Deodorants and Lies

"Actions performed in this advertizement are extremely dangerous and are performed under expert supervision and must not be imitated. "

We've seen this disclaimer and combinations thereof in several advertizements and television programmes. I was wondering whether such disclaimers should be provided wherever imitation of said actions was not likely to produce the desired results. Cars and bike advertizements provide this to some extent. They have lines like 'The mileage stated has been measured under test conditions', intending to say that if you tried to drive that new Indica thing in the city traffic and didn't get 25 kilometers to the litre, you shouldn't be too upset. If you complain, they will have the right to say "We told you so".

Let's cast our minds forward to a particular class of product that sells on the basis of shameless lies. And sex. Deodorant sprays. What a bunch of shameless liars. Apparently if I use a certain deodorant and walk on the streets I can expect to look behind and see an army of gorgeous women lusting after me. Or the neighbour's wife will shiver with pleasure and drop her plate due to loss of self control when I stand at my window and spray stuff out of that pressurized tin. It never happens. Liars. Cheats. Worse than senseless things.

They ought to put disclaimers on their ads. So that well meaning customers who want to smell nice and hit it off with the ladies don't end up disappointed and still continue buying those dratted things anyway.

For instance, Wild Stone should probably add some fine print such as 'Actions performed in this advertizement are performed by experts and under supervision. Do not imitate. Billboards should probably include 'Results portrayed in this advertizement are measured in a standardized test environment.' Or something like 'Please do not try this at home, lest you want to suffer extreme disappointment or chagrin. Well unless of course you yourself are extremely attractive and have the body of a Greek or Roman god.'

The deceivers at Axe should take hard looks at themselves. How they mislead unsuspecting hopeful guys with such tall promises! If truth prevailed, disclaimers of the like 'Do not be disappointed if the women of your town don't run out of their homes and offices to chase you with ruthless seduction in their eyes' would make an appearance in this age of consumer awareness. Or perhaps 'Use of this product may not necessarily turn your body into irresistible chocolate'. 'Visualizations shown in this advertizements are digitally generated. Do not imitate. In the real world, having a chunk of your buttock bitten off by a gorgeous woman on the subway may be a painful and traumatizing experience', and 'Do not attempt to pull off your nose and subsequently drop the debris of said nose into ice cream cones held by attractive ladies on the sidewalk. They may not take too kindly to such actions.'

The extraordinary cricketing tales of Purvarth Maddhyanakumar - V

Test Cricket: That which separates the men from the boys. And the first B team.

As I'm reasonably sure is the case with many children of his age at the time, the sports my neighbourhood friends and I were interested in depended largely on the sporting season they were in. Let me explain: In the months of June, July or whenever the English summer is, we would have an irrepressible urge to play Lawn Tennis, thanks to The Championships at Wimbledon being telecast on Doordarshan. Or we would sometimes find ourselves playing Hockey with cricket bats, stumps and rubber balls, using a couple of bricks to demarcate the goal posts - during the Hockey world cup season. Cricket was an all season sport, that goes without saying. But the passion for the game would go up every now and then whenever a live telecast of an India match was on.

Doordarshan would also telecast a Cricket tournament called the Challenger Series played between the Indian team, India A team and India B team. By this time, I was in the 6th standard and the marvelous idea of forming a B team in the class struck him like a sack of coals. It made sense too. All proper cricket matches at the time in school were played between the two sections of the 6th standard. Only eleven guys got to play on that team, leaving the remaining 33 odd folks out in the cold to play whatever else they could salvage.

The idea was put forth in whispers and passed note chits (in a moral science classroom) to some members of the main class team, who responded positively to the idea and promptly challenged the B team to a test match! After the B team was put together, little Purvarth M became captain (probably because it was his idea, or others had better things to do!) In the B team think tank strategy meeting, it was decided that if we won the toss, we would bat. The reasons being the A team was armed to the teeth with fearsome batsmen such as TSR, RM, ADT, AR and so on. The B team, if they bowled first, considering that games were played only in games periods and lunch breaks, would end up bowling for weeks (the equivalent of two and a half days of relentless batting until declaration in a test match). To avoid this and the possible humiliation of having records scored against them, we chose to bat when they eventually won the toss to this match.

I had great dreams for this team. It was comprised of the proverbial bench of cricketers who were talented yet rarely got to play. Whatay marvelous it would be if we could give the A team a tough match! Or better still win against them! The night before the match was a sleepless one for the new captain - all I could think about was the match, and dreamed at night and day dreamed my way through the next day in school until the games period. The toss, as we know, was won by the B team and I had no hesitation in electing to bat first.

Disaster struck almost instantly. The records are inconclusive as to who the opening batsmen were, but they didn't last long as the pace of TSR, AB and RM blew away the top order in a matter of one games period and a lunch break. I who initially planned on batting deep in the order (much like our man MS Dhoni does today) had no choice but to come in at 3 down with only 9 runs on the board. Taking guard to much cheer and clapping and some good natured jeers for effect, I strode into an AB delivery first up and defended it down with much precision.

There was a reason I was never known for my batting. Nothing changed in this match either. AB mis-bowled his next delivery and the ball came harmlessly towards me. This was a test match, and I could have taken my time settling down in this one in a lifetime opportunity to bat all I wanted, but no! Throwing caution to the winds, I took one wild swipe at the ball, missed it completely and heard the anguish-inducing sound of all three stumps hitting the gravel. I wished at the moment the earth would swallow me up and send me to the other end of the world. To make matters worse, the score soon read around 12 for the loss of 5 wickets at the end of the lunch break. It was the end.

When the game resumed, it was during a double games period - but I had an extra second language class during the first of these two periods and could show up at the ground only in the second games period. I hurried to the ground expecting the worst, but as it turned out the news was not so bad. AUR had taken the crease and was putting up a defiant show of defensive batting. I watched on in glee as AUR stepped back to each and every scorching delivery and dropped it at his feet with precision. "That's how it's done, boy", said a tiny voice in my head. I forget now who the batsman at the other end was, but he stood and played with equal defiance. At the end of the day our score had reached 34 for the loss of 5 wickets and things were beginning to look up. However, that was just about as far as the first test match of our lives lasted. Maybe everyone had gotten tired of playing the same match for nearly a full week when we could have played limited overs games and gotten them over with!

Thus came to a premature end, the test match which should have separated the men from the boys. And also ended my first experience in captaincy. This wasn't the only B team which was formed though - more B teams were formed in the later years and there were matches played between the B teams of two divisions of the grade; much fun and excitement happened then too, but that's a story for a different time!

The fun of being fleeced

Which ever form of long-distance transportation you use in India, keep an eye out for the taxi and auto drivers who come running towards you offering their faithful services with seemingly altruistic demeanors. If you're new to the city you're traveling to, speak to them at your own financial peril. However if you know your destination city like the back of your hand, or know how and where to go, you can linger around them for an amusing session in numbers and pitching.

I only need look back 2 days to give you 2 examples. I was traveling from Pune to Trivandrum, with a stopover of one night at a friend's place in Bombay. I know Pune and Trivandrum like the back of my hand and I know Bombay decently enough to know how to get around. My itinerary in a nutshell: I traveled by Bus from Pune to Bombay and flew down the next da to Trivandrum. I got off the Bus at Dadar East, and started to look for a taxi to take me to Lower Parel. I chose to humour the couple of taxi drivers who flanked me like bodyguards the moment I stepped off the bus. After 2 minutes of pretending to be not interested in their services I told them my destination.Taxi-driver 1 nodded benevolently and waved me towards his taxi.

He said politely - "Only 170 rupees."

I burst out laughing. It was worth it to see him quote that amount with a straight face. He tried to bargain after this, but it is always a pointless exercise after such an amount has been quoted. Besides, taxis in Bombay are supposed to be famous for charging fare by a meter. So I did some wtf-ing and told him I wasn't going to sit in his car. Eventually I waved down a passing cab and got to my destination for the princely sum of 40 rupees. I saved around 3 times the amount. Muahaha.

The next day I stepped out of the airport at Trivandrum. Here I was comfortable. Knowledge of the local language gives me added advantage when it comes to bargaining. The hitch here is that there is practically no other transportation from the airport to the city unless you have the patience to wait indefinitely for the one city bus that runs every few hours.

"250 rupees", came the quote from the middle aged seasoned looking rickshaw driver. Straight faced again.
"It's the correct fare sir, it costs 7 rupees a kilometer now. "
"Boss, I said take me to Medical College (around 10 kms away), not Attingal (a town half way between Tvm and Kollam).

"OK fine give 150 rupees. Come", he stated with an air of finality.

I kept walking and approached another auto outside the airport gates.

"Medical College. How much?".
"You're from here right, heh heh, you know right how much it costs, heh heh..."
"Yeah I know, but clearly you won't agree to accept standard rates. So, how much?"
"How can I say sir, you know this place... heh heh... "
"80. "
"Aaah, pattilla sir.. tch.. heh heh... "
"100".
"Heh heh.. OK".

Twenty something bucks over the standard rate. Not too bad.

Like I said, it can be fun if you know the ropes where you're going. Else boss, lag jayegi.

Smile of Innocence

     "Vile Parle station aa gaya kya bhaiyya?"

     "Yeh samne kya hai?"


     Ignoring the sarcasm, Avinash slipped a ten rupee note to the autorikshaw driver before stepping out of the three-wheeler, stooping a little to allow his five foot eleven frame to exit the vehicle. He reached in and pulled out his five kilo backpack, smiling inwardly as he noticed the airline baggage sticker which read 'CCU to BOM' in large letters, thinking about the fried sardines his sister in law had packed for him back at his brother's house in Salt Lake, Kolkata.


     Blasted security at the Dum Dum airport, he thought to himself. They had refused to clear his backpack to be carried as cabin baggage because of the 'food item' inside. He had to walk all the way back to the check in counter thanks to the law abiding khaki clad muchchad.


     "Kya farak padta hai yaar? Flight ke andar thode hi na khaane wala hoon", he had tried to reason with the stoic policeman behind the baggage screening counter. But mucchad would have none of it. Well, it was worth a shot trying to save the fifteen minutes of baggage claiming on arrival. Ah forget it.


     He swung the camouflage style backpack over one shoulder and turned away from the autorikshaw to face the mild winter sun. He took a deep breath of the morning Mumbai air, closed his eyes for a moment, felt the bright red of the sunlight diffusing through his eyelids and smiled in the mellow radiance. There was no real need to hurry; he had already called Moorthy the day before informing him he would reach office a little late, since he was taking the morning flight to Mumbai and taking the Shivneri bus to Pune thereafter. Keeping an eye out for the morning traffic, he leisurely crossed the narrow road to the Vile Parle railway station, the smile still etched absently on his bony face.


     The shining sun had reminded him of a smiling face back in Kolkata. That of his three month old nephew, whose sleeping face he had gingerly kissed before leaving the house in time for the early Monday morning flight to Mumbai.


     He still remembered the feeling of profound happiness he had felt when he received the phone call three months earlier from his older brother Subhash, informing him that he had become an uncle. He’d thought he would burst with joy.


     Holding Appu back in Subhash’s house had felt like holding a piece of heaven in his arms. He loved the way the tiny fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist. He loved the little baby noises Appu made when he was entertained or felt happy about something. He loved the way Appu smelled. He loved the amazed look on the baby's face when he swung a little rattle above his head. He could just sit and look at Appu all day and forget all the evils of the world.


     But most of all, he loved making Appu smile. He little cared how ridiculous he must have looked prancing around the cradle, pulling ridiculous faces, making weird noises, sticking his nose out for him to grab; anything to see the little one smile that fully content happy smile that only a baby can show. His favourite stunt was to hold Appu's stuffed 'Tigger' high above the baby's face and bring it down slowly towards him. Appu would reach out with both hands and jiggle his legs, and sometimes laugh out loud in excitement.


     Perhaps it's why everyone is so fond of babies, he reflected. A baby’s is a soul so fresh and innocent, free of disillusionment, one which can make the beholder feel complete. Making such a soul smile does bring about an inner feeling of fulfilment that nothing else can imbibe, he reflected, as he took his place in the queue at the ticket counter.


     Monday morning sluggishness seemed to have affected everyone this morning as the line moved forward ever so slowly. The young man behind the heavily grilled counter, no older than himself, seemed to be new at his work, taking his time to count and return the change to the passengers. After what seemed an eternity, the person in front of him called out "Ek CST return" and shoved a 500 rupee note at the novice. Ugh for crying out loud, he sighed to himself. He looked absently around the booking hall. There was nothing much to see save the few homeless huddled under some dirty covers.


     "Malik, thode chutthe paise de do malik".

     Awakened from his reverie, Avinash recoiled slightly at the sight of the emaciated face, looked away hastily and started to count the number of people in the queue before him. The beggar moved on, a limping with a stout stick in one hand and a grimy bowl in the other.


     A young woman sitting under a closed booking window barely a few feet away caught his eye. Two shirtless children were sitting on the floor beside her as she cuddled a baby on her lap. He gazed absently at the scene, as the woman rolled up a piece of rag, picked up a piece of paper lying around and stuffed it into the a fold of the rolled up rag.


     He watched as she raised this piece of rag and lowered it slowly towards the baby's face, her tired face in a glowing smile. A delighted laugh broke out on the baby's face, in shockingly familiar radiance, as it kicked its little legs and raised its arms towards the rag in excitement. Avinash stared, transfixed; his mind went blank; everything else seemed to fade away. All that seemed to exist was this woman and her child, in their own world.


     He blinked, oblivious of the weight on his back, or the railway station or where he was going. His mind spluttered incoherently, unable to tell him what he was trying to feel.


     He felt a sharp tap on his left shoulder. He started violently and jerked around. The man behind him pointed at the ticket counter ahead. The novice behind the counter had his arm out, with an amused look on his face.


     "Boss kidhar jaane ka hai? "

     "Uhh.. s-sorry bhaiyya.. Dadar".


     He scooped up his change with the cardboard stub ticket and stepped away from the counter, trying to ignore the chuckles from the others in the queue. Just before leaving the booking hall, he looked back. The baby was trying to reach out to its little doll; it had wrapped its little fingers around its mother's wrist for support.


     A recorded message rang out on the public address system, announcing the imminent arrival the train to Dadar. He deliberated for a moment, turned away slowly and walked thoughtfully onto the platform.

Identity

No, not featuring John Cusack. This is about me.

An observation I have made about myself is that I speak in different accent and style with different people I meet. Perhaps it's because of the environment I grew up in, being in a Bengali family settled in Trivandrum. I was exposed to people who spoke in many different styles. For instance, my father speaks good English, good Bengali and good Hindi. My mother speaks good Bengali and English, and learned all her Malayalam and most of her Hindi after marriage. Most of this rubbed off on me and my elder brother, and naturally I learned to speak like them. I went to a school full of Malayalee students and Malayalee teachers; Malayalam was a compulsory language to learn until the fifth standard, and I had no choice but to learn to speak the language. Not that I wouldn't have anyway, since people spoke it everywhere.

I had Hindi teachers in school who were Malayalees, and would speak Hindi with very strong Malayali accents, English teachers who spoke the language with effortless perfection but couldn't speak Malayalam without a north Indian accent, Malayali science teachers who spoke English with a local accent and so on. Then there were the locals who spoke Malayam with different accents depending on which part of Kerala they were from. The list could go on for ages.

Add to this all, my older brother's and my habit of mimicking real life noises while playing with toys as kids. Screech of tires as a car skids of the parapet, hiss of poisonous snakes, boom of bombs exploding; there's no limit to what a child can imagine when it's at play.

What this all led to was an ability to speak with different people in an accent which was very close to his or hers. For instance, if a mallu asked me what time it was, I'd probably say 'Zevun Thyettie', getting the accent dead right to the last roll of the tongue. If someone in Pune asked me the same question, 'sewan thurrty' automatically comes out. When I speak to my friends from Bangalore or Kerala, my sentences are invariably festooned with words like 'macha' and 'da', which are commonly used among friends of similar ages in those parts. I had spent a week in Delhi last winter while attending a cousin's marriage, and I found myself adding 'ji' at the end of my sentences while speaking with locals.

I really don't know how my accent automatically changes when I converse with people from different places. Perhaps that's how I am; perhaps at some level I begin to speak like people around me because it brings about a subconscious sense of interactive comfort; although none of it is done intentionally.

Most States in India are formed based on the language that majority of the people of that region speak. Perhaps, in this system, my being born in a State, into a family which speaks a different language has negated the necessity of having a 'linguistic identity'. Regardless of the many surprised and inquisitive eyebrows that my family and I have answered to, I take this as a boon, a gift. To be able to understand and relate to at least two regional cultures and languages in a country so culturally rich and diverse; where millions of others like me are not so fortunate to have experienced, or to be able to experience the best of different worlds.

The extraordinary cricketing tales of Purvarth Maddhyanakumar - IV

Throughout childhood, some of the proverbs that were poured over my head (nay, taught!), sometimes to the point of grey-cell-saturation were “Practice makes perfect”, “Rome was not built in a day”, and so on and so forth. Phrases and proverbs, which in a nutshell, were invented to build character. Now unlike the endearing Calvin and his dad, I didn't live in a country where it snowed every winter. Naturally there was never any snow in the courtyard to shovel away and thus 'build character'. Understandably, the proverbs came thick and fast to compensate for the lack of the character-building snow.

But I digress. What I'm driving at is that little Purvarth didn't just wake up one fine Monday and start delivering toe crushers at specifically demarcated trees with a rubber ball. He started off at the tender age of 2 or 3, pretending to be Kapil Dev running purposefully through the living room and hurling an imaginary red cherry at the maidservant struggling with a dirty milk-pot in the kitchen. Later of course, he advanced to higher levels of competence which involved a rubber ball, his elder brother's 'heavy' cricket bat, the initial struggles to catch a moving ball and so on, until he one day began playing with his neighbourhood friends at the 'practice ground', more about which you would have read in an earlier post.

When I was all of six years old, barely into my first standard, playing cricket on the road in front of the house with all the children in the neighbourhood, both young and old, used to be the high point of the day. We used to assemble on the poorly laid coal-tar turf by 4 pm on weekends and occasionally after school on weekdays, by which time the intensity of the hot tropical sun had subsided to an extent which, our parents were convinced (after much pleading) would not cause untold dehydration on us little souls. This turf of ours saw much cricket played by us for many years, right from the late 1980s until the last of us kids of the neighbourhood moved out of home in the early 2000s.

One particular game of cricket played here taught me a lesson, one that many most people who have played cricket will tell you too: you will have bad days on the field. But you need to have heart even if things don't go your way. It was well into my fourth standard at school, when one day, at the end of a long day at school all the neighbourhood kids had gathered around for a game of cricket. There were children of all ages. RD who was was the eldest of us all was in the 11th standard, Deergharth Madyanakumar (Purvarth's older brother) and SK who were in the 9th, DB who was a year older to me and a handful of other kids. In the company of towering (in age and height) personalities like this, DB and I generally did whatever we were told to do, like "field here!", or "stand there!" or "get ready to bat next!" and so on. And we quite enjoyed it too. 

This was a day when I learned for the first time what it was to be 'sledged' by the opposition, and to be literally (sledge) hammered in the game. I was never a great fielder, even worse when in the primary school. If Purvarth M ever took a catch, it would result in utter disbelief from many, and naturally in much celebration. Somewhat like Venkatesh Prasad winning a match for India by virtue of his batting. RD was at the crease, ominously wielding his massive Jonex cricket bat while Deergharth was bowling. RD, knowing my weakness decided to play all the deliveries to point, where I was fielding. To make matters worse, he kept reminding me how pathetic my fielding was and promised me between overs to hit everything towards me. Amid the guffaws from the others, my ears burned in shame, because well, he had a point. There would be much yelling from the people on my team if a square cut from the batsman passed right by me and zoomed into the coconut grove (which was our boundary). 

My fears were not without reason too, for many such shots from RD zipped straight through me causing several shouts of "Purva! What the hell!!". On the bright side, I got plenty of exercise running repeatedly from point to square boundary and back all the time. Not that I needed it then though, how much extra exercise does a boisterous 6 year old really need? Anyway, after a while my turn had come to bowl. However to my dismay, RD was still batting and it didn't look like he was going to relent anytime soon. 

"Hold on", I thought. "Here's my chance to get him out, and get back at him for all those jibes. Hah. He who laughs last laughs best!" With this renewed confidence, I breezed through my run up, jumped gracefully at the popping crease and let loose at RD batting at the other end. It's a different thing: bowling to fellow fourth graders and bowling to a seasoned high school stud. Despite my hopes and confidence of 'beating' the batsman and all that, my delivery benignly approached RD. 

"THACK!" 

RD hit a straight drive sixer, sending the ball gracefully way over my head and into another neighbour's compound, which formed our straight boundary. I was stunned into disbelief and wonder, and after the next ball which also went for six, absolute helplessness. Deergarth and the rest of my team were beside themselves with perfectly justifiable frustration. But that wasn't going to help at all, as RD kept smashing everything I threw at him. 

Around this time, dad returned home from work, and his arrival coincided with the penultimate delivery of my over. He didn't go into the house immediately, but lingered by the fence, dangling his briefcase nonchalantly with two fingers. This penultimate was slightly better, but only in that RD didn't hit the ball for a six, but he strode out of the crease and creamed the ball right past me for a scorching four! I took a little solace from the fact that he didn't smash it for a six before dad. Relief was short lived though; I was losing all confidence and willingness to bowl at this madman. Nevertheless, I completed the over, and let loose at the batting RD with all my strength. He actually stepped out and swept the ball for a six, again right over my head. Dad responded with applause for the dude who was ruining his son's reputation, saying "Wow! He is just like Sachin Tendulkar!". That was the last straw. Unable to bear it anymore, I legged it from the scene of humiliation and ran into my house, ran bawling past my mum and the dining table, into my bedroom and screamed into my pillow every swear word a nine year old could think of. All directed at RD of course. 

Demoralizing as this game was to my confidence with the ball, it helped me have heart later in my cricketing days in school. I knew what it was to have your best bowling smashed with disdain, and regardless of how many wickets I may have taken in school, there were numerous occasions when my classmates would hit me for fours and sixes. Somewhere deep down, this experience gave me the heart to go back to the bowling mark, and keep bowling at the batsmen with the same effort, if not more. 

And much later, when I reflected about how little experiences teach us things, I realized another very important aspect of the game when I remembered my dad applauding RD. While making that comment, exasperating though it sounded to me at the time, he had introduced the concept of the Spirit of Sportsmanship to me. Someone who outclasses you fair and square deserves your applause, and after all much of the spirit of cricket is based on this aspect. I obviously didn't realize the importance of it then, but I did later, and realized how much healthier it made the experience sports in general. 

The extraordinary cricketing tales of Purvarth Maddhyanakumar - III

“You are the best bowler in the class” - The first, the best and one of the few compliments I had ever received about my cricket.


When our class first started out on its own journey with the game, there weren’t too many fast bowlers. Forget Cricket; there were many budding footballers and police-and-robber-ers and swing from tree-ers and slide show-off-ers and ace ‘swing’-ers. But fast bowling was still a sport in the making for most. Consider for a moment, the flutters little Purvarth must have created when he came in all of a sudden, with a long run up and a Kapil Dev like delivery. New kid on the block and all that.

The honeymoon period during which I had burst on to the scene, as you might have read by now, was absolute bliss. Suddenly, I was a sought after man. People wanted me. During the games periods, when opposing captains took turns to choose their teams, I’d be the first one to be called (an incredible honour I must emphasize), captains tossed the ball to me to start the first over of the innings and so on. It was like being in the shoes of some of the best cricketers in the class then. Like TSR, the left handed boy who everyone thought could do no wrong on the field. Like RM, another cricketing genius on the same level as TSR, if not higher. TSR was the fastest bowler in the class, one of the best batsmen and fielders, in close competition with RM who also was a batsman of prodigious skill and who could roll his arm over quite effectively too. These two lads would invariably be captains of the two teams playing; them being on the same team would be a complete carnival for the team who had them, you see. Then came the second level of geniuses like AR who used to play almost every game we could understand with effortless skill, GR who was one of the better batsmen and some others.

Being called first by TSR or RM was an incredible feeling, let alone being asked to bowl the first or second over of the match. Historic moment in the life of the individual, like for Zaheer Khan when Sourav Ganguly tossed the ball to him in the former’s debut match to bowl the first over. Ha!

Barely a few matches into beginning to play on the main stage, the hallowed football ground, using one of the trees lining it as the batting stumps, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I used to try and model my bowling like Kapil Dev’s, not that I managed to copy it completely, but got the basic movements right. I’d get a wicket every now and then. Fast bowling was not a common thing and the batsmen wielding the coconut leaf ‘oala’ bats would keep missing frequently. We young kids were still growing; we had little palms and little arms and little legs; catching the ball wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Naturally, most wickets would be claimed through the ‘clean bowled’ or ‘run out’ way.

Then one day I tasted my first big moment. I never thought it was possible. It occurred one afternoon in the games period in a match with players chosen in the manner I’ve mentioned above. I was bowling the penultimate delivery of my last over. GR was batting, standing sedately in front of the tree, tapping his bat against his foot like Praveen Amre did on TV. I ran up purposefully and hurled the ball in the general direction of GR and the tree. GR attempted a wild swing at the ball, missed completely and the ball merrily bounced off the tree, just below GR’s right knee.

Wicket!

What's more, GR’s wicket! After much ecstatic jubilation had taken place, and GR had trudged off to make way for the new batsman, that all sports conquering fellow AR took stance. I had my heart in my mouth as I started my run up. AR shuffled his stance a few times as I ran up, probably trying to distract or taunt me. I wavered not from my purpose and let loose at the popping crease.

WHAM!

The ball thudded on to the base of the tree. AR was out! Clean bowled by Purvarth Maddyanakumar! What a day, ladies and gents, what a day! GR and AR out on consecutive deliveries! Later in class, people would make fun of AR and how he got out Golden Duck style. My heart swelled with pride at these moments. Bespectacled boy from nowhere did this! Ha!

It was time to be inspired by more than just bowling action now. Those were days when Sachin Tendulkar and Kapil Dev appeared in Boost advertisements. After he had drunk his cup of Boost, the cameral would pan across Kapil’s face as he stood at the base of his run up, tossing the ball up repeatedly with a murderous look in his eyes; just before delivering a ball which shattered the white stumps, sending the bails to Beelzebub. Needless to say, little Purvarth did the same, mostly with just the tossing of the ball. Not that I shattered the stumps with every ball or sent bails anywhere. Every time I wanted to take someone’s wicket, I’d toss the ball into the air a few times, glaring at the batsman, before running up to bowl. Whether I got the wicket or not didn’t matter much; it was mostly the thrill of doing something which Kapil would do, perfectly. Whee!

Kapil Dev. The fast bowler who inspired Purvarth M to become one

A few days later TSR came up while we were fielding somewhere on the field and said, “You are the best bowler in the class”. I had no words. It was the best day ever!

My last moment of triumph in the fourth standard came on the last day. It was the day our final examinations had gotten over; the last day of school in our fourth standard and we had the whole afternoon to play. By now, I had graduated from officiating in paper ball games to playing with the top dogs, as you already know. It was one of those rare matches where TSR and RM were playing on the same side, against my team. In this 8 over match, we batted first and scored a respectable 42 runs. As I opened the bowling, RM opened the batting with another chap; memory fails to recollect who it was. But he didn’t last long as he got run out or something. How can you not remember who got out in your over? - You may ask. Well, I think it was because of what happened next. TSR took stance with RM at the runner’s end. Deadly combo! I went tearing round the stumps, TSR tried to heave me on to the on-side, missed completely, and the ball hit the tree where the middle stump should have been!

4 runs for 2 wickets in the first over! We had them by the neck!

What might have been an upset never occurred though, because at that moment the bell rang and it was time to go home for the summer vacations. We all agreed to come back next year and continue the game, but that never happened either. What if the bell hadn’t gone off and we had completed the game? We might have made history, beating a team with both RM and TSR. But on the other hand RM was a fellow who could have swung the game single handed. I guess I will never know. I guess I don’t want to know either, because it’s much better to remember it this way.

Like the people on the Grecian Urn.

The extraordinary cricketing tales of Purvarth Maddhyanakumar - II

It is only fair that you, sweet reader get to know how Purvarth learned his cricket; learned how to bowl; learned to bat; learned to have heart when some batsman carted him for four sixes in an over and still run to the popping crease into the jaws of the waiting monster with a bat; learned how to catch, albeit not very well. And also how it became that he played his first ever game of cricket in school, and earned much fame and lost it too later, and gain some of it back.

Here is what my practice ground looked like. A quiet peaceful colony, around 28 yards of paved lane, neighbor’s gate across the road at one end and a proud coconut tree at the other, just after the road curved away at a right angle. Houses on either side: potential window pane accidents at every swing of the bat! A line drawn on the tree trunk with a brick, about three feet from the ground; the popping crease drawn in brick again, with the afore mentioned brick being the stump at the bowling end; empty plots of land, festooned with coconut trees on all other sides of the batting tree. Now we know why they call it a tree stump. Haha. Ok.

Many a game have I played here, with the neighbors, all of whom were one to six years elder to me. You can imagine what would happen when a primary school kid tried bowling pace to a seasoned senior high school stud. That's right. This is where I learned to have heart. Well, I won't brag; there were times I ran away from all the humiliation to hurl abuses at that guy into my pillow, but yes, I eventually came around.

In the hallowed school grounds, much after the phase where we used to play with cardboards and paper balls and kochengas and chalk pieces, some of my classmates had taken to playing with real rubber balls and anything that could pass for a bat: pieces of plywood or a cut out portion of the versatile coconut leaf. Real stumps and creases weren't necessary. These were compensated for by trees by the playground, or sapling grills. The popping crease stumps were usually a couple of bricks, couple of pairs of shoes from some football playing kids, a schoolbag, or anything which formed some kind of mark. Sometimes even pencil boxes. In a couple of months into the fourth standard, the real cricketers soon identified themselves and would set up the afore mentioned kind of environment and battle it out like real men. I was too shy to go in and start bowling like Merv, so I would watch from the sidelines, like that chap who throws the ball back when hit for a boundary.

I eventually got over my shyness, and came out of the shell during an idle games period. The established fourth grade cricketers were out playing tough competitive cricket on the big stage, which is to say, against one of the casuarina trees lining the main hallowed football ground. A tree on that ground meant that you were playing serious cricket. Otherwise you were playing time-pass cricket. I approached the latter kind of match; a bunch of us were playing with a rubber ball, a stiff cutting from a tree trunk someone found, a sapling grill, and a couple of bricks. Time-pass game meant anyone could walk in a join a team while the game was still on.

"Do you bowl?” AA asked of me.
"Yes".

What followed was that wonderful feeling of first love that you must have felt at some point of time in life. In a class of mostly fragile 9 year-olds, I covered an admirable run up and bowled the first over of my life in school. From the reactions of my mates around, I gathered it was an impressive one. The over included a couple of bat-beats and a full throated appeal for LBW to the batsman himself, as there was no umpire. RP, who was batting, dismissed the appeal saying the ball had hit his ankle so it could not be out. (I learned many years later that it the ball hitting any part of the batsman's body excluding his forearm and fist was eligible for LBW, but whatever). After the over, AA exchanged a running high five with me as he ran past, leaving me exhilarated, beaming with unblemished happiness and all that.

It was only a matter of time before word spread to the bigger cricketing circles and I joined the group of few fast bowlers in class. And I couldn't wait for the experiences to follow.

The extraordinary cricketing tales of Purvarth Maddhyanakumar - I

I didn’t really fit in with the regular crowd. There were over 40 like me, squealing and howling on our first day at school, asking for amma. I, bewildered, being the only bengali in a sea of wailing malayali toddlers, wondering what amma was, and confused as to whether I should be asking for it too looked outside the grilled windows, at the bunch of grownups peering in. I had a distinctive feeling of what the bunch of monkeys in the cage must feel like while the visitors to the Thiruvananthapuram zoo peered in through the grills, making funny noises, as though trying to be monkeys themselves. Hah. As if they didn’t know they used to be monkeys millions of years ago. Or so some chap called Darwin decided they were. The visitors here were anxious, no doubt, worried about their children’s first day at school.

On looking around, I noticed a handful of specimens whose eyes were dry, and who were not bawling for amma and appa and things like that. Probably their ammas and appas weren’t at the window. No amma and appa for me either; my elder brother had taken me to my new class and run off to his own. Brothers in the same school and all that, you know. Such were the beginning moments of my first day in school.

It would be several confusing days, months and a couple of years before I would officiate as umpire in my first ever cricket match in school. Much happened between my first day in school and the day I stood in front of a tree, all sagely and wise adjudging wides, no balls, stumpings and runouts. That, because I was too shy to enter the space between the two casuarinas as a player!

I was 8. That would be in the year 1991.The Christmas examinations were upon us. I of course had no clue about the seriousness of things. The junior school exams consisted of one exam a day; a two hour paper in the morning, after which lunch followed and most parents would turn up to pick up their children, so that they could go home and start revising for the next day’s examination. The remaining children used to live farther away from school, and would take the 3.30 bus back home, until which time they would indulge in all kinds of time pass, including cricket! Now what kind of full blooded cricket could a handful of screaming 8 year olds engage in while they waited for the bus?

Simple: a page from a notebook would be wrapped up into a tight ball (Some of us had the unique knack of making excellent paper balls), the cardboard used for writing the exams on would polymorph itself into a cricket bat, the two casuarinas would serve as the two sets of stumps. The rest of the school would be the cricket ground. It was on one such occasion, when mom was a little late picking me up that I stepped gracefully on to this field as the supreme decision maker. Amid the tossing of the paper ball, heaving of cardboards and squealing of the kids around, I stood sedately, raising my arms this way and that way accordingly, as I had seen Dicky Bird do on TV many a time. I was thoroughly enjoying myself when the mater descended upon the scene and scooped me away to the auto, despite the feeble protests of the junta around who evidently thought I was as fair and just an umpire as ever entered a cricket field.

Such was my introduction to cricket, as we knew it in school. Countless experiences would follow in the 9 years that followed: learning to bat, bowl, field, drop catches, experiences of joy, triumph, complete despair and other feelings I have not the words to describe.

My first ever cricket match took a while coming though, after a full year had passed and I was well into the 4th standard. That was when I had burst into the scene, the young fast bowling novice who took the cricketing lives of 80 fourth graders by storm, an era when most of this sample space would quake in their chuddies at the sight of Purvarth starting his run up to lethal deliveries!

Extraordinary cricketing tales

A series of blog posts will follow soon, outlining the life of one Purvarth Maddhyanyakumar, mostly his cricketing life in his 12 years at school. Almost all of these tales will be inspired from real life incidents. Names of course, will be changed to maintain anonymity and dignity of people around him :) haha.

Watch the space.

The simple complexity of them old times

Simple complexity ask you? Think of urban life in general today. I go where I want to, I speak with whoever I want to, wherever he or she is, I spend a pittance to send a short note to someone in some corner of the world within seconds, I watch what I want to.. the usual cliched reminiscing.

But things are so simple now. Can I sit at home in my undies and find out whether I will get a back row ticket for the latest blockbuster in town showing at a cinema 15 km away? Sure! Could I have done this in 1999? Are you mad?! It wasn't so simple then. I had to walk to the bus stop, wait for a rickety old KSRTC, squeeze out at East Fort 45 minutes later, run into Sree Padmanabha, stand in the midst of a sea of people smelling of coconut oil and Lux soap combined and if I was lucky, I could buy a 32 rupee balcony ticket for the latest Aamir Khan starrer. Call it nostalgia, but somehow all that was much more fun than booking a ticket online, getting ready at my own pace, and leaving home 15 minutes before showtime and shoot off through the 6 lane highway leading from here to the multiplex, run into the theater just as the show starts. Just-In-Time efficiency. Wow.

TV. How the experience has changed! When my elder brother was a kid, he never saw TV at home until he was 6, a year after I was born! Until then it was 'each other' and of course good old 'Aakashvaani' which entertained the household. The 1983 cricket world cup experience for many those who experienced would include a city bus ride to a friend's house to watch the match on live telecast (neat!) from England. The match would get over at 11pm IST, after which they would somehow return home (imagine what public transport must've been like back then) to an eager family dying to hear how India fared. India had won that one. How it must have been. Boggles the mind.
Then came the big black and white box. Keltron's path-breaking device! Bass heavy sound, green screen when off, black and white images when on! One knob each for Power and Volume, Tone - bass or treble(latest!), brightness and contrast! It would be a while before the image distortions because of voltage fluctuation generated more interest in us young viewers than some crappy serial about the tragedies of some unfortunate family!

Things would be different if a classic Bengali movie was scheduled to come on. Or a cricket match. Or a Byomkesh Bakshi serial. If the picture was scratchy or unclear, someone would be on the roof in a trice, heaving around the TV antenna in all possible directions, sometimes innovating with the elevation to get the 'right signal'.

"Is it clear?!!"

"NOOO! Keep turning!!!"

"NOW?"

"NOO! Keep turning!! NO WAIT WAIT!! Ugggh! TURN IT BACK TO WHERE IT WAS!"

"NOW??"

"TURN IT BACK TO WHERE IT WAS!!"

"I ALREADY DID!! WE NEED A LONGER POLE FOR THIS ANTENNA!"

If you smiled at this little exchange, then we are from the same era. De taali.


Letters. No form of written communication will ever be as personal as this. Sure it took 5 days to get the message across, but the same joy I felt as a kid receiving letters from my cousin from Delhi, from my brother who went to college in Allahabad, or from the girl I had a crush on, which would send me prancing silently from the letter box to my room in no time, letters my parents would receive from their brothers, sisters and relatives, yellow postcards which seemed completely inked out in (to me) unreadable Bengali which I would immediately take to dad or mom; I will never feel from an email. I've experienced this feeling for two decades before I truly caught up with the internet world. From the handwritten word, email took over, and it looks like gtalk will take it from there. Sure, it's more convenient and quick and awesome and all that. But the simple joy of writing a letter, sealing it up, searching the house for a postage stamp, walking half a mile to post it, and waiting for a fortnight for a reply, written personally by your loved one, will probably not be experienced from that new mail in your inbox. A letter on the other hand would feel like he or she was right there, talking to you.

The telephone. Oh boy. If you can remember a time when only one house in your neighbourhood had a telephone, and that would be used by every house in the neighbourhood to receive important calls? Then again, we are from the same era. De taali! STD though, still hasn't changed for some old timers. There will be those who will still yell into the phone while on an STD/ISD call. The trunk-call experience still lives in some form! If you saw someone doing that, you'd know they were from THAT era :)

Money transfers. I can't really comment on how things have changed here, never having received a money order in my life, but I could only imagine the emotions. An old couple in a village sees the postman approaching with a money order from their son in the city. Cliched? Sure. But no comparisons of personal natures from me here, having been on many an occasion bailed out of tight situation by a swift transfer of the dough from the watchful brother at the other end of the country!

But then, hasn't every other thing I've mentioned here changed for the better in some way or the other? I guess it's what you've experienced as a child that sticks on as the innocent and feel-good way of life. My folks will probably always prefer writing letters more than trying to send emails. I will probably always prefer emailing, or whatever other form of communication my work requires me to do.

Who knows, my children may some day write about how email used to be so cool and awesome, even though less quick than sending a thought from one mind to another. Who knows what they'll invent?

Of bags, logistics and rickmen of honour

This is the kind of thing that always happens to other people; the kind of thing you always get to listen to and then react in awe or amazement or pure melancholic understanding, depending on how the thing ends. The difference here, as you may have guessed by the predictability of these opening two lines, was that this kind of thing happened to us, namely Dolas, Athar, Naren and yours truly.

We were doing all we could to get out of the house in time to get hold of a rick that would take us from Aundh to Wanowrie without making too much of a fuss, the kind of fuss rick drivers normally make when they smell a meaty fare from a gullible customer. Thanks to the new 'badge rule', our industrious rickmen at the auto stand who always drip with the essence of honesty and have the sun shining out of their backsides didn't dare to risk a ride into the city, as they didn't have/couldn't get hold of any badges (and one would normally think these blighters were the pioneers of the practice of jugaad). We eventually had to flag down another passing rick and get down to brass tacks immediately. After a short, hurried mutual consultation regarding the distance to be travelled, the actual fare and the leniency to the rickman for breaking the cardinal law of ricks by seating four brats like us, we scrambled into the confined space, applying the back forth back forth principle of confined seating, with a bag and a guitar in tow.

We spent the next 45 minutes seated in akward positions. Naren squeezed in at the far corner, me squeezed in laterally opposite to him, Athar seated at the edge of the seat with the guitar in his hands, between Naren and Dolas, who was, of course, seated comfortably like he always is. When we finally reached Om's place in Wanowrie we tumbled out of the rick gratefully. It was quite like the relief you feel when you unbutton an agonizingly tight pair of trousers and collapse on the pot to take a well deserved dump. Another round of haggling issued between us and the rickman who bravely stood his ground despite being confronted by the four of us blokes. Ten minutes after the dust settled and the rickman had gone away fuming,:

"Give me the camera. "
"Who has it? "
"You took out the camera, no?"
"Where's the bag? "
"Oh Shit!!!!"

It's not rocket science. You guessed right.

Naren and Dolas immediately turned around and set off walking in hot pursuit of the rickman who was probably halfway back to wherever he had wanted to go next. To be fair, one could always hope against hope that the fellow hadn't gone more than thirty feet before stopping to refill his stock of beedis or gutka or whatever. But alas, that was not to be. The mutterings of expletives gained momentum, frequency and amplitude as the shock and the realization of the loss washed on to us, especially on to Naren whose camera it was, like a tidal wave.

Sense prevailed soon, and we got down to the task of doing whatever we could to figure out a way to get the bag back. Hopeless as it sounded, we left our phone numbers with the security at Om's place, just in case the rickman returned with the intention of returning the goods. I also mobilized Jd into action, calling him up and asking him to do the same at the rick stand from where we had caught the blasted rick. (This may not have worked either, as this rickman was not a member of that stand).

Well, what was done was done, and there was no point hanging around in the cold feeling sorry about the whole thing, hence we proceeded to A's place for the party which we were on our way to attend and become the soul of, albeit with a bit of a tropical cloud hanging over our moods. The party and the next couple of days passed with repeating the story to others and basking in the reactions and suggestions of the audiences, much like the kind described in the opening lines of this anecdote. Maybe it was my excessive reading of Sherlock Holmes stories, but I also had the idea of putting up an advertisement in a local Marathi daily, with the description and contents of the lost bag, requesting the finder to apply at 221b, Baker street, and tipping off inspector G. Lestrade too for good measure, so he could calmly step out of the shadows of the doorway at the last minute, arrest the culprit and take all the credit for the success of the investigation without any objection on my part. The master stroke of the plan, as the good Doctor might have written four years later.

But before any of this could happen, Dolas got a call from the virtuous rick stand where Jd had given his number, inquiring about a lost bag. Our honest rickman, all reasons for fuming forgotten, drove all the way to Infosys Hinjewadi armed with our goods and showed up smiling from ear to ear, as if he was in a Happy Dent advertisement. He also insisted on a reward for his honestly much higher than what Dolas had estimated, relieving him of a sizable wad, and offering his number and guaranteeing his unfailing services, whilst beaming all the time and overflowing with the milk of human kindness. Not that we ought to complain too much though, it was pretty good of him to do what he did. Needless to say, we were more than elated and amazed at this new development, and we sort of felt like how old Red Rakham might have felt had he stumbled upon his treasure in the cellar of Marlinspike Hall instead of getting stabbed and blown up in his boat!

Shit happens, like Forrest fleetingly said. But shit sometimes un-happens too. That blows away the rain clouds and replaces the scene with the lark on the wing and the bird on the song and God in his Heaven and all that. All’s well that ends well!

Societal Hypocrisy

Have you ever come across a bit of news that, when you first read it in a newspaper or an on-line news website, or in a link to it forwarded to you by a friend or acquaintance in a usual careless forwarding of an email which our generation so often does without a second thought, makes your eyelids fly open in disgust, aversive wonder and disbelief at the unbelievable sickness of itself? The kind of news that makes you wonder to yourself or aloud to your friends in turn, what the world and its madmen are coming to? Like, for example, the news about a father imprisoning his children for decades in his cellar to satisfy whatever his carnal needs are, delusional as they may be, or a report on the rape of a two year old girl and so forth; there's no dearth of such news these days. It is also a possibility that there's nothing new about these things; that they've been happening for decades and every generation comes across these bits of news and wonders what their times are coming to, and what times the generations to come will go through when it's their time to live.

Social networking has enhanced the spreading of news by leaps and bounds; and by this means I came across this horrible piece of news about how a man, apparently in a drunken stupor raped a stray female dog. (I use the phrase because the term used for female dogs has more than one denotation these days). Disbelief and disgust at the sickness of the act hits the reader first (in some cases maybe even amusement, but that's not on my mind). Rape in itself is terrible enough and committed in abandon despite what the right of mind would want to think about an improvement in social life, without it being committed on animals. I don't suppose I could ever describe the disgust and indignation I felt when reading it.

The news also mentioned that the dog was horribly traumatized after the incident, and was in a kind of unstoppable frenzy, with nothing anybody could that could calm her down. Such was the trauma of it all that she had stopped eating altogether. Street dogs in Indian mohallas, although stray normally have pseudo homes; they feed on leftovers from houses; they sleep on porches; and in most cases they do attain a slight attachment of sorts with the people in these mohallas. Naturally, the dog in this case had several to sympathize with her, and one of the families had volunteered to care for the dog post her trauma, and to try and get her to eat again. (A thought, aside from the context of the episode, which arose in my mind, was the completely contrasting meaning it gave to the commonly used phrase ‘treated like a dog’.)

While I do appreciate the kindness and sympathy of the family that did so, I cannot help but wonder at the hypocrisy of society, if I can call it that, which made itself evident in this very act. When a woman, a fellow human being, is subjected to such a crime, she immediately gets ostracized without a second thought; is boycotted by all other 'respectable' citizens; gets looked down upon in the same light as someone in the flesh trade or as someone to be avoided, if possible banished from social life altogether as though it was her fault for getting raped in the first place; her chances of getting married into a good family by the traditional arranged marriage system are as of that moment shattered for ever; and this is typical of majority of Indian society.

I know there are laws in place to deal with the criminals who commit these crimes, but I can’t say with conviction as to whether they are enforced to the full extent when it comes to bringing them to book.

I cannot help but wonder at the apathy when it comes to the woman's plight; that few would bother to care about the physical and mental trauma she inevitably has to go through; that she would become the object of ridicule and mental abuse when she needs, on the contrary, support and solidarity from the society in bringing the criminal or criminals, as the case may be, to justice; that she would find it next to impossible to find acceptance in society because a heinous crime was committed against her, as opposed to the sympathy which ought to be shown, like the kind being shown to the dog in the incident mentioned. I wonder what values and ideals of right and wrong we are imbibing in ourselves; what we in turn will imbibe in our future generations.

And while talking about the larger realm of right and wrong when it comes to the imbibing of the values, this is probably the tip of the iceberg.

An amazing story

This is a forward I got in the mail, just got to share it with someone!

-----
This is an Incredible story!
In 1986, Peter Davies was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from Northwestern University. On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Peter approached it very carefully. He got down on one knee, inspected the elephants foot, and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it. As carefully and as gently as he could, Peter worked the wood out with his knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot. The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments. Peter stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away.

Peter never forgot that elephant or the events of that day. Twenty years later, Peter was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenaged son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Peter and his son Cameron were standing. The large bull elephant stared at Peter, lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down. The elephant did that several times then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man. Remembering the encounter in 1986, Peter could not help wondering if this was the same elephant.Peter summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing, and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Peter legs and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

Probably wasn't the same elephant.

This is for everyone who sends those heart-warming bullshit stories.

Goodbye, Moonwalker..

The moonwalks, the vocal hiccups, the mid-lyric hoots, the full bodied twist and 'POW' punches... Gone too soon...

My first real introduction to English music was Michael Jackson's 'Dangerous'; it was released in the mid nineties when both me and the brother were in school. Bro had borrowed an audio cassette of the album and had gone completely bonkers over it. The music was infectious, and I joined in the madness; slip in the cassette, close all the doors and windows of the bedroom, play the song at full volume! I remember 'Jam' being one of my favourite tracks. It was just a matter of time before I came to like more and more of his songs, and not long before I got completely taken by the man's dance moves.

Asianet's Rosebowl channel used to screen videos of MJ very often, and throughout my school life more and more people of my age began to try aping his dance style. Michael Jackson by now has probably become a household name everywhere in the world, despite all the reputation shattering controversies. I reckon almost everyone in the world across the continents at least knows the name of the man. From students to professionals to corporates to shopkeepers to autorikshaw drivers and so on. He had inspired a whole generation of performers, and his legacy will live on I guess.

It has been years now since I last heard his music, and was hoping that the 50 sold out concerts he was to perform at would begin a fresh lap for the king of pop. There was always a little thought at the back of my mind, a hope which believed he wasn't done yet, that he would return to enthrall the world once again. It was just utter shock I felt when I read the news of his death on the Internet. It seemed like a lie, a stupid dream at first, it almost seemed like a silly rumour. But then it sank in slowly, and every song that I've heard of his began to play and replay in my head. And now I find myself listening and re-listening to all those songs I had come to love and enjoy over a decade ago; just like I did when I first started listening to Michael Jackson.

I'm sure such is the case with millions of other fans across the continents. Perhaps that in itself is a tribute to his genius; all his music probably being played all over the world right now an indication of how much his music and performances were loved.

Thank you for the joy and the music MJ. May you find peace.

Skid knot

The monsoon is here, and it has announced its 'pre-arrival' with a crash, if I may put it that way. You can never be too careful in these initial rainy times if you're on a two wheeler, and in the midst of the rainy times too for that matter. Though once you get used to it raining all around you, skids and wet concrete are much easier to negotiate.

I got off at the Mikon office on Dhole Patil road to pick up my faithful wheels this evening. Pretty pleasant evening it was too, lovely breeze blowing across the lands and I prepared for an enjoyable ride back through some mild traffic. And then it began to pour. Knowing that the first rainfall can be pretty dangerous for motorists, bikers in particular, I kept the speed pretty less, avoided any daring overtaking rushes, in fact avoided any overtaking I could help and all looked good for a wet but safe arrival back home. But that was until I got off the University fly-over and on to the Aundh main road.

The road here is concrete, and things get wildly slippery when it starts to rain. Anyway, a speed of 35 - 40 km per hour didn't matter at all, when this tempo traveler around ten meters ahead of me slowed down rapidly. I braked cautiously, but not cautiously enough I guess because the back wheel promptly locked up and slid away to the left at a shocking angle. Needless to say, I went down like a pin into the mixture of earth and concrete. Can't say I was a hundred percent aware of myself in that fraction of a second it took me to fall, but thankfully I had enough sense to let the bike go crashing across while I slid on to the road. I was extremely lucky (thank God) there weren't any vehicles close behind me, and that there were a bunch of helpful on lookers who darted across in a trice and helped me and the bike to the shoulder out of the highway. I'm also immensely thankful I had my helmet with me! (I came to know later that around 8 or 9 bikers had fallen on that very spot over the last five minutes)

Besides kicking myself for not being careful enough, I can take a few things away from the incident.

Avoid using a two wheeler when it has just started to rain after a dry spell. If you must, then
(a) wear a helmet, even if you need to bike to the next block
(b) stay in as low a gear as you can help. Use engine braking as much as possible, because your regular brakes are very likely to skid on the fresh mess of mud and concrete/tar
(c) Avoid concrete roads as much as possible (especially if you're driving in India). These roads are more durable than tarred roads alright, but they offer a pretty poor road grip especially when wet.
(d) Drive slowly. Let it take ages to go from point A to B even if they're a couple of miles apart. Like someone somewhere said, it's better to be late, than be 'the late'.

Despite taking all precautions, shit happens.
(a)If you find yourself skidding helplessly and falling, let the bike go. Your bike can be fixed in time no matter how banged up it gets, but not necessarily you. Let the bike slide/crash/go and do your best to fall in a rolling movement to minimize impact.
(b) If you don't feel up to it after the fall, do not drive again right then. Get yourself taken care of first, you can always pick up your bike later.
(c) If you decide you're fine and to continue driving, ensure first that everything on the bike is working perfectly. Test your brakes, front and rear, take a few test turns, make sure your handle bar alignment is fine.
(d) This is a handy precaution. Keep 'ICE' contacts in your mobile phone. In case you lose consciousness after an accident (or for some other reason), a passerby would use your mobile phone to contact someone you know. ICE stands for In Case of Emergency. Have more than one ICE contact, and ensure it's a family member or a friend you can trust.

If you witness an accident where you are a passer by, try and stop the traffic coming on. Common sense would suggest that oncoming vehicles would stop immediately when a mishap occurs in front of them, but common sense doesn't prevail for some. If the victim is not badly hurt, ensure that he or she has been moved to safety to the shoulder. Otherwise, try to get professional help to move the victim.
If the victim is unconscious, an ambulance or hospital and police immediately. Then use the victim's mobile phone to search for ICE contacts. If he does not have ICE contacts, look for numbers stored under 'Home', 'Dad', 'Papa','Pops', 'Mom', 'Ma' and so on. If you can't find any such contact, call the last dialled number and inform them of what has occurred. It might just save a life.

Everything said and done, prevention is better than cure. Be safe, drive responsibly. If you live in a place where helmets haven't been made compulsory, do not take the liberty of not wearing one. It may look or feel 'cool' to feel the wind in your hair and all that, but it's not worth it.

If you live in a place where helmets are compulsory, buy a good, standard one (this applies to the former too). Do not buy a cheap helmet to 'adhere' to the rule, and wear something which will offer as much protection as a flower pot will. Spend a little more on the helmet, it's to protect your head!

Then there is the other counter theory against the use of helmets that people who call themselves 'free spirits' often quote, that it causes whiplash. Well, consider a crick in the neck, and consider a crack in your skull. Then choose.

Some Dave-il Matthews

While I sit making life easier for the International Transfers team, I have dave matthews singing 'Some Devil' in my ears. Borrowed Yogi's headphones, plugged into my cd player and well, it's quite awesome!

Will be extremely disappointed if the battery on this thing runs out before the end of the day, because there isn't a shop in the vicinity for miles which store batteries!

Even Flow - I

There really is very little point trying to drive on the roads of Pune while adhereing to traffic rules, signals, and right of ways. It's almost like the rule is exactly opposite of what it actually is/should be, of course, that is unless a traffic constable 'feels like' flagging you down for some palm scratching. 

Those of us who make sure our vehicles are in proper condition are stopped regularly for checks, which is OK, but buses, ricks which make it impossible for anyone around them to breathe thanks to their colour defining exhaust fumes are apparently not expected to have their pollution levels under control. 

Signals.. Try waiting at a signal for a red light to turn green, ten blokes in cars, bikes etc. are likely to honk their gonads off at you for not breaking the signal and 'saving time'. 

You might see a really dignified looking gentleman driving a really expensive big luxurious car, and some part of you might just expect the blighter at the wheel to drive, well, at least responsibly. (You might even expect him to be educated, at least in the traffic laws) But be not surprised of the afore mentioned chappie veers dangerously across the highway from the left-most lane in order to take a right turn somewhere, thereby causing ten others to swerve for their lives for screech to a halt, in turn creating problems for vehicles coming up behind them. If given a piece of the mind, you can also expect the driver to dismissively justify himself - "But I had my indicator on."

Most vehicles seem to have some kind of built in device that prevents it from overtaking on the right side. It seems like a practice unheard of. Not only do most drivers overtake on the left, they generally don't let anyone overtake them on the right side either. Even ambulances and fire brigades have it rough out there, because people take their own sweet time to get out of the way rather than let the emergency vehicles go first. There ought to be a law which can throw you in jail if you obstruct an ambulance. (I think such laws do exist in some other countries)

The general mindset is even worse, because no one gives a rat's ass about road safety. The pedestrian gets it the worst I think. Gone are the days when you could safely tell your children to walk on the footpath; it is now used by scooterists and bikers who wish to by-pass a traffic jam or a red signal queue to get ahead, or used as a safe parking zone by cars, or used by hawkers to sell whatever it is, or is generally blocked by something or the other. The pedestrian crossings have been reduced to nothing but some random paint marks. It's no wonder you hardly see anyone using them! I heard a colleague of mine say to his friend - "If you stop at a signal over the pedestrian crossing stop line, the bloody cops act as if you've crossed the line of control!" Pity that such people are loose on the streets, with a license to drive. 

What a 'HUT'

I was walking back from the bus stop last evening on the way back from work, strolling at an easy pace to appease the sore toe I'm suffering from, and chanced to see an interesting looking signboard for a dhaba cum restaurant called 'HUT-K', and decided to give it a dinner try.

The place, at least visually lived up to its name, there were a few bamboo huts built inside. A part of me felt a little hopeful about there being a nice place close to home where we could get some quick meal in the future until the food arrived.

We'd ordered a mixed veg curry and chicken kolhapuri, the former turned out to be a heap of tastelessly cooked vegetables tossed in an overdose of various masalas, and the latter was nothing but boiled chicken mixed with lots of oil, chilli powder and added red colour. Quite tasteless, except for the heat of the chilli.

I don't think I'm going back there again.

In loo of writings on the walls

We've all heard of loo writings, haven't we? It can be pretty amusing at times, and sometimes plain offensive stuff written on the walls and doors of public toilets.

My dad once told me about a public toilet he went to when he was in Canada. While in the loo, he saw the following limerick on the wall: "Here I sit, broken hearted; Paid a dime, but only farted!"

Stuff like this in hostels can be amusing too. The loo on my floor in my college hostel had a few such poems written in chalk on the doors and walls, though I don't really remember what they said.

The cake, however goes to a loo in the MNREC hostel in Allahabad; that was the college my elder brother went to. The moment you closed the door of the toilet and sat down, you'd see - "You are about to witness a tennis match. Look Left." You'd look at the left wall and see - "Look Right."

You'd then look at the right wall and see the words: "Look Left. "