And Thus Spake Abhik

Thoughts on Barca

2011-05-15T08:08:00.005+05:30

The first sight did not give anything away. Barcelona Sants, the main railway station serving the city, was modern enough to be indistinguishable from that of any other city. At any rate, I was more engrossed in trying to figure out the subway dynamics to notice anything.

The subway itself was more revealing of the city, in hindsight at least. The stations were colored brightly and had almost secret exits located at platform ends akin to Paris. Personally, though, I would have preferred if the bright colors were not partnered with an effort to maintain a sense of darkness in the stations. Something that seems to be the norm outside Asia. The mood off the platforms was quite full of smiles, undoubtedly helped by the Easter mood and a weekend festival that involved boys and girls exchanging flowers for books.

The sight upon emerging from the wrong exit at my destination was somewhat different from what I had expected. A small square, a roadside stall and a couple of houses under destruction. Nevertheless, the correct exit (elevated at about 100m above the other one) offered sprawling views of the hills surrounding the city. Upon meeting my old college friend who was to be my host, I pointed at what seemed to be a church overlooking the city even before we had slammed each others’ backs. Guarding his disappointment at this gross neglect of the NITD-friend-reunion-protocol, he promised to take me there. One he kept.

Locating the barbecue party later in the afternoon entailed us to navigate through narrow alleys. This was characteristic of the rest of the city, as I found out over the next couple of days. A very Spanish feature, as I learnt. Spanish or not, it seemed to me that this is indicative of how this city likes to express itself. A city that likes to stay compact, stay within itself. There are hardly any efforts to be pompous. Even the famous Gaudi architectures limit themselves. There are no sprawling campuses that act as a prelude to the actual structures. Rather, many spring up sandwiched between other buildings. Even the Sagrada Familia, his masterpiece that is still being built, doesn’t go beyond the building itself. All of which speaks for a city that, to me, is one that is quite happy to allow people to come and discover it. A city whose denizens indulge in their famous nightlife in pubs and clubs that, like everything else, are located in street corners and in narrow alleys. Nevertheless, as I learned over conversations, economic difficulties exist, as with most places currently.

I returned from my trip with a Gaudi T-shirt, not an FC Barca one. A reminder that my weekend fell two days short of the El-Classico.

Why win the Cup?

2011-03-29T02:42:00.002+05:30

So we are now well and truly into the last leg of the World Cup. In what seems like an inexorable march to the title for India, all stakeholders have been rewarded. The ICC’s (and therefore the BCCI’s) coffers should have overflown by now. The fans in the subcontinent have been rewarded with mostly positive results. In the event that a beaming Dhoni does lift the trophy on the 2nd of April, emotions would burst forth everywhere. In terms of the latest catch-line to sweep Facebook, everyone would “bleed blue”. But what would winning the cup really mean?

The obvious point of reference is the “summer of ‘83”. As Kapil stood on the Lords’ balcony spraying champagne, India found a way to express itself. Official reception by Indira Gandhi and parades on the streets were just some of the ways the nation appreciated “Kapils’ Devils”. Endless reruns of the final match have ensured that the pivotal moments have been firmly etched into every Indians’ memory. Fast forward 25 years though, and the cricket in India saw the birth of the Indian Premier League. In the words of its owners, this was a tournament that would single-handedly revolutionize and revive cricket. A tournament that would change the face of the modern cricketer. This was also the tournament which was created primarily to undermine Kapil Dev and the Indian Cricket League he was part of. In the months leading up to the IPL, Kapil was humiliated in not too subtle ways. Of course, the famously cricket crazy population chose to embrace this new creation that promised many more excitements than a forgotten hero. This hero, however, was the very same one who had lifted the trophy that had heralded much of the cricket revolution in India.

Twenty years since ‘83, an altogether new clutch of heroes had stopped just one step short of emulating the feat. Despite failing to win the cup, the team were welcomed back in grand style. And understandably so, for this was a team that was in the midst of turning around Indian cricket. Their exploits in Australia, Pakistan and England got them the deserved respect from their supporters. Alas, they only needed to falter once for the trust to be broken. In the next few years, the pillars of this resurgence of Indian cricket were blown over by one sandstorm after another. The sandstorms came in all forms, from supporting the opponent to selectorial apathy. Though it may be debated as to how unjustified they actually were, what was undoubtedly a nadir was when one of them was booed by his home crowd.

Nevertheless, this is the same man for whom the entire country, the entire team even, wants to win the cup for. So then, what would mean if the trophy is actually surrounded by blue on the 2nd of April? … The IPL kicks off six days later.

Making of a stereotype?

2010-02-20T17:18:00.000+05:30

Another one of those romantic reminiscences on Azhar and another one that failed to evade me. Well, it did manage to convey the state of bliss that the veteran journalist would have harked back upon while doing the article. However, what it also did to me was to recount something that had crossed my mind sometime back. Something not remotely related to Azhar or even cricket, for that matter (now, that's something! :-) ).

Something that relates specifically to Indian writing in English ( shooting my mouth off, eh?). To put things in perspective, as I started reading this particular article, what kept popping out of the writing was that how the author had tried his best to get his readers to appreciate the 'bliss' he was apparently engulfed in. In trying to capture the spirit of the rustic genius that was Azhar's batting, the author had a smattering of Hindi sprinkled all over the article. While opinions may differ greatly here onwards, this particular attempt, in the opinion of yours truly, was a touch trite. However, even if those sharing this opinion are legion, one must pause before laying the blame - to take a liberty with the term - squarely on the author here. As I mentioned earlier, something similar, while not exactly the same, had crossed my mind some time back. And something I fear, could be a stereotype in the making.

That last sentence might sound like an oxymoron, but I was led to feel thus while reading a book which squarely falls in the genre of Indian English literature. The book in question was 'Above Average' by Amitabha Bagchi, a gift from a very close friend upon my leaving Bangalore. And if this blog has begun look like an exercise in cynicism, I must stress that the book is definitely worth a read. Though it is another account of life in IIT Delhi, this reader found it to be better than its more famous counterpart 'Five-Point Someone'. At the very least, Mr. Bagchi's account is more thought out with subtle insights and observations which make it feel more personal. The observations range from his growing up in a middle-class Delhi neighbourhood to the those of a graduate student in Baltimore. As part of which, one couldn't help but notice the inevitable mention of the ubiquitous 'chaiwala' and the juice vendor. And I use the word 'inevitable' because of having come across similar situations more than once earlier. The instances mentioned above would generally be part of an elaboration of mundane activities in an Indian context. One that often includes the 'chaiwala's commentaries on the state of affairs and the middle-aged 'auntie's squabbles with the vegetable vendor, the landlady's pestering of the rent and the four-member family dinner table discussions. To put it succinctly, one designed to outline the banality of the everyday Indian life. All of which makes me wonder about whether this is a 'stereotype in the making'. And if it is, who or what might have the trend come from?

Indian English Literature has grown in leaps and bounds to command an esteemed place on the international stage. A popular form of this genre involves the storytelling of tales which portray the microcosm of India. While I am not sure of any particular term for this 'genre', writers who could be thought of as pioneers include R.K. Narayan and Ruskin Bond among others. And to come back to the earlier point, both their writings include subtle observations on life as they see it. All of which suits the simplicity of the tales and the simplicity of the tone of narration. More importantly, they seem to seamlessly blend the reader into the narration. It is therefore, only to be expected that their successors follow in their footsteps. However, in doing so, one occasionally sees authors getting caught up in trying to describe the surroundings and thereby tripping over themselves. While Mr. Bagchi doesn't actually trip over himself, there are certain instances where the description goes in slightly more detail than what is required to portray the simplicity of life around. And which makes me wonder whether we are seeing the beginning of a 'stereotype' meant to convey 'simplicity'.

And while my fellow Azharuddin fan does manage to convey the aura around his subject, one wonders what exactly he has in mind when he wishes that someone 'ought to make a film on this aadmi' : a rags to riches Bollywood fare from the 80s?

I was there this time

2009-07-17T13:32:00.001+05:30

I was there this time. Well, not 'THERE', but in my living room, crouching, lights off, and the laptop display flickering along. The Cricinfo commentator, brilliant as usual, and a deferred video stream to get me in on the action as Monty Panesar and James Anderson fought out one of the most exciting draws you would ever see. Yeah, yeah, I can hear the groans go up. A Test match? Exciting? One that ended up as a draw and didn't even involve India? Well, yes to all of those. As exciting as only a Test can be. A top-order collapse, a fighting fifty only to end at an inopportune moment leaving the team dangling by a wicket and the last pair of batsmen slowly wiping off balls and minutes. Each of which was greeted by a packed crowd with cheers as loud as you would hear in a Twenty20.

Which in turn reminds me of a couple of months back when the very thought of a Test match would invite scowls and deriding laughs. With the IPL on every front page and on everyone's minds, opinions on cricket were firmly split in two camps. The romantics wondered about how the other forms would survive while the rest bowed to the new messiah who had shown them the future. The messiah to whom sporting ecstasy is defined only in terms of how deep sponsors can colour them. For whom the slightest expression of adrenalin needs to be coated in layers of sponsor paint for it to be recognized as a moment of glory. Age-old notions of the human spirit and how sport embodies them are too outdated to be taken note of. How might such a 'messiah' be led to believe that a dot ball in a Test match can evoke response similar to that of a six in a Twenty20?

Alas, the messiah would probably even scoff at the notion of such an exercise. For it was he who defined the IPL as a marriage of business and Bollywood at an interview. Little did anyone notice that he had missed out a seemingly nondescript word 'cricket'. And why should he not? His followers had been won over and the world was swooning at his feet. The rival, whose idea he had borrowed in the first place, had been vanquished in as shameless a manner as possible. Why then, cloak the event in pretensions of it being a sporting one? And thus unfurl a stage for the grandest of reality shows. Where the actors would play a small part while the producer took the center stage. Where his army of narrators bellowied out mantras written down by him. Nevertheless, some of the actors had known only one way to act through all their lives. And even on this stage, they plied their trade as they had always done irrespective of which part of the stage they were pushed to. The likes of Anil Kumble, Rahul Dravid, Jacques Kallis and Adam Gilchrist molded and adapted their games and reclaimed what was theirs. Only for it to be snatched away at every perceivable moment, none of which was bigger than the grand finale. A closely fought game had resulted in one victor and another team which had lost but given its best. The victor now waited to hold aloft the trophy it had won. And ... they kept waiting. For the ground had now given way to Bollywood and Hollywood who had descended as if it was meant to be for them from the start. Sport deserves its own celebrations in a manner only it knows. Can one imagine a Maradona fall to the ground on losing the 1990 World Cup while dancers gyrate in front of him? Or for that matter, he being made to wait to get his hands on the 1986 trophy? Does a Roger Federer win the last set and happily go and sit in the stands and wait for his prize at some other time when the euphoria of the moment is a distant memory? Alas, the message of sport itself would be lost on such a 'messiah' who rather chooses to go by his own definitions.

And yet, there is cause for optimism for the romantics as hardly a month later, a World Twenty20 had concluded with scenes which reflected the triumph of the human spirit. A war ravaged country had been given its cause for enjoyment.

As for the others, though, any such event is irrelevant when compared to the grand spectacle that took place before it, however artificial it might have been.

As for me, I am back in my living room, crouching, with the Cricinfo commentary brilliant as ever. The Lord's Test is underway.

Two Wickets Down

2008-11-10T22:27:00.003+05:30

An absolutely fitting farewell it was for two of Indian crickets greatest. A 2-0 drubbing of Australia was the best possible gift Kumble and Ganguly could have ever asked for. Anil Kumble’s last Test at his favourite Kotla was marked by him typically fighting on with an injury in the first innings while his last few overs gave us one last glimpse of the magic carefully developed over 38 years and demonstrated for over 18 years on the international stage. While Sourav’s innings of 85 at Nagpur reminded us just why he formed the fourth rock in the Great Wall of the Indian middle order, his last outing seemed to be the final twist in the drama. And while both of these grand tales reached their climactix, the team which both individuals helped redefine over the years made sure they showered their respects fittingly. As impromptu celebrations warmed the hearts of many a cricket lover, the most fitting gestures were made by Dhoni as he invited Ganguly to lead the team for the last few moments and handed the trophy to Kumble at the presentation ceremony.

Personally, though, I felt one article to be one of the best expressions of respect. As Sachin talks about some of his best memories of Jumbo and Dada, the footnote to the article puts things in perspective. It simply says ‘The writer is the highest run-scorer in international cricket’. A reminder to the fact that the greatest of professionals save their most ardent admiration and respect for each other. Indeed, many of us spent most of the last year at our ungrateful best, pointing out how the ‘Fab Five’ need to go once and for all. And indeed, at some point or the other, each of them made it a point to support the others. That we had the audacity to judge these cricketers spoke of how well our own egos work overtime. That each of them went back to the nets every morning spoke of the innumerable qualities we could take from each one of them. Sachin’s thoughts just express how he is acutely aware of each one’s qualities and roles in bringing Indian cricket to a juncture from where it should hopefully never have to look back.

In hindsight (thankfully, three of the five still grace the stage, so it’s not completely hindsight), Kumble and Sachin arrived first, as if to compose the overture to arguably Indian cricket’s greatest opera. If one might remember, the India they made their debut for was a different one from the ‘booming’ one that now exists. We were yet to gain any kind of self-confidence internationally. We required someone to tell us that we were good enough. We needed the world to notice us somehow. And what did the world do every time Sachin authoritatively walked out to bat? What did we do when each of these walks were a prelude to one symphony after another? Well, the world didn’t just notice, they stared and wondered in amazement. The world’s greatest spinner had nightmares while some others stopped bowling. As for us, we roared in our stadiums and suspended out lives elsewhere. We kept relying on him to make us forget our worries and he kept doing just that and so did Kumble. He kept running through opposition batsmen who tried to fathom which of the stereotypes he belonged to. That he didn’t belong to any didn’t quell our own ego, which had started working by now. But the Precise One (to quote Rohit Brijnath) kept getting more and more precise and the egos slowly but surely went lazy. The opposition batsmen, though, were still as clueless.

In the meantime, two other actors arrived on the stage. Sourav cover drove to excite our senses while Dravid became style personified. Over the next few years, the former made sure that no ball on the offside was left devoid of beauty and no spinner was left boasting an impressive third column. The latter, meawhile, built a Wall very much his own. The country finally had enough reasons to cheer every day. And somewhere through all this, the last part of the Great Wall rose, albeit more silently than his peers but every bit as beautifully. Laxman ensured that the the lines between the cricket bat and the artist’s brush were blurred forever. Indeed, all the five made the bat and the ball look more magical than a magician's wand.

However, all of this was just the actor’s rehearsing for the grand symphony. Sourav conducted the orchestra, one that included Dravid, Sachin, Laxman, Kumble and himself exhibiting their art forms in a manner no word in any language could ever describe. And all of it with an unprecedented amount of self-confidence never seen before.

Indeed, some sneered. The ego had grown in confidence too. It threw a thousand barbs at the greats. However, the artists had bigger critics to answer: they themselves. And thus, we begin watching the finale to an era which exemplified dedication, determination and discipline to one’s craft.

The ego, however, keeps working. It has it’s knives out for the other three. Nevertheless, as is so well pointed out here, one dreads the day when the last three wickets fall. Hopefully, they will walk themselves.

When questions refuse answers

2008-07-20T20:56:00.002+05:30

“Congratulations! You have proved to the world that even in the midst of hardships and struggle for existence in life, one can excel and secure the highest academic recognition.”
Such were the words of an examiner who was a member of a panel that declared successful the PhD defense of a former member of my lab. And what is it that moved him to write out a personal mail in such praise?
Well, it would suffice to say that not one of those words was in exaggeration. If anything, the examiner would have been as much at a loss for words as the person in question would have been all through his life for things most of us consider our birthright. Growing up in a remote village of West Bengal, studies were as much a necessity for him and his family as red Ferraris and Lamborghinis are for many of us. When the just the quest for three R’s means a tortuous walk for miles after miles, not many would give him too much of a chance, especially in the India of the 80’s. More than just a fair achievement then, that today he finds himself as a part of an extremely productive post-doctoral programme in a premier university in the United States of America.
Interestingly enough, many including me would have been oblivious to how countless others like him are fighting the same fight in the midst of the most trying circumstances. Thankfully for some of those countless faces, the person mentioned earlier is one of those inspiring an initiative that seeks to give fillip to people with similar stories. The group he introduced to many like me aims to help students who try to get education to make a difference in their own lives even though social conditions do their best to forbid them. Help which would have mattered preciously had it been available to people like this former colleague of mine.
Alas, in spite of his efforts, he can only make that much of a difference. Only that which is allowed by the society, which likes to take care of the rest.
About a month earlier, he brought my attention to a report in a major national vernacular daily. It talked of an old woman who was beaten up by villagers accusing her of being a witch. The denouement of the story, though, seemed to point fingers at some family squabble. I quickly identified the village to be the same mentioned above. To my horror, the woman in the report turned out to be my ex-colleague’s own ageing mother. Being the mother of two sons who would undoubtedly be the most progressive in the village (her other son runs a small business which has been doing well of late), she was made victim to the wrath of other villagers. Seemingly, this brother of my ex-colleague had lent his support to a cause espoused by one political party, which was much to the chagrin of the other party. Taking advantage of the effects of alcohol on the illiterate and unemployed was their method of teaching someone a lesson. Interestingly, all of this had been summarized by the newspaper as a family quarrel.
I reflected on what effect such words would have had on a reader. The entire report would immediately assume an air of irrelevance. Readers would stop worrying about the state of rural India, something they might have done when they started reading. Never bothering for a moment about what is it that might lie beneath. Something I have done myself innumerable times in the past.
Trying to locate the same report again, I wasn’t surprised to find that I couldn’t. All traces of the report were gone, like innumerable others in the past. Calculated wonderfully to allow things to carry on the way they are.
My mind wanders to the thousands of other such achievers spread throughout the length and breadth of the country. All of whom have fought their way to success and today seek to make things easier for others. Only to discover that there are things which are beyond them. To discover that some questions just refuse to be answered to.

The irony of it all

2007-11-21T19:04:00.000+05:30

Pretty heady days for the country, these ones. As I sift through the news bulletins, I couldn’t help myself from sitting back for a moment and looking at the wave of hypocrisy that sweeps over it all.
One chief minister maintains an arm’s distance from the protests and sting operations that expose his days as the Pol Pot of India, blissfully aware that his good deeds are enough to wash off his sins, however grave they might have been. Another one, belonging to a party that has been shouting from the top of their voices against the first one, gives his justification to massacres committed by his fellow ‘cadres’. Sixty years of Independence, and sixty years on from the bloody days of partition, here we have our leaders justifying violence. It might make sense to mention here that one of these chief minister presides over the state where Mahatma Gandhi was born while the other lives and works in the city where Mother Teresa did. Yes, I’m searching for a better word than ‘irony’ to describe the entire situation.
And as if to sum up the entire situation, another government in the state which likes to call itself among the most progressive ones of the nation plays out a drama which can put Bollywood writers to shame. So much for the ‘people’s voice’.
And amid all of this, a slightly personal experience left me stumped. A news item on one of the country’s premier news channels, CNN-IBN, spoke of how an Infosys employee working in the USA threw out his pregnant wife over dowry matters. I found it difficult to remind myself that the year was, after all, 2007. Thankfully though, the lady had been rescued by a Pakistani doctor working in a hospital in Illinois. And before I could find time to recover from the news, a finishing touch of hypocrisy was provided by the news presenter, one of the best respected faces of the country, Mr. Rajdeep Sardesai. Concluding his interview with the same Pakistani doctor, Mr. Sardesai brought forward the question of his nationality and whether he faced any qualms treating an Indian woman. As if I wasn’t shocked enough already, it left me stunned that such a thought could even occur to one of the foremost journalists of the country. I suppose I should mention the small personal irony that I went through at this phase. All this happened minutes before I was to sit down to study with my Pakistani classmate here in Singapore.
Stunned as I was, I thought it would be worthwile to at least put forth a comment. It looked good to see that there were many others like me who were equally shocked. However, little did I know that there was more in store. I checked back in the evening to see whether my comment had passed through the moderator screening. Alas, all comments which were present in the morning had been cleaned up by the moderator. A comment against the CNN-IBN chief was abusive and obscene enough, it seemed. I went ahead to have a relook at the video half-expecting the relevant portion to have been removed. And guess what was in store? An entertainment news video featuring the Om Shanti Om team promoting their movie. Fish around the site a little more, and sure enough, the relevant portions had been removed from the original video.So much for the channel which prides itself as one which fights for justice and exposing the hypocrisies all around.
And while I write, a city simmers under curfew ,another ponders over the next episode in its drama and prominent journalist sits pretty trying to catch others mistakes, his own having been hidden away. And I sit here trying to look at the hypocrite in me, being the proud Indian that I term myself. Well, I suppose I should just get back to my studies. After all, why should all this affect me anyway as long as things are hunky-dory with me.

The article and the video with the comments have since been available. However, a slightly closer observation will reveal that there have been no additional comments since the morning of the 21st. Also, the news item seems to have surreptitiously moved from the front page of the site to nowhere among the major links.

The 'Mortalized' Immortal

2007-06-15T17:02:00.001+05:30

This is about one of my favorite batsmen ever who, unfortunately, lives on in the memories of most people as a tarnished hero. However, Mohammed Azharuddin was one of the most graceful players to have ever graced the game. And while this short write-up hardly does any justice at all to this delightful sorcerer, it is a short tribute. And while I can keep writing forever, this is just a short summary of my thoughts on an idle day at work.

The whoosh over gully was followed by a twirling of the wrists to send the ball outside off stump flurrying past mid-wicket. And while I was still in a trance, he rocked back on backfoot to send the ball scurrying down the ground past mid-off. I was watching an episode of ‘Cricket Classics’ showcasing one of Mohammed Azharuddin’s greatest innings, his 179 against England at Old Trafford in 1990. And it at once set off a train of thoughts in my mind going over the “flawed” genius that Azhar was. A magician who had the ability to hold an entire stadium spellbound while he displayed his craft. Azhar was to cricket as Urdu is to languages or Ghazals are to music. Unorthodox but supremely elegant, one whose art was unique and classy in its own right and held its own among greats. One who redefined the word ‘beautiful’.

At his best, he was a wizard could bewilder bowlers and batsmen alike. While bowlers would be left at their wit’s end, the greatest of batsmen would be left to ponder at this exhibition of a craft which they thought they had mastered. One innings in particular that comes to mind is when two of India’s greatest entertainers, Tendulkar and Azhar, held sway in Newlands at Cape Town in 1997. In the first innings of the second test, India was in a particularly dire situation. With wickets falling like ninepins in response to SA’s 529, the danger of repeating the first test humiliation loomed large. Azhar walked in minutes before lunch with Tendulkar at crease and the team at 58/5. During lunch, Nelson Mandela met the players of both teams. As if in a tribute to the great African freedom fighter, the two Indians put up one of the best shows ever. All through the session, Azhar and Sachin flayed the South African bowlers all around the park. One of the supreme displays of batsmanship, when the partnership finally ended with Azhar’s runout, he had made 115 of 110 balls and the Sunil Gavaskar in the commentary box exclaimed that this seemed to be the only way the partnership could have been ended. After stumps that day, Tendulkar spoke of how he was reduced to a spectator with Azhar at the other end and, more importantly, how he complately enjoyed being one. I recently heard Sunny speaking of how Azhar had the ability to hit the same ball on either sides of the wicket. A Wisden Asia cricket poll by the best players India has ever produced placed him among the five greatest Indian batsmen of the last century.

Alas, a player of such genius had to end his career in ignominy amid allegations of match-fixing and a subsequent life-ban. It always astonishes me how some of my favorite sportsmen end their careers in a fashion so unlike the way the led it. Zinedine Zidane would always carry the stigma of head-butting Materazzi in the World Cup final. Hansie Cronje, one of cricket’s best ambassadors till that day in 2000, had to leave it with the disgrace of match-fixing. And similarly, while Azhar’s name would always bring back the haunting memories of the same, to cricket lovers like me, he will always be a magician who left the game within a whisker of immortality.

WORLD CHAMPIONS INDIA!

2006-08-14T16:51:00.000+05:30

And at last, there’s something to look forward to. After a relatively long period of boring news headlines interspersed only by either the grim stories of bombings everywhere from Lebanon to Bombay or by the endless saga of incriminations and recriminations in everything from cricket to politics, there’s a cricket tournament finally for weary Indians to relish. By the time anyone reads this, the tournament I’m talking about would have been over and India would once again be swept either by the undying cheer and reverence for Dravid and his men or by the endless rounds of interviews and chat shows deliberating on all issues related to Indian cricket and finally pondering on whether Indian cricket in itself is headed for a downfall.

And all these would be carried out in a manner eerily similar to the way a country of more than a billion tried to find a definitive answer to a single question: when would the Indian soccer team qualify for the most popular tournament on earth? Would it be 2010, 2014, 2034 or never ever? For around a month every news channel seemed to be getting perilously close to finding an answer, coming up with innumerable solutions that would heal Indian soccer woes forever. Foreign coaches, adequate sponsorships, better infrastructure, everything was suggested and even agreed upon. Innumerable self-proclaimed experts propounded theories which they believed to have the ability to cast magic and create World Champions from a country where the soccer culture is limited to ‘action-packed’ contests among the East Bengals and the Mohun Bagans. Where even the local contests such as these are won on the firepower of players imported from Africa or South America.

We’ve often heard football lovers in the country cry out for adequate corporate sponsorships for the national team and its players. It begs the question, though, as to why any corporate body would fund a cause where it the chances of any good returns are bleak at the best. The ire turns towards cricketers, all of whom rake in millions. However, what causes them to be in such a position? What made an entire nation go gaga over a game like cricket, which has often been termed as among the most boring? The answer lies in the fact over the past many decades, cricket has given India what it craves the most: a global status. A game where Indians can always look forward to being a world beater. Even early cricketers didn’t have any sponsorship to back them. Vinoo Mankad didn’t endorse ten brands when he came out with sterling performances in the fifties. Neither did CK Nayudu nor any of the many other greats who achieved greatness entirely by their own right.

Well, at least provide some infrastructure for soccer to flourish, the football lovers retort. Which at once brings out the irony of it all. Football ranks as the world’s most popular sport simply because of its lack of demand for infrastructure. The legendary stories of countless soccer greats, mostly South American, stand testimony to this. One is reminded of stories of Brazilian greats growing up on beach football and ending up as global household names.

What we need to understand as Indians is the fact that we simply do not have what it takes to face the Ronaldinhos and Cannavaros on the world stage. In fact, a more insightful study would reveal why. Indians traditionally have never excelled in sports which require a high level of athleticism. And even though cricketers might show some athletic spectacles at times, the amount of athleticism required is nowhere close to what’s demanded by a game like soccer. However, we have always been adept at activities which require more cognitive skills. Which is why we have come up with shrewd cricketers and also why Anand has spawned an entire generation of GMs. Therefore, it’s not a surprise that we are a nation obsessed with cricket.

Nevertheless, I look around and interestingly enough, there’s not a soul which speaks of soccer. Concerns over the future of Indian soccer seems to have been head butted off by Indians much in the same manner as Zidane exhibited his talent in the WC Final. Football lovers will need to wait for four more years for their efforts at reviving the country’s fortunes in the game. Till then though, it’s unlikely to be anything other than cricket which hogs the newspaper headlines, unless pushed into the background by some other players who excel in an entirely different sport: terrorism.

Secular? You must be joking!

2006-04-10T13:41:00.000+05:30

So there it was, the announcement we had all been dreading. Two of the world’s toughest competitive exams would soon get tougher than ever. In an instant they had doubled the number of students who would pour their hearts out in a bid to realize their dreams only to find out they weren’t eligible for the same. Only to find out that, irrespective of how hard they tried, they had always been in with at most half a chance.

And just as I considered myself lucky to have passed my engineering a year ago from a government institution( even though it wasn’t an IIT), I reflected on the fate of fellow Indians ‘like me’. Like me? Two of the most commonly used words suddenly sounded totally different. I realized that there was a vast multitude of people out there who resembled me not because of any congruence of thoughts or interests but simply because all of us did not belong to a set of castes. CASTE! Never thought of classifying myself in that manner. Didn’t my history teacher tell me years ago that casteism is one of the social evils? That we shouldn’t identify ourselves as belonging to any particular caste. That such ideas are just remnants from the days of ignorance and we, being the ‘educated citizens of the 21^st century’ were supposed to leave these behind. Oh I get it! I must have been dreaming. Let me pinch myself really hard. Nope, that doesn’t change anything. Oh wait, I get it now! One of my childhood fantasies has actually come true. Someone must have built a time machine and transported me to sometime in the medieval era. I must find out which year it is! But hey wait, I’m typing this on something that resembles a computer. Did the Mughals use computers? But the bottom right corner of my screen says that the year is 2006. So you’re telling me that all this is actually happening in the 21^st century. That the people of this country are actually classified on the basis of whose lap they were born in. That you became a socially deprived citizen simply because your surname happened to be included in a list of surnames all of whom were categorized as ‘socially deprived’. And make no mistake, you might actually be owning a slew of cars and majestic bungalows. But still you were…………..’socially deprived’ and you were different from the rest. And I remember my history teacher telling me that this was the age of effacing out caste and religious boundaries. That all men are born equal. She must have been so wrong!

And just as I ponder over my newly acquired lessons, something tells me that I’m not done with them. Because what exactly does one mean by deciding to play out such games in educational institutions. Does it mean that the group of human beings they just classified as ‘socially deprived’ are also mentally deprived? Aren’t we questioning their mental prowess by providing them extra opportunities? Or am I the one whose abilities are in question? Am I the one whose just groping all around for the truth and failing miserably? I wonder. I gape.

But my history teacher returns. She says that sometime in the mid-70s( I was always bad at dates) the word ‘secular’ was introduced into the constitution as a part of some Amendment. I remember looking up the word in the dictionary. That must have been the wrong dictionary. Because I’m still not sure of the meaning of the word. I wonder what it means. Can you help me?

I wasn’t there!

2006-04-10T12:58:00.000+05:30

I missed it! And no amount of consolation would make me feel any better (not that any of my friends were trying to do that either). Just as I entered my room after a round of Sunday evening shopping, the frenzied state in which my roommates were in coupled with the score line at the bottom of the TV screen told me the entire story. I had missed the greatest cricket match ever played. And for a cricket lover like me, this was a tragedy of the highest degree.

But as I tried to put the tragedy behind me and the truth actually dawned upon me, the cricket lover inside me came out of hiding again, this time in a more jubilant mood. Because this one cricket match seemed to signify so many things all at the same time. South Africa had won an absolute humdinger, one which you had to pinch yourself a hundred times over to believe. One which the Gods must have pinched themselves a thousand times over to believe. One day when you couldn’t help feeling that for once that ambrosia had found itself the wrong breakfast table, one that belonged to the Proteas. One day when a group of eleven ‘mortals’ (and I get the feeling I can be prosecuted for using that word) rose above themselves and reiterated in the strongest possible manner that ‘impossible’ is nothing more than just an entry in the English dictionary. And through all this, cricket had emerged the biggest winner. For those of you who still think that it’s just another mundane pastime on lazy weekends, I would say you would have to be pretty audacious to repeat that.

And in this euphoric state, another more beautiful truth dawned upon me. A truth which went much farther than just cricket itself. A team which had been the subject of some of the most horrendous racial abuse down under had retorted back in the most magnificent style possible and humbled the same opposition. I just couldn’t help holding myself in awe as I realized the amazing irony of it all. A black South African had played the nudge which had leveled the scores. The player who had been among the most vocal in protesting against the racial abuse that they had faced back in Australia had hit the winning runs of the very next ball. And all this had come true because of some exemplary teamwork from a team which, of late, has come to resemble South Africa itself because of the diversity it possesses. A team which itself was banned from playing the game for more than 20 years because of Apartheid policies in the country. A team which has weathered the roughest of storms and has finally risen like a Phoenix stronger than ever.

And through this process of rediscovering truths, a thought loomed at the back of my head. I just couldn’t help find an almost eerie, uncanny resemblance of this sequence of events to a movie I had watched the previous night. It was named ‘Crash’ and it portrayed the conditions of racial discrimination which prevail in Los Angeles even today. As I was walking out of the movie hall with my friends, I asked them about their opinions regarding the movie. One of them felt it didn’t mean a lot for people like us on the other side of the world and that it were the people in the U.S. of A who should really be worried. Which made me introspect in astonishment: can we really afford to be so callous as to brush away such hard truths under the carpet? Truths which hit us in the face almost every day and which we very conveniently choose to ignore with amazing regularity. The movie delineated the lives of colored denizens of L.A. who hail from all kinds of backgrounds. They included blacks, Hispanics and Asians, all of whom face discrimination which can reach shocking levels at times. Nevertheless, they are left weaker in their fight as they spend a lot of time fighting amongst themselves. Somewhere here I felt that we couldn’t just think of this as a localized problem. Doesn’t this spookily remind us of the manner in which we nations fight out amongst ourselves and within ourselves in the quest of some truth which probably evades the best of minds? How we long to achieve victories which more suit our fragile egos and which impede the very process of our evolution. And then I ask myself the question that has been lingering since then: whom do we blame? Do we keep looking for champions such as Martin Luther King Jr. to change the world or is it somewhere within us that the real champion lays. Because decades after the great revolutionary tried his best to change things, they don’t really look and feel different, do they? What does it take to really unite and come up with efforts similar to what the South African team produced?

And as I still wonder whether to look ahead to the future with hope or despair, something within me tells me that I was lucky that I wasn’t there in L.A. in situations the movie portrayed. But the cricket lover returns and makes me repeat: I wasn’t there at Wanderer’s on Sunday night!

The Times They’re a Farcical

2006-04-10T12:54:00.000+05:30

I was going to bed after having watched a replay of the 78^th Academy Awards. The hangover was definitely still there and was just about to begin dreaming about my first Oscar when I got a call from an old Sikkimese school friend. Almost cursing him and cellular technology at the same time, I picked up the phone. However, as soon as he started speaking, I realized that my profanities needed to be withdrawn.

His exams hadn’t gone well and he was obviously feeling low and was hence dialing up all of us (his friends). I tried consoling him and motivated him for the rest of his exams when an underlying, graver fact surfaced. He was scared not because he had screwed up one set of examinations in the entire four year MBBS course. He was scared because ‘chinkis’ like him were always looked down upon in his college as an incompetent bunch of students in spite of the fact that guys from Sikkim have been performing well over the past few years. He was feeling low because there wasn’t anyone from Sikkim with whom he could share his feelings. After some fifteen to twenty minutes of my best efforts to solace him, I tried returning back to my acceptance speech. But I couldn’t. A broader truth kept troubling me all through night. The truth of how we, the rest of India, look at our brothers and sisters out there in the North-East. Or should I say, how we, India, occasionally cast a fleeting glance at them? Because isn’t it true that we seldom regard them as a part of our ‘diverse and unified’ culture? How we conveniently ignore them as the ‘Chinkis from North-East’. I remember having read verses and poetry which speak about the splendors of this magnificent country extending right from Bengal to Gujarat and from Jammu to Kanyakumari. Rarely have I heard this honor being made to sound something like ‘from Silchar to Gujarat’. Do I see a question mark on your countenance right now? I won’t blame you if I do. That’s because chances are that a sizeable portion of the world’s second largest population has never heard about this place which lies close to the eastern tip of this country.

For the times when the North-East does sneak into our conversations it is looked upon as ‘that troubled place’. Well, that’s true. It’s also true that some of them refer to us as ‘Indians’ and that leaves us stunned with disbelief. But then, are they really the ones to blame? I spent a part of my childhood in the North-Eastern state of Sikkim, one which happens to be one of the most peaceful places in the country. I’ve felt similar ethos among the people there. But then again, should it really be surprising for a state which was annexed by bigger country which was afraid of its even bigger and more powerful neighbor and then left this new state to itself. How can we expect them to proclaim themselves as Indians when the only times we cast a cursory glance at them is when the premiers of the two countries try one of their umpteenth attempts at achieving peace. When the government at the state aligns itself with whichever party holds the seat at the centre with the hope that funds will find themselves a way this time around. Where the only observed effect of politics is that it created factions among the people of the state. Where the people are happy any day the state figures as a part of a small news item in any of the national dailies, even though it might be on account of a landslide or an earthquake. As for the front page, they don’t even think of the possibility. One of my Dad’s Sikkimese friends one remarked:”You were born Indians, we are made Indians”. I may sound horribly ludicrous but can’t help ask this question: did we ever even think about calling ourselves British when they ruled us for 200 years? Nevertheless, we expect the same from these states which were annexed for selfish reasons not more than 35 years ago. And I’ve just recounted my experiences from a state where the situation is far better than the other North-Eastern states. Is it a surprise then that the people here fight for their rights?

And just as I wish that my friend does well in his examinations, I look back at how well the utterly simple and polite people of the state accepted me as one of them during my short stay there. But then again, I ask myself, did I get back to them in the same measure? And which again brings me back to the question I asked earlier.

And through all this, I’m reminded of how a eulogistic George Bush remarked at India as being one of the world’s most vibrant and well-performing democracies. Well, the times they’re a farcical.