always keep us going “How on earth does he do that?” every time he pulls off one of those miraculous stokes of genius that only he can pull off. And make it look ridiculously easy at that.

After all, as the legendary Jimmy Connors said to the BBC in 2006, “[In the modern game], you’re a clay court specialist, a grass court specialist or a hard court specialist ... or you’re Roger Federer.”