And the frail looking lady began to smile ...!

What was the most endearing image in India’s sensational win yesterday? No, there was no fat lady to sing at the end of the game, but there she was, a frail looking lady – must have been part of the ground staff, running in to just touch Sachin. She was there for a moment, gone the next. She was all smiles; the sort of smile that is pure and comes from the bottom of one’s heart. For all you know, she may not have known the game of cricket at all. Yet, something there made her joy know no bounds. I am sure; she would be telling her grand children that she had the good fortune of congratulating the master after he completed one of his finest innings, that, hold your breath, took India to victory in a test, and that too while chasing a mammoth score! So was the rest of the ground staff, who came and congratulated the man of the moment.

For a country and her people traumatized with the goings-on in Mumbai over the past few days, these smiles of unmitigated joy are needed in truckloads. Not to overcome the grief – it cannot be overcome, period. But then, to take our minds away from the fear psychosis and concern generated by the gruesome and brutal nature that a human mind can be turned into, to something that is nice, happy and endearing to a lot of people.

But then, not everyone is so fortunate. They do not know what they seem to be missing! Please God, help them understand that in this nation of under achievers, at least the cricket team is there as a pressure valve for so many of us!

Cry, my beloved country ... Cry!

There has been this churning feeling ever since yesterday morning, seeing the dastardly acts of terrorism on screen. The way our media has covered the whole 'story' - with kid gloves and absolute lack of maturity, is also very disturbing.

Father called me yesterday noon and his sense of concern was so apparent. He has visited Mumbai a few times and had been to the foyer of the Oberoi to meet his friend who used to work there, and also to see the hotel. My sense of desperation has been more tangible, given that I have lived in Mumbai for a few years and these were the symbols that one used to look up to, not from an aspirational view, but from a point of 'feel good'.

If I can have such an emotional string attached to the city that never sleeps and to the landmarks therein, imagine the scores of Mumbaikars and others who frequent these places. Also to ponder, if the high and the mighty can be laid so low, what happens to the common man. But then, oh yes, the common man in India, and especially in Mumbai, must have got used to terrorism by now.

And yes, we are such a 'soft' country. At least, we can cry ... and feel frustrated at what's going on ....!

Oh Captain, Our Dear Captain!

It is after a long hiatus that the column comments about a story. And oft has been the case, it is the India – Australia series, or rather, the end of it, that has prompted this. Well, not really. It is to say “Thanks” to our dear captain of old! The lovely Dada, or for the uninitiated – Prince of Kolkata or for the still cricket unaware people (like some close ones are) – Sourav Ganguly! Yes, the guy who used to appear on the Britannia ad – you know, some people are so ignorant …!

Sourav da, your remark that you were more disappointed with not scoring a century in the first innings than with doing a Bradmanesque stint in your last, is so very characteristic of you. But then, you played such an important role in your last test and the whole series. So, what if you did not get an opportunity to play a match saving innings like your bete noire … well, you were his adversary, not the other way round, I guess! You scored 3 runs more than Steve Waugh did on his last, and more importantly, India won the match and the series, something that most cricketers would just dream to achieve.

Your timing of the retirement was spot on, much like those caresses on the offside. And what redemption – to regain the Border-Gavaskar trophy at the very same ground …err the city that some say was the setting for the beginning of your downfall in your first essay, and in such an emphatic manner against the team that promised to play ‘new age’ cricket but was taught some age old wisdom by you guys – aptly named – the Fab Five, or as one channel put it yesterday – the league of extraordinary gentlemen!

As Siddharth Vaidyanathan lamented in his blog about the kind of role models that this school going generation would grow up to, I guess the previous generation grew up to soft people as their role models. Thanks to you all – Kumble, Dravid, Sachin, VVS and you for being the role models to our generation, soft where it mattered and hard on the cricket ground. And amongst them all, you gave us all the self-belief and helped us develop an attitude that helped us be proud of the little things that we did in our daily lives, without ever sounding arrogant.

And to see your animated gestures during the last few minutes of the match, captaining Team India once again, meant so much to so many of us. It was a specially endearing moment, to watch you smile when Dhoni walked with you asking you to take over the mantle one last time.

Thanks a lot … for all these years of great memories. Here’s to you … our dear captain from one of the millions of Indians … and among the few tens of thousands who came to the Chinnaswamy stadium in Bangalore to watch you play one last time in the first test of this series.

And thanks to our new captain for those small gestures yesterday that will make lots of parents look up to you as a good role model. Wah captain … our dear captain!

Why we love fights more than wins!

Well, the whole nation is agog with rumours of Team India packing it's bags prematurely from a tour down under and yes, how can "The column" remain silent at this critical juncture?!

To sum it all up, Australia lost a cricket fan. Yours truly was a passionate admirer of the Australian way of things - the "in your face" attitude so well brought to life in the Fosters ads (the famed Australian beer brand). So when the "pigeon" (the nickname for Glenn McGrath) used to scalp the little master Tendulkar after mouthing the choicest obscenities at him from close range, including the 'F' word (so often captured vividly on camera) on being struck for a four, I used to lament at how poor we are, when it comes to succumbing under pressure and not fighting it out! Well, that is it, right? We always love fights. How often have we lamented that our team gives in without a fight - "it's ok if we don't win, but at least we should have fought hard" is something we are wont to say, at the drop of a hat. Does this trait, so much Indian that other cultures will find it a bit alien, run in our blood?

As toddlers when the story of Mahabharata is told to us, Arjuna is usually the hero that kids want to emulate. But sometime, am not able to put a finger on the age, say, when one is between 5 and 10 years old, the question: "Which character in the Mahabharata would you like the most?" would elicit a reply: Abhimanyu, or Karna (the wronged one). (Well, this attraction and fascination to heroics that end in tragedies ... is it something peculiar to a blood variant that has the inscription - "from Kerala" or is it something that transcends the Aryan-Dravidian divide is something that I would like to know?!).

Maybe this hypothesis is the answer to why the whole country is up in arms in unison, demanding fair treatment, for we have been wronged. Not only that, but this has come in the face of stiff fight that 'Team India' gave to the strongest team in the world. And more, importantly, lost, in the process. If you step back and think for a moment, whether any of these issues - "integrity" of a certain captain nicknamed "Punter" by his own (!), the alleged racist taunt, the poor umpiring and so on, would have become such burning issues, had we stuck out for the remaining 8 minutes and saved the game? By the way, I cannot understand how on earth calling someone (who is so funny with his expressions and hairstyle!) a "monkey" is racist. After all, science tells us that Homo Sapiens descended from apes. But at the same time, mouthing the "b" word, the "f" word or whatever other 4 or x-letter word that has only one meaning irrespective of the culture and language, is perfectly alright and is within the limits of the "gentleman's game"! How ridiculous can one get!

So then, maybe it's better that we lost and that too fighting till the end and to the last man. For, had we drawn the match, that sweeping use of English verbiage "a bad day at the office for the umpires" (well, the ICC Chief had the gall to tell this!) would have figured tucked away in the inner pages of our media. Like our own epic heroes, we fought and in the end we still lost, and our obsessive media caught on to the story that they knew would find instant resonance with something deep within all of us.

And yes, read this to understand why I would not support the baggy green from now onwards, unlike what I had to write earlier ....

Up above the world so high, "Harmony" in the sky!

"The two crews have completed the initial outfitting of the Harmony module that was attached to the station last week." , says NASA in it's portion of the website dedicated to the space station, today.

Well, it was a hot summer noon in 2000 when I visited the Kennedy space center of NASA in Cape Canaveral, Florida. We just missed the program wherein visitors can talk to those ex-astronauts - guys for whom the epithet - "been there, done that and having seen it all" would be so apt, much more than anyone else! Although my initial mood was a bit sombre - on account of silent resentment at my cousin for being more than a bit casual regarding the schedule for the day or else we would have made it on time, the rest of the day more than made up for all that. We went on a conducted tour - so well configured by NASA that the narrative on the TV sets installed next to each row on the bus is very well in synergy ... err ... harmony, if you will, with the scene one gets to see outside. So then, we saw the launch pads - unfortunately there were no shuttles in sight - one of them, Discovery I guess, was inside the tallest single storeyed building in the world and the other Columbia was up there, scheduled to land in a couple of weeks time. We were also taken to the Apollo assembly hall where a real life model of Apollo was kept - we were also given a "live" experience of the successful Apollo launch that bridged a giant leap for mankind (the expedition that took Armstrong and the others to moon) - this was a very well orchestrated audio visual - the voice over (live recordings of that moment in history) played out in the very room that created history - with all the action happening (lights getting turned on, screens showing data, the countdown happening .... and then a huge swoosh .... the lift off ... or rather .... the blast off, and then congratulations all around). Well, not the least of all was what preceded it all .... JFK's inspiring speech asking America to deliver the first man on the moon .... all this was a very heady experience, presented in the true US of A way.

And then, as part of the tour, we were taken to a chamber where NASA scientists were at work, on the International Space Station. We were shown a life-size model of the module that they were working on. The guide also informed us that the scientists were working on a module that was sponsored by Italy and that would go into space 'x' number of years later. Guess what, now I remember, it was named "Harmony"!

So, the next time I look up to the skies, I know that there is harmony up there - harmony that I saw and knew from so close quarters more than seven years back .....!

10 years is a long time ...!

Anniversaries come and go. And then, there are some that are milestones. Though painful - anniversaries generally are a meter of duration and most often than not they make one look back and think "Oh my god, it has indeed been so many years .... time does indeed fly". One would tend to think so, even on a first anniversary. So, come to think of it, 10 years is indeed a long time.

My mind's eye takes me to the party we were having just before passing out from college. Quite a few scenes rush are fresh. There was Rahul, our secretary, promising that our branch should be different from our batch, in having a get-together function every year. That resolution was unanimously passed with "Ayes" all around. There was Ompie wailing loudly - literally crying like a baby, that he will miss many of his friends. There were groups - the "right-wing" group, then the left group - more so the hostellers, then there was the electrical side of G-15 (I doubt if G-15 members - an assorted mix of 7 girls of electrical and 8 guys of Mechanical and Electircal - actually knew that they were called so - primarily for their liking to culture of the USofA and even more so, for their behaving as US citizens in campus!) probably reliving the good memories of the 4 years spent or were they all contemplating the paths one would have to take in future. Will those paths cross - some ensured that they would - obviously by marrying the ones they loved in campus, maybe there were many who were apprehensive of decisions that they had no clue about!

10 years hence, on this very day that we wrote our last university exam on (well, the subject was "High Voltage Engineering" for yours truly, for which the text book was purchased the previous day!), one wonders as to how time went by. I am not aware of a single get-together of our branch in these years - there was possibly 1 attempt made 5 years back! Maybe, they are meeting up in San Francisco or LA, right now when I pen ... err type these words. Or maybe one of the "left wing" friends is chatting with a "G-15" member or maybe they are still in their own groups, a few of them may be living as life partners - and this day may have turned out to be of little significance. What about me? I was in my own little cocoon 10 years back and probably in a smaller cocoon now. But then, I have been up to something - 4 companies, 5 cities, 1 more campus, a marriage and lots of travels point to a lot of activity. But then, I do have my own circle of friends from college, who I am sure, will maroon in a flood of memories the moment I inform them of this day 10 years back. Well, or maybe, when they get to read this, if at all. But of one thing I am sure, I will be the first person to inform/remind them. My first call now is to Rao ... who stayed closeby and who definitely missed us (the 3 roommates) a lot once we all went our own ways.

A toast to my companion on her birthday

She came into my life 19 years back. I still remember the day – the evening that I met her standing there – glowing skin, all fresh. I walked her down the 2 km distance till I reached home and the pride I felt was insurmountable. She was my constant companion through thick and thin for the next few years – 5 years to be precise – and then I had to share her with many others. Before your thoughts go wandering, let me clarify – am talking about the cycle that Appa bought for me when I was in my eighth standard!

Well, this was the most prized possession of mine for a long time. The gleaming maroon BSA-SLR cycle was the one that I took to school – having learnt cycling on my sister’s silver Speed King that had served it’s purpose quite well and could have been mine, but for the perception of ignominy that I had in mind in taking a ladies cycle to school on a daily basis. By the way, she is still cross with me for being the root cause of taking the cycle away from her – Appa gave it to his friend for a nominal amount since she had left home to pursue her higher studies and also because it became difficult to maintain and keep two cycles at home.

The first day was an eventful one. All was well in the morning ride – even the notorious district court bridge junction in our small town was negotiated with calm. However, in the evening, just about a furlong from home, the first “accident” happened – these two school girls were just alighting from their school auto and I could not brake hard – or rather the front brake did not work since my school lunch bag had already pressed on the brake wire – bump I went and hit into the younger one who fell down and started wailing! I did not know what to do, but then the elder sister picked her up and turned off, not before making a scornful face at me. The only other disaster that happened was the evening I was going to the badminton club for the first time, directly from school. The lunch bag was again to blame and my front wheel went straight into the sari-fold of a lady who was walking towards me. Before she could react, I was off in a hurry.

But for these two occurrences, the first 5 years were a breeze. My father used to go cycling to the temple and his driver used to take her out for lunch and these were the only rides she had while I was in college, away from home. But then, I used to more than make up for lack of activity for her, by cycling 10-12 km over the weekends that I used to be at home. And as I went farther away from home – job, post graduation etc, I used to ride my cycle less and less frequently. But still, Appa used to take care and ensure that annual overhauls happened and that she was fit for a ride whenever I went home.

The last two years have been difficult – no cycle rides at all, thanks to a niggling back pain. Was it the reason for me to turn an avid fan of Tour de France, the best cycling event in the world? Maybe! My friend and I had an interesting debate on whether cycling is worth watching, what with the drug tainted sport falling victim to too many controversies this year. But, I am afraid he is too clinical in his analysis and at times cannot relate to the thrill of wind hitting the body – my view is that cycling is the only activity where man and machine are so closely and physically involved in the process of transport. Watching the cyclists attack the Col du Gabriel mountain climb and the subsequent race down amid the scenic French countryside has to be seen. The sheer physical effort involved (drugs or no drugs!) took me back in time to those little races that we used to have, while in school. I used to win a very different race quite often – the slow cycle race which required more balance and control than effort.

As she enters her 20^th year and celebrates her birthday today, here’s wishing her more activity after a 2 year rest, since I am looking forward to getting back on my cycle. There is the interesting option of riding to work on my wife’s cycle, but then am a bit apprehensive since you guessed it right, it’s a ladies cycle!

The greatest ever?

Well, coming a day after one of the most enthralling matches and that too at the most hallowed turf of green grass there is in the world, very few need to be event presented with a “guess who” for an answer! McEnroe had predicted 3-4 years back that Federer has it in him to be the “greatest ever” to have stepped on a tennis court. The only opponent was himself is probably what most of us had interpreted that statement to be. But then, the bull fighter from Mallorca gave an insight into what else could be there!

Well, forgoing at least two other personal commitments, I reserved the “second best seat” as Vijay Amritraj put it, right from the time the whole show commenced – assuming that the final starts at 5.30 PM (IST). But then, I was witness to one of the most poignant moments on TV screen in a long while. There was the genius John McEnroe, the great Jimmy Connors and the one and only Bjorn Borg walking and talking together right from the locker room to the centre court. And they were interviewed by Sue, who very aptly said that she was about to live the most incredible moment in her life … and as an aside, requested John and Jimmy to not spoil it, for her sake, when she was talking to Bjorn.

And then, the match began. Nadal showed that he is the prince and the king-in waiting on grass. As Sue said in the post match interview, last year we all knew he could win, this year he himself thought that he could win! His fighting qualities, relentless pursuit of balls that others would have so easily given up are in itself a deadly combination. But, what flummoxed most people was his amazing comfort and accuracy with net play and volleys. His prowess at the net surpassed Federer’s by a long margin. But then, the champion came up with his serves in almost all the big points, a quality that propelled his illustrious predecessor Pete Sampras to his share of the grand slam pie. Probably, that is what proved crucial – his 24 aces compared to 1 of Nadal, and most of those aces were when the chips were down. I guess, one would not do justice by trying to some up yesterday’s match in words.

This Wimbledon, the wettest in at least 25 years, has been tremendous in terms of the quality of tennis that one witnessed. From what I can recall, the Jelena Jankovic – Lucie Safarova match started it all. A tremendous match, the highlight being two back to back rallies featuring 20 odd shots, and remember, we are talking grass here, not clay! Then there was the Ana Ivanovic – Nicole Vaidisova match, Ana surviving 3 match points before recovering to win. There was the Nadal – Soderling match, where Nadal had acknowledged applause of the crowd as part of his victory celebration, when the Swede challenged the call and won. And it took 3 more sets over 2 days for Nadal to stamp his authority. Nadal had another 5 setter, recovering from being 2 sets down before beating Michael Youzhny. Novak Djokovic had to fire on all cylinders and go to the last bit of his reserve, before beating the Cypriot Marcos Baghdatis in a 5 hour 5 setter. Novak had already put in 4 hours to beat ex-champion Lleyton Hewitt. Novak had exhausted his reserves to such an extent that he had to throw in the towel half-way into his first Wimbledon semi-final. Serena pulling her leg in the match against Hantuchova, and having divine intervention in the form of heavens opening up, enabling her to recover and then beat Daniela in a 3 setter. Then there was the phenomenal run of Mariam Bartoli, beating Jelena Jankovic in 3 sets, before taking the snuff out of the front-runner Justine Henin. Will Henin end up being like so many of her predecessors, winning all but the one slam that matters the most, or will she be in that elite club that includes Martina and Steffi? Bartoli turned the match in the second set and beat her own as well as those of quite of a few experts, with the greatest upset of her career. She played damn good in the final too, but then when Venus is on song, it hardly matters who the opponent is. Like Sharapova in 2005 who threw everything at her, but got more of it in return, she was simply superb – coming up with serves that would have won her points even in the epic final of the men’s … err … gentlemen’s singles.

And to cap it all, World No. 1 against World No. 2, both of them chasing the record of Bjorn Borg – one to become the first man in history to equal (note, the key word here is ‘equal’!) Bjorn’s record of 5 successive Wimbledon titles and the other to again equal another record that has so surprisingly stood the test of time, of being the first after Bjorn to win both French and Wimbledon titles in the same year. With at least 5 ex-Wimbledon Gentlemen’s Singles champions (number of Wimbledon titles in brackets) – Bjorn Borg (5), John McEnroe (3), Jimmy Connors (2), Boris Becker (3) and Manuel Santana (1) looking on, Federer summoned his last reserves and played out of his skin to win. Greatness always comes with humility, and Federer so aptly summed up at the net “You deserved it as well, I just got lucky”! Well, he also conveyed as to what he felt about Nadal – that he was just 21 and so he will have lots to pick up and that Federer’s is just pocketing whatever he can. Let us hope that these two come up with more great matches, resembling the rivalry of Borg/McEnroe, McEnroe/Connors, Edberg/Becker (to some extent?!) and Sampras/Agassi. I would have to give my bias at least now, let Federer get the crown at Roland Garros and that too beating the Clay King (Grass Prince!) Rafa, so that he joins Laver who is there in his 1 man club! Let there be more …. “It was a privilege to watch the two of you …..” during the presentation ceremonies of at least a few more Slams. And if it takes a lot of rain to produce such a beautiful day with sunshine, let the heavens open up at the most beautiful tournament in the world!

Story of a film roll

We (six of us) had gone on tour of Nepal utilising the time between our placements and convocation. The trip was quite entertaining - the co-travellers by their idiosyncracies more than making up for the cloud cover in Pokhara, rip-offs in Kathmandu and hassles due to the Maoist trouble in its infancy then. Hope to cover the details in http://sankaratravels.blogspot.com some time soon. Limiting myself to the film roll used in that trip, which contained (hopefully) a few good snaps on my SLR camera.

That film roll was quite precious in more ways than one. Our batch was graduating after a rigorous MBA course and we were all in that mood, wherein one begins to look back at things with nostalgia - the campus, the good times and the not-so good times etc. How many of these can a camera capture, one may ask? But the shutterbug that I was, I even took a "junior's" bike for a last look at the campus, and had taken what according to me, were some of the most stunning shots of our lovely campus.

Most of the luggage was packed and sent home. I was cleaning up the few odd things - those things that tug at the strings of your heart to be treated as souvenirs rather than disposables, when my father looked at me and asked where the film roll should go. On the spur of the moment, assuming that it was the black casing, I just threw it into the dustbin - well, given that the entire batch was moving out, the dust bins were all full and stinking.

We were off - bidding goodbye to one-another, the campus, the city etc, and reached Varanasi the next day. Well, it was not exactly to wash off the sins of the 2 years that we went to Varanasi, but as part of a mini-North India trip for the family. Maybe, the holy waters of the Ganges did the trick, or was it the punya bhoomi of Varanasi, it is difficult to fathom. Once we were back at the ashram after a refreshing bath at the Ganges ghats, it came as a thunderbolt - where was the film roll?

Hoping against hope to find it, I rummaged through the luggage, when a tiny impulse was interpreted by the brain as "how can you find what you are looking for, when it is not with you!". After blaming everyone, I was faced with the reality of not being able to view what would have been beautiful photographs (well, you could anyway call it that, because no one would be able to see them!). But on that day, after the bath, things happened differently. I tried ringing up the hostel - but who would pick up at the unearthly hour of 11 in the morning! I, the de facto telephone operator who used to speak to all the girlfriends, fathers, mothers, nana/nanis of my corridor mates, was here ....! Well, I tried my luck at the other side of the hostel - to my surprise, my batchmate picked up the phone, listened and after mumbling something, to my horror, hung up! I tried all hostels one by one, and finally got hold of one of my batchmates who had also come to Nepal with me, to go to my hostel and check the dust bin! Or worse, if garbage was cleared by then, to go to the garbage disposal place/yard inside/outside campus. Would anyone in his senses do it? I had lost all hope and ruminated on the veritable "if only ...." and continued on our trip - from Varanasi to Delhi and then to Bangalore, before finally reaching home a couple of weeks later.

I eagerly went to the cybercafe to check my mail and found to my horror that the guy did not bother to follow my instructions. Well, come to think of it, who would, in their right frame of mind?! I was about to close my mail and leave in a huff, when my mind's eye caught hold of another mail. Well well, what would this be about, I thought! My eyes were stuck on the following words "hi dude, ur film roll is with me so plz let me know wot u want to be dun with it.... cheers vikas". These were like manna from heaven for me. I was delirious with joy. Later on, I came to know that it was Vikas who took the call that I made from Varanasi and had immediately gone to the dust bin outside by room , rummaged through the piles of garbage to find my pot of gold. To my surprise, the other guy too had taken the trouble of going there to the dust bin, but had found it empty and could not make out where it had been taken to, for dumping. The phone call to Vikas and action on his part had been done Just In Time .....

I requested Vikas to courier the roll from Lucknow to Kerala, but by then he had gone to UP and none of the couriers from his home town would deliver to my home town in Kerala. Subsequently, I requested him to courier the same to Bangalore, but he was not keeping well and could not do so. Further to this, I joined my induction program at Delhi and then was to spend 4 months at Bangalore. And it was finally, in mid-Jun that I received the courier containing the film roll - it had taken me close to 4 months to lay my hands on - kind of a treasure trail. And needless to say, I was trembling with excitement and tension - no photographer would have so eagerly gone to any studio to get his prints. The photos did indeed come out great ... especially the last photos of the campus, and my heartfelt thanks to Vikas for what he did more than 4 years back.

Then why this article now, one may ask. Well, I was cleaning my mailbox after all this while, and chanced upon this mail from Vikas, quoted above.

Good bye, maximum city

Well then, after more than a year back, am back in action again. Spending the last few days in Mumbai - ironically at the same colony where I had come to more than 3 years back. Having relocated home 7 times and office 4 times and having travelled by taxi, auto, bus and train (all lines) to office, yours truly can claim to have understood a little bit of this city.

A city where you can peacefully be on your onward journey to a guest's house even at 9 PM, a city where every day commute is like going to the most crowded pilgrimage, a city where one would go to a sports complex 10 km away at 9 pm, only to find people with entire family occupying the courts, a city which is currently mulling over its mills getting converted to malls, well .... one can go on and on.

Friends remark that this good bye is only temporary, because being the finacial capital of the country, one would always have to trundle back, given the interest and profession.

One will certainly miss Mumbai, most for making one realise that there are 24 hours full and full, without any constraints. No other city can even hold a candle in this respect.

Well, am breaking a promise I made to myself - to not write any more in this column, until ........ but then, an interview of Salman Rushdie that I watched on tv a couple of hours back, has made me change my mind!

Christmas without Santa

This Santa, was in more ways than one, like the other. He with the big tummy and flabby body, who arrived with the gift of bringing cheer and laughter in whichever close circle he roamed in. Most often than not, the subject of laughter would be himself, and the group would take a trip on him. Maybe that's why he was nicknamed Santa!

Santa was the last one to get into our batch, but found his way into the hearts of at least a few of us who got to know him quite well, within no time at all. In a place filled with all sorts of weirdos, Santa was a 'refreshing' friend to have. The first year was quite tough on Santa - he had taken a big decision of discontinuing the course at another top B-school after the first year and was having self-doubts of whether he did the right thing or not. Post summers saw Santa return with a vengeance - and thanks to the sleeping habits of my corridor mate who was the "paper writing" partner of Santa, I got to know Santa better. He would just walk in, get me out of bed and promptly make himself 'comfortable'. After a couple of hours, he would return, blaming Shahnas for not being very serious about paper-writing.

Santa would do a strenous work out + jog (literally forcing one of us to accompany him), only to more than compensate the loss of calories with "butter chicken" later on in the day. One asked him why he is a "Paul" rather than a "Pal", as is common with Punjabis, he retorted ... "arey, dadaji ne pseud banne ki koshish ki! Phir bhi kuch fayda nahin hua!" Such self-deprecatory humour was Santa's forte.

Santa getting carried away was a very common thing. Especially while making presentations in class, the danger bulbs flashed when Santa quoted examples of Coca Cola, irrespective of the subject! But one presentation was unforgettable. For some reason, the most "time pass" of guys came together in a group to participate in an IT presentation competition conducted by a leading FMCG company on campus. Each of us contributed in bits and pieces and none of us knew a clue about what the other had done. We thought that we'd get time to collate and synchronise while one of the other groups made the presentation. But, the worst case scenario unfolded ... we were the first group called. And Santa was in full flow ... managing the show till the time the presentation was collated and loaded onto the PC! And how he spoke that day. He really set it up for us. To cut things short, although there were far better prepared teams that evening, the first prize was won by us - a bunch of 'nobodys'. Needless to say, we nominated Santa as the team leader to collect the cash prize. After sharing the spoils at a Hazratganj joint (other batchmates who happened to be there could not believe their eyes seeing such a disjointed set around a table!), Santa gave the remainder cash to me saying that "we" would definitely spent the sum some day.

Santa loved playing tennis. The first time we played tennis on campus, Santa's rusty tennis resulted in him going down 0-6. Santa returned with a vengeance the next day, to win 6-0! The third and 'final' set was left pending.

The happiest moment for Santa and for all of us who knew him quite well came during placements. By a strange combination of design and luck, Santa who was the first on the wait list for his favourite Coca Cola, found himself being told that he has been made an offer. The mountain of a man just broke down ... and how! The bear hugs that followed were just so memorable.

It is with a broken heart that one writes about Santa in the "past" tense. The bubbly and cherubic Santa - with so much hopes and dreams, fell prey to that moment of madness on the roads, while he was travelling in a taxi. Say 10 years on, if one wondered who all one would meet in campus and would behave with you the same way as he/she always had, Santa would have definitely been one of the first on my list. It's almost as if that chapter is closed.

May his and Manju's souls rest in peace ... and God give courage and mental strength to their near and dear ones to endure this phase in their lives.

A stone for Machaan

“Are you awake, macha?” The booming voice and characteristic laughter was enough to disturb the sleep of even the most steadfast sleeper. “Let us arrange a bike, will you come with me?” More than a question, that was a request. “Where to Manja (as I used to call him)?” The electrician in our campus had apparently told him about a local mela in his locality. To which our amiable friend had promised that he would definitely attend.

Borrowing the bike from a friend ("Sada" used to be so passionate about his bike that he would never entertain such requests – but then, Manja had a knack of getting such things done!), the two of us were off by midnight. With great difficulty – the Lucknow winter did not make things easy, we finally managed to reach the place. This was a classical mela – they had Himalayas, including Mt. Kailas constructed as a tableaux, with people queuing up to pray (!), bhajan singing, honouring a “dada” called ‘kaala baalu’ (off went Manja and his raucous laughter causing more than a few concerned heads to turn!) and some songs sung by the “local” Mohd. Rafi. In the midst of all this, the electrician friend spotted Manja. His face just lit up (it had to be seen to be believed). He got us (“sahib logon ke liye”) steaming cups of chai.

Arming ourselves with bricks and stones – there were rumours that petty thugs occasionally waylay travelers, we reached the campus at around 3 AM.

But then, the happiness on the electrician’s face was worth the whole effort, was what Manja felt.

That was Machaan. Barely 3 years hence, in the same badlands of UP, they killed him gruesomely, for doing his duty, snuffing out the blossoming flower, who considered it his duty to bring happiness and joy around him.

Confusion reigns supreme

Well, everything about me is confused, say 'insiders'. Yes, true, I say. When it comes to personal issues and preferences, one cannot be black and white all the time - what say?

But, some areas of confusion get solved automatically. Like yesterday, I was confused who to support - Agassi, the eternal fighter, the best 'returner' of the generation, the achiever of so many things (who wouldn't give their right hand to have Steffi supporting for you!) OR Federer, the master craftsman, the 'butterfly' and the 'bee', the magician? I was not even given an opportunity to think through the confusion. The cable wala helped me out. He gave us only ESPN and Star Sports and not Ten Sports on which the live telecast was on! On coming to know that Federer ultimately won, was I happy? Or was I sad that Agassi lost, albeit fighting hard? Well, it was time to leave for office, on another wet Monday morning.

Wish, isn't there a cable wala in our lives too - who ultimately resolves the confusion?

Have I changed ?

In various contexts, people – even close family, tell me that I have changed a lot in these last few years. Is that so much of a bad thing, necessarily, I wonder? If you were caught up in a time warp, is it a crime to still be not caught in it. Well, I guess I have changed. And what surprisingly made me realize this? Of all things, sports!

I have always been the passionate supporter of the underdog, especially against a champion. I would always root for an Ivanisevic against an Agassi, for Anand against Kasparov, or India against Pakistan (!)

With the Aussie tail-enders doing what they are expected to do – fight, that is, and only 1 wicket separating England from a series equaling victory, guess who I rooted for. With much consternation I realized that I was rooting for an Aussie victory. To the extent that I was dejected and disappointed that Australia lost out by just 2 runs.

The process had been set in a month earlier, I guess. People say that Mohammed Ali was referred to as he “who floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee”. I guess the description would more fit Roger Federer than any other sports professional, these days. The delectable touch, combined with the out of the world angles in the cross court and down the line passing shots, scores a lot over the power of his ground strokes. Having defeated Roddick in the semi-finals at Wimbledon two years back, and returning the kitchen sink and more that Roddick threw at him in the finals at the exalted grass courts last year, I expected myself to root for Roddick, the underdog. But, despite my wanting to, I was ecstatic that Federer played another classic and won.

Well, it’s not about the underdog or the champion anymore, for me. It’s about who I appreciate better, I guess. Of late, I have been liking fighting qualities and hence my biased support for Australia – even in their failures, I see only the positives. Similarly, any tennis aficionado would vouch for the talent of Federer – for the generation that has not been fortunate enough to watch McEnroe, there is Federer and then there is God, they’d say.

So, have I changed? Yes, seems to be the answer. But then, I have always been a fanatic supporter of the Samba boys, in the football field, irrespective of who the underdog is, or what the fighting qualities of a German team are!!! Maybe, I have not changed at all ……

Compere par excellence …

Couple of months back, there was an article in the Indian Express by some Bengali academic who had compared the presentation styles of Ameen Sayani (of the eternal Binaca Geet mala fame) and Karan Johar, in his avatar as the host of Coffee with Karan. It was an interesting article analyzing the reason for the popularity of Ameen Sayani over the years. Imagine someone who literally introduced millions of Indians to the Vividh Bharati and weaned them away from ‘Ceylon radio’, continuing in the same vein to this day, being able to directly influence the popularity of radio channels, even in this FM age!

‘Sangeet sitaron ki mehfil mein’ (loosely translated as – in the august company of the stars of music: Can there be a direct word that can substitute mehfil!) is the program that currently runs on one of the FM channels. The last ‘episode’ is testimony to why there can be none like Ameen Sayani. It was on that great singer whose voice and style evokes emotions as mixed as passion, angst, pathos, melancholy and romance in the same song. Yes, the one and only Kishore Kumar. Here’s where Ameen’s presentation style makes the programme one of its kind. Did he select an old interview with the great singer himself? Or did he go into nostalgic memories of ‘those good old days’. Or maybe, did he get tit-bits of comments of the great contemporaries of that era on Kishore. He did none of these, but at the same time journeyed through a myriad and at times strange mix of all of these, and still managed to keep the listener engrossed in the flow of the story. Here’s how.

He took a live event held in Los Angeles (of all places!) in 1978, where Ameen himself was the compere, and started off with Ameen’s introduction of Kishore. And then, the great one, introduced himself in what Ameen reflects as his ‘standard’ way of introduction, calling himself Kishore Kumar Khandvawala! Ameen interspersed this with how Kishore used to regale Khandva walas, whenever he used to visit them. Ameen mentions what Sandip Ray (the legendary Satyajit Ray’s son) had to say about Kishore and Khandva in an interview. But, the class of Ameen comes across, when he gives a teaser that this will be part of a later episode! Then, after the customary inaugural song, Ameen played excerpts of his interview with Kishore’s son Amit Kumar. Amit narrated as to how his father chanced upon his son to play the role in a movie. Then the song ‘Aa chalke tuche, mein leke chaloon’ was played from the LA event! Then came an excerpt from an interview of Ameen with Talat Mahmood, wherein the legendary singer narrated as to how shy Kishore was in his initial days. It seems, he was so shy that among the then greats, Kishore stayed out of a ‘live’ event – a fundraiser in Mumbai, because he was too shy to play-act-sing on stage! This, Ameen, followed up with a boisterous Kishore on stage in LA, singing ‘Mere sapnon ki rani’. Followed by Kishore requesting the audience to be ready for some ‘heavy stuff’, adding “samach rahe hain aap”, and following up with the ever-soulful, melancholic “Chingari koi”, sung by Kishore in a “different” style. Ameen ending the episode with a promise that he’s keeping Kishore and Lata on stage in London for the next week. As the English folk say, ain’t I licking my lips for that one … eh!

Rain, rain please go away!

It poured, and how! The heavens came tumbling down, opening their floodgates and all hell broke loose down below. It was as if someone up there had asked Indra, portrayed in Hindu mythology as an arrogant god with questionable morals, as to what his full fury and latent power was!

I, for one, never thought that this would ever be the title on a piece, especially after what I had written the previous time. As they say, weather is so unpredictable! Even that fantastic of inventions, the computer, was actually invented to “predict” weather, is what I have read somewhere. Mumbai – July 26th became the latest in a series of natural tragedies happening on 26th of a month, (remember Gujarat earthquake? And tsunami?)

To anyone asking her age, athai (aunt) used to tell that she was born in ’99, the year of the great flood. (’99 stood for 1099, and as per that calendar, the current year is 1182). Similarly the generation that was witness to July 26 in Mumbai, will tell the next “The year of the great flood”. Hope this is the case, for this year has already seen the “great wave” and the “great rains”. Let us all pay obeisance to Mother Nature and hope for the best, but then, prepare for the worst. Just in case …

Rain, rain don’t go away …

Rains … take up any tourist information on Kerala and you would find the “season” to be marked as any time other than June-August. Ironically, this is the “season” when “God’s Own Country” spreads it’s green carpet, literally. It finally took Channel 4 of BBC to film “Rains in Kerala”, to indicate what the tourist misses out on. And then, Alex Frater wrote a book titled “Chasing the monsoon”. I am told that this book has kind of, become a cult classic, in the sense, that it has spawned its own category of backpacker followers, who ‘track’ the monsoon as it hits Kerala coast in the first week of June, makes its way across the plains to reach Arakan mountains in Burma, and all the way back across the Bay of Bengal. But, rain evokes some very special memories.

One did not look forward to rains, as a kid, especially if schooling is done in Kerala. Rains mean that one would have to wait till Onam (August-September, that is) for that new pair of Bata “Naughty Boy” shoes, one could not play during the 1 hour “games” period every week, that one had to get all messy with the raincoat, or be good at a balancing act, if one was adept enough to risk riding a bicycle with one hand on the umbrella and a sackful of bags dragging you back. Rains also meant that the fun involved in walking in ‘hawai’ sandals turned to travails for whoever washed your clothes, for the hawai has this fantastic ability to throw mud onto any portion waist downwards on the backside! Rains also brought ailments in its wake – cough, cold, fever invariably followed that adventurous jaunt in the rain. The explosion in mosquito population, coupled with the predictability (thanks to “another scorching summer”) of our electricity board meant sleepless nights, and that too in non-exam season! How criminal can you get! There was also the problem of pungent smelling clothes, for want of sun, and of course, the mud coloured socks that would be the challenge for any “New, extra power, super white” detergent powder.

But, still I loved rains. The smell of sand that the first rains bring, is intoxicating, to say the least. The small puddles that form in the cracks on the tar roads have this strange colour that no rainbow can match – of oil drops from leaking, creaky vehicles that get mixed with the water. Watching the “crowns” that get formed when large droplets drip down from tree leaves onto already formed puddles was fascinating to watch, especially if one was lying down in the sofa in the front room verandah of our house. Croaking frogs give comfort through the sleepless nights and the already lush greenery glistens with the lustre of multiple rounds of ‘finish’ that the rains keep providing. The movie Piravi (by Shaji Karun, the highly acclaimed Malayalam director - of Cannes fame – if that helps, for the uninitiated!) that captures the beauty of the Kerala monsoon like no other, springs to mind.

Monsoon to hit Kerala with a week’s delay is today’s news – and is a national level headline maker! Here I am, in Mumbai, looking out at the Southwestern sky – no it will take at least two weeks to darken. And rains in Mumbai – a different ball game altogether – trains in disarray, slosh all around and the strains that the city and the people go through in accommodating the poor umbrella! Mumbai, a city where there are islands of prosperity in a sea of poverty, rains deface you (can also be read as clean up!), unlike the gloss that they provide to Kerala.

Meanwhile, I am off to check out “Chasing the monsoon” at the nearest bookshop …!

Exploring friendship …

Well, what’s closeness of friendship? This line of thought took me back a couple of years when I was visiting Belgaum on an official trip. I had reached Belgaum early in the morning and was checking into the hotel, when I spotted the telephone register lying there. On impulse, I checked up for the name Toro, got excited on finding a number listed against the name (blessed is the guy who thought of having entries in telephone registers on last name basis) and dialed …..

Mind has its own flashback mechanism that no director can emulate. It was a rainy June evening, when a bright, smart looking boy joined our school bus “gang”. A brief introduction later, I found this boy with his father come visiting, later on at night, the same day. His father, in the army, was on deputation to the local NCC unit and had got an accommodation close to ours. My broken English was enough to break the language barrier and we were on level playing field, literally that is. From the very next day onwards, there were “triangular” Benson & Hedges series featuring Australia, Newzealand and India, held between the two of us. The venue alternated between Melbourne (the space within our house compound) and Eden Gardens (the open space outside his). Except for the torrential Kerala rains, nothing could break our daily trysts with the gentleman’s game. The rains ensured that we knew each other’s family quite well, for these interludes, usually long, meant some indoor activity or the other. Well, a year just flew by. The second year was less “hectic”, with many parallel friendships getting established, the focal point being this newcomer, who had an intrinsic “pull” quality, but then the bonding between families strengthened, more so given the fact that the family structure, with the match in age, order and gender of the children. The deputation of Mr. Toro came to a close, it was time for them to move on, and on the day they left, a little boy realized how fleeting, attachments like close friendships can be.

The initial flurry of letters and greeting cards soon became a trickle. However, in the intervening period of a few years, both of us religiously sent one another the wedding cards of our sisters, to which both of us dutifully responded with long letters. It was in Bangalore that we met, after about 10 years, and then the pull of the Information Technology sector took him away to the US, while I came to know that his parents were based in Belgaum. The promises of keeping in touch over media like e-mails were never been kept by either party. And then, this unexpected trip to Belgaum happened.

Thank God, the receiver went off hook at the other end, and a lady’s voice “Kaun hai”? Recognition, on giving the reference of name and place, was instantaneous and his mother literally forced me to visit them almost immediately. Having breakfast and talking to her as if the intervening gap of 15 long years never happened, I was getting overwhelmed by the flood of memories. But, being on an official trip, I had to take leave without meeting his father, who had gone on a typical retired life morning jaunt. However, I did compensate by returning early in the evening, and could spend some good quality time with him too.

My friend in the US has been oblivious to this little episode that got played out at his hometown. Needless to say, my “friend” and I have still not gotten in touch, and it has been close to 5 years now. I wonder, we were so “close” then, now, we may not be, but that did not stop the “closeness” I felt when I visited his parents, a couple of years back. Meanwhile, I am looking forward to my next Belgaum trip, or maybe, the story will have its own set of twists and turns.

I am still left wondering as to what “closeness” of friendship means …………

The day I saw an Iranian movie … at last!

“Made by Women” film festival is currently on, in Mumbai. The highlight of the first day, for me was the fact that an Iranian film was being shown. My introduction to Iranian films has been limited to the name Mohsen Makhmalbaf. With the opportunity of watching a movie by the great man somehow eluding me, imagine my horror on realizing that even his daughter Samira, I guess, has made films. That is when I realized that my backlog of Iranian films might just be too much.

After a hectic day at office and literally running away, to be on time, I found myself standing in the movie hall, which was screening a documentary titled “My Body”. Mumbai being Mumbai, had come in hordes and every single seat had been taken. This 30 minute documentary captured the essence of how one’s appearance and body features are considered to be liabilities, in comparison to others. And the delight a woman has when her daughter says that babies choose to come down to earth on finding the “right” person. But then, that story is for another time, this one being for the Iranian movie.

The movie is titled “The Day I became a woman” and has 3 stories. The first one is about a small girl of 9 years old who wakes up to find that she has become a “woman” that day, as per her grand ma and her mother. The girl, named Hava is keen to go out and play with her friend – Hassan. However, the grand ma and mom forbid her from going out. After much pleading, the grand ma allows the girl to go out, subject to the fact that she reaches back before “noon” (the girl was born at noon, and hence would complete 9 years by noon!). The grand ma tells Hava that she should come back when there is no shadow for the stick, when placed on the ground (metaphor for sun being directly overhead). The kids on the beach trading the beautiful plastic fish for Hava’s chador (scarf), Hava checking for the shadow of the stick every once in a while, speed of exchange of the lollipop between Hava and Hassan, as time draws to a close, are all captured elegantly and matter-of-factly, on film. The boys setting off with the chador as sail and Hava being taken away by her mother are very poignant scenes, perhaps indicative of the freedom that males enjoy compared to the restrictions imposed when a girl becomes a woman.

The second story is about a girl (around 20’ish) by the name Ahoo cycling herself away from all the societal strings imposed on her. The camera work is stunning, to say the least, beginning with the deer and pigeons that get scared by the animated shouting of the man mounted on a horse galloping at tremendous speed, until he comes up on the hordes of young girls, riding bicycles. The black of the burqa contrasts with the deep blue of the ocean. The bursts of speed that Ahoo gets are probably symbolic of the dollops of energy that Ahoo gets on successfully ignoring the pleadings of her husband, the priest, her father and her tribe. And finally, she stops … and the story is left at that.

The third story is about an old lady with a horde of boys gorging on a shopping spree. The comedy in the portrayal does not dilute the impact of the statements of the lady that she had all along wanted to enjoy life and that “they” did not let her. The music, the merry making of the boys on the beach and the caring black boy all enmesh well into the script. At the end, as expected, the director tries to interweave Hava and Ahoo into the old lady’s story. But, it is commendable that this is done without any pretext or justification, with the director careful about not trying to give any “answers”, so to speak. The name of the old lady – Hoora being revealed at the fag end of the movie compared to Hava and Ahoo being revealed in the very first scenes, is also striking.

To me, it seemed as if the director was trying to say that the process of denial starts with a girl becoming a woman (story of Hava), and all her life, she tries to escape from the trappings imposed by the society, ultimately she may not be successful in this (story of Ahoo). Finally, it is when one is as old as one can get, that a woman is able to enjoy whatever she dreamt of, all her life (story of Hoora). By then, she does not have anyone to enjoy these with, and is beginning on the journey towards completion and fulfillment of life.

All in all, the first taste of Iranian movie was elixir for me. Makhmalbafs et al, where art thou …!

PS: Later on, I realized that this was in fact Mrs. Makhmalbaf first movie as director and that credit for the script goes to Mr. Makhmalbaf himself!

An 80/20 riddle got solved

A 20-year-old mystery has finally been solved. Some would say that it is an 80-year-old mystery. For me, however, it was a 20-year-old one. One night, my parents and sisters woke up to screams of “Tutenkamun, Tutenkamun”, coming from an eight year old boy. No one had a clue to what this whole nightmare was about.

The cause of this hullabaloo at night was a little snippet about Tutenkamun’s excavation that came in a Malayalam children’s fortnightly called “Poombatta” (translated as Butterfly). Does any kid read anything other than Tinkle these days, I ask?

The sands of time in the valley of kings in Egypt revealed the hidden treasure and mummy of the boy king Tutenkamun who died an untimely death, barely in his 20s. The snippet mentioned that whoever was associated with this excavation, met with an untimely death. Fascinated that any kid would be by anything that had a ring of mystery to it, this particular story had the “twist” that the cause of the death of the boy king also remained unexplained.

It finally took National Geographic to clear the mystery. Last week was “Pharaoh’s Week” on Nat Geo. One of the episodes, rather a docu-feature ran to more than 2 hours, wherein the investigation was on 2 points – “King Tut’s curse” and “How did King Tut meet with his untimely death”. The fascinating story would amaze anyone interested in history or archaeology, especially Egyptology. Ultimately, the conclusion reached was that the man behind the excavation (Lord Carnarvon) apparently died of natural causes. And in typical Nat Geo fashion, although no conclusion could be reached about the cause of the boy king’s death, by a process of elimination, it was narrowed down to a combination of factors – a fall from chariot resulting in multiple fractures, and probable battle wounds getting aggravated over a period of time.

Thus, with new age technology including CAT scan unravelling an age old mystery was attempted, painstakingly.

Fortunately, my sister too had read the little snippet, and her faint recollection of the name made the elders in the house heave a sigh of relief, for they could at least solve the mystery of where the name of “Tutenkamun” came from, that night!