A gentleman and his game

Its IPL season and I think I have waited too long to write my ode to the mini-skirt version of the Queen’s game we Indians have made our own.

And I bring to you a piece about the Royal Challengers who have failed miserably (yet to look like a team, leave alone challenging another).

Dravid, for me belongs to one of the few gentlemen in cricket today. Someone who would gladly congratulate a winning opponent on a great game, play five days in white flannels and make his million-ball centuries, never mind the strike rate, his wicket more valuable. He is a superb cricketer, an absolute pleasure to watch as a batsman and can teach a thing or two about batting technique to anyone who fancies himself as a great batsman. Have you ever seen him dissent, rant, shout, scream, glare or anything else to show his emotions blatantly on the field?

But isn’t that just one more reason why they have failed, that he never has and never will adapt to the quick-fire version of the game?

Rewind to just after the players’ auction. Dravid publicly said he wished players would never be auctioned again (like cattle?!!!). He has never looked comfortable on the playing field throughout this series. Neither has his team. How can his team be motivated if Dravid feels he is playing into the hands of moneyed men who know nothing about cricket except that it could be a good business venture?

The problem with Bangalore is not even a problem. They are the right team in the wrong tournament. And it is not their capability. It is their mindset – as defined by their captain. Never mind that he has made his scores and tried real hard. His heart is not in it. Just another player in the team not having his heart in the game is bad, a key player not being there heart and soul is disastrous, the captain being aloof is pure suicide. The results agree.

For whatever it is worth, I agree with Dravid. Give me a Sachin, Dravid, Saurav studded team taking on the paces of McGrath and Lee and the wily webs of Warne in a five-day endeavor. It lasts longer, gives me more moments to savor and the drives, cuts and pulls more than compensate for the adrenalin rush that a 36 run over provides. Can any shot in the entire IPL series match up to an off-drive from Ganguly or a straight drive from Sachin’s bat – when all they had done was touch the ball?

And leave alone appreciation of batting technique or bowling strategy, hasn’t IPL just downright killed the spirit of the game? IPL is everything the promos hyped it to be – it is a war out there with slapping, pointing fingers and swearing the order of the day and its blatant portrayal on TV in slow motion nonetheless.

Here’s an ode to the game of cricket, the beauty of the five-day game and to the popularity of the IPL, Dravid’s misgivings notwithstanding.

PS: As I type in the last few words on this article, the miracle happens – Dravid and his men win over Dhoni’s boys defending what was thought to be a paltry total of 126 runs.

The Undomestic Goddess

Its a peculiar title. The book is not at all. Its one of those books which you can relate to. The kinds where you nod your head or smile and say hey thats so true. Its not a great book and some of it may even make you shake your head and wonder why you started reading the book in the first place. But there are somethings about it that are good. The protagonist, her feelings as she goes from 'I could do no wrong' to 'Life is not about right and wrong' strike a chord. In some senses, its like a book equivalent of a 'chick flick'. But I recommed it to everyone who has ever wondered what they are doing in life, about their goals and aims. And most of all I recommend it to anyone who has ever gotten up in the morning and said to themselves 'Damn, another day to live through'.

Work

I take the Volvo bus in Bangalore, takes me about an hour to reach work. Its air-conditioned, quite comfortable and I usually spend time reading something and feeling good that I am using my commute time constructively.

Today was a bit different; I had a change of perspective, literally. Most of the seats in the Volvo are front facing and I am usually quick to occupy one of them. But today I could only manage one of four seats facing the other direction. It is a bit weird, especially when you see that you are traveling in the backward direction. But soon I got used to it. And then I realized something else. I was facing everyone else in the bus! Feeling conscious apart, it kind of made me look at all the faces that commute with me everyday.

There is a girl in jeans and sleeveless top, hair colored brown, looks trendy, but hey, she is yawning! Okay see that guy in the prim blue shirt and black trousers with laptop in tow, why does he look so droopy. And there is the mother with the little child, dark circles accentuated by the sun shining in through the large windows.

And then it hit me. I started frantically searching every face I could locate in the bus, and my worst fears came true. The same story repeats. Laptops, droopy eyes, dark circles, tired faces, yawning mouths, careworn lines on the forehead.

Not a single, cheery face. Not one person happy to be going to work, happy at having another day to live, happy to do something with themselves.

Work is such a chore isn’t it?

Mr. Pappuswamy

Unironed clothes. Unshaven. A wicker basket by my side with a steel carrier – food prepared by her, the last I will get to taste for a very long time. Thick glasses encased in black frames. Eyes that betrayed everything. She stood on the other side. Her yellow cotton saree, crumpled, a red and green check blouse, big round bindi on her forehead, a smile that displayed tooth uncared for, worn-out chappals betraying cracked soles.

Sitting there on the floor of that airport, separated from her only by a railing, I sat writing addresses and phone numbers on a million strips of paper. She is illiterate and cannot speak any English. She is all smiles, in her own charming way, but little does she see the worries plaguing my mind. She can say Hustan, I wish it were enough. I insert the strips into every piece of her luggage, hoping they all reach the right place. I hand one to her and ask her to keep. She impishly puts it into the purse tucked into her person. And then comes the dreaded announcement “Passengers traveling by Air India flight AI 763 to Houston via New York and London are requested to proceed for security”. And she stands there, grinning at me, oblivious. I panic. I tell her that she needs to go and point to the direction she has to take. I repeat my instructions once again. All she has to do is sit in the seat assigned for the next 23 hours as it takes her across the world to our son. All I have to do is wait 23 hours for a phone call.

Rovy

I was always one of those dog haters. In fact abhorers would be a better term. I still remember when I was in school and was once chased from one end of the road to another by this stray dog, me screaming and running for life and everyone on the street looking bemused. Only later did I realize that the dog had given up chasing me about a couple of yards into the run, but me being me did not look back and just kept running for dear life. Phew! Having said that my fear for these creatures diminished but I was never what you would call a pet person. Imagine my shock then when I married into a family that had had dogs as long as they had been a family and even before that. Hmmm. Of course staying in far away USA made me not really bother too much about it. The few days we spent at home I tolerated the dog and to his credit he ignored me. And then we were back from the US for keeps. From screaming for someone to hold the dog while I walked out of the home and came in to gently walking along as it took its usual afternoon nap to eyeing it constantly as it passed its summer days under the ac in our room, I felt good about at least reducing my fear for our canine friends. But I could still not come to regard them with either love nor affection. It was neutrality and if I ever came across an unknown dog of course I was going to be scared. Rovy for that was his name lived his life for close to 12 years (and that in human terms is as much as a 100) and passed on. I didnt shed a tear and I definitely did not miss it much though in its final days I had come as far as patting it on its head (I guess he was too old to react and that made things easier for me). Then came Rovy II. After intense searching and visiting kennels and individual homes which wanted to give away dogs for adoption, one hot afternoon K and I made the trip to Rovy II's birth home. There were about 5 little puppies and 2 big dogs. K instantly took to this little dog, fawn in color with a Namam on its forehead. He came home and for the first few days I was a mere spectator to all the excitement around its arrival. What should be fed, where should he sleep, who will train him, should we give him extra calcium for his bones (I thought that was the limit)...well the point is 30 days down the line, I love this dog, I look at every canine on the streets with kindly eyes and want to pet it. Rovy's intense brown eyes love me unconditionally even when I have pushed him away for trying to bite me or bothered me when I am doing something else. When he was all of 33 days and he had his second bath and was shivering, he came and cuddled into my lap and fell fast asleep. I wondered how I could not love a little one like this. And today I miss him when I go out of town, I cant wait to come back home and receive the kind of rousing welcome only he can give me, jump all over and make me feel like he thinks me to be the most wonderful person he has ever known. And I have mentioned once too often that no one has ever expressed their joy at seeing me more than this little one. I know a lot of you who are still on the other side probably think I have lost it...well I can only say I have been there and believe me, this is a much better side to be on.

Salt To Taste

The humble sodium chloride is its own thing. Of course we Indians have given it iconic status what with Gandhi doing his Salt Satyagraha to awaken a Nation and every movie worth its salt (pun unintended) refusing to be made without the mandatory 'Jiska Namak Kahaya...'.

For me however, this white powder has its own meaning. It is a symbol of my cooking skills gone awry. Let me be frank - I was never a good cook and anyone who has tasted my mother's cooking will tell you that I couldnt touch her in a million years. Yet, I make do. My food is edible if not very tasty though K will vouch I have a tendency to take cooking experiments a bit too far. But I am digressing. Salt is an essential part of any meal. And this humble salt (dare I call it that) has just proven elusive to me in the sense that I just am not able to get the right amount into food. And I mean never. Not a single meal have I cooked when the salt has either not been found wanting or is just a bit too much. After more than 2-3 years of cooking, I am still to master this very fine art of adding 'Salt to Taste'. Somehow all those amazing websites where ammas and mamis and of course the Sanjeev Kapoors and Tarla Dalals of the world who hold your hand and guide you through everything from simple dal to Lacha Paratha, where they will tell you to add 2 cloves and 1 1/4 tsp of coriander powder seem to miss out on one simple fact - salt to be added is always to taste. Sigh.

Time...

Time is the only thing we are all aware of...there it is a second, a minute, an hour, a day and even a year lurking at the back of our minds goading us to do this and that. What would we do if we had no sense of time? Would we have rude alarm clocks waking us up in the middle of a deep slumber? Would we be buzzing about screaming at everyone that we are late for something? Would we be cursing the bullock cart slowly ambling its way through bumpy roads probably constructed for a more urbane vehicle? Would we jump signals? Would we shout and scream and ensure the world takes notice that we have a deadline today? I am reminded of the voice which said 'Main Samay Hoon' - it was a powerful voice even then. And now when childhood and adolescence have both passed me by, I look back and wonder where all the time went away. I have memories of course, but have I really lived close to 3 decades? Do I have memories so varied so vast so expansive? And then I saw it. A letter my sister wrote to me when I was away from home for the first time, away studying and she missed me. I read that letter, and then re-read it. And a little drop came rolling down my cheek. I had my answer.