An Oaf's Mindspace

A Wandering Ramble.

2012-01-22T20:51:00.001-08:00

One of the luxuries that a travelling job allows you: force you to take a break from technology. The cellular phones, the laptops, the tablets, the I-everythings have all placed us in such thrall that human interactions are now second to liking somebody’s social status or poking someone. Since the purpose of this piece is not tech-bashing I will not go that route. To my original point; whilst on one of my brief, forced exiles, seated at the window of a northbound Boeing-777, watching soft layers of clouds melting into a crimson horizon – I realized I wanted to write something like this. Here goes nothing…

Five towns, I have had the pleasure of visiting. This is not a “what-to-do-in xxxx” guide, so if that is what you are looking for, you will be disappointed. Some spectacular; some not so spectacular: yet with just the right flavor of something special.

Eureka Springs, Arkansas: In many ways, this is a very special trip and an even special town to me. I think this is where I lost my virginity to traveling and became, for the lack of a better expression: a travel whore. My very first road trip, so to speak. The absolute wrong place to visit at the worst possible time of the year; Arkansas being the nature state is green mostly all through the year except late winter/pre-spring and this was when we visited the nature state: barren, leaf-less, virtually lifeless. A bunch of waterfalls falling only because they had to, fallen, embattled leaves, rusting under our steps; perhaps, it had a charm of its own. Anyway, Eureka Springs: a small town, five or six roads, maybe fewer, I am a little hazy on the details. A few lodges/motels along the main road and lots of restaurants: from traditional Grandmother’s pie to the modern Denny’s/delis. A walk through a small, pretty downtown, with ice cream shops, traditional art/crafts and a very special deli.

Just to provide a little background: for a person that travels four days out of five in a week, I am an incredibly fussy eater. I don’t eat anything that has a face or an exoskeleton! I am allergic to brinjal and mushrooms remind me of, well, best left unsaid. So, having said that, here we (Deepak & I) were in the middle of the nature state with a craving for Indian food. Google: our eternal best friend suggested ‘New Delhi Cafe’. Contrary to what the name might have you believe: it was a deli joint! Although, now it has grown into a full-fledged Indian Restaurant, back in 2007, there weren’t as many choices. So, we show up expecting to eat sumptuous portions only to find that it was a deli place and not Delhi place. Nonetheless, the lady of the restaurant made samosas for us and they were some really kick-ass samosas (or we were really hungry, but I will give her the benefit of the doubt). The rest of our time was spent on the streets absorbing the essence of this little town, with special events in the business part of the town. Like I said: nothing spectacular, but just the right modicum of special to remain in memory!

Santa Fe, New Mexico: On the back of a crazy idea: drive from San Diego to Chicago and back over the Thanksgiving weekend of 2010, covering eleven states in four days, we happened to chance upon Santa Fe. Again, driven by primal need, Google pointed us to ‘India Palace’, a few miles off of Interstate-25. A fantastic restaurant located bang in the middle of the town with food so delicious that the six of us visiting nearly ate our fingers off. I will stop at that with the food, lest this turns into a restaurant critique.

Keeping in tradition with being in the right place at the wrong time of the year, the few hours we spent in Santa Fe, were bright and damn near frigid. The town however, is the true essence of Native-Indian culture married carefully into the western without disrupting its natural hum. The architecture, the building style, the commodities, the clothes, the music, other paraphernalia, is all very ethnic and unbelievably pleasant. Just walking through the district and the town square is a truly rejuvenating experience. One has to have a un à un to experience that feeling.

Sedona, Arizona: Off of a slight detour from the Grand Canyon, nowhere near as splendid as the Canyon, here is a little town that calls for attention just for being itself. Not overwhelmed by the fact that the Canyon is always going to attract more visitors than it, Sedona and its people are comfortable in their own skin and that makes a visitor’s getaway special.

Labor Day weekend: not the most ideal time to be in the state of Arizona, but we have a reputation to protect here; a normal weekend, intended to getaway and do absolutely nothing. The 'Pink Jeep Tour' was a refreshing start with a 4x4 off-roader climbing on stubborn boulders. The streets filled with tourists, musicians, culture enthusiasts alike. People dancing to various live performances ranging from authentic country songs to Chad Kroeger; yet there are quiet corners to coffee shops where one can sit and ogle at the splendor of a setting sun over the red rocks; for the loose handed, there are plenty of shops to pick souvenirs, or clothes, or piece of ancient Indian artifact, and so on and forth. Although, there is an ‘India Palace’ in Sedona, we were well equipped with food. All in all, Sedona is a beautiful place with strong vibrations that resonate with something right in the mind that leaves one feeling joyous at having invested time here.

Stehekin, Washington: I was in Seattle over a weekend and wasn’t really sure if I should go camp somewhere in Mt. Rainier or go see Olympic National Park, when a friend said; we should go see Lake Chelan. I figured it was worth giving a shot: a decision that I might never come to regret.

Three hour drive from the Seattle area, and located at the north western end of Lake Chelan, is Stehekin. The point to note here is it is accessible only by a ferry which plies once a day, or by hiking over the Cascade Pass. It takes four hours on the ferry one-way and the ride in itself is breath-taking. In this town, there is a grand total of less than a hundred permanent residents, no technology, one school, one restaurant, a bakery and a waterfall. Plenty of snow and vanguard to the Northern Cascades, Stehekin is indeed ‘the way through’ to connect with a distant past, to the days before technology and bask in the glory of nature’s splendor.

All I spent there was an hour and a half and I knew I was going to be back there someday.

Virgin Gorda, British Virgin Islands: The Caribbean Islands are called paradise for a reason. One of which is mentioned here.

There is loads to do, right from alcohol to snorkeling to dancing to diving: beaches like Savannah Bay, or Devil’s bay or go up to the top Virgin Gorda peak and imbibe the blueness from the panoramic view of the Caribbean Sea. The people have slow, cool, swagger only island folk can have and a lady at the 'Mad Dog Restaurant' even made me a vegetarian sandwich that will compete with some of the best sandwiches I have had.

The more I ramble, the more there is to say; here be another expression. For once, I am in the right place at the right time. Any time is the right time to be here!

Having said that, given our tradition of visiting the right places at the wrong times, I am certain many more are to follow, for now, these will have to suffice…

A Whiteout!

2011-06-11T04:53:00.002-07:00

Humans, in my experience are mostly a social animal, yet at times there is an unbelievable comfort in sudden, unplanned escapades into what might have been our natural habitat had our higher senses not taken an automatic fondness to evolving towards today’s concrete jungles: like a quiet getaway in the mind-numbingly cold canyons of Sequoia National Park, or an impulsive drive along the pacific coast highway, or a slightly more coercive execution of whim leading to a splendid five days in the bosom of the austerely serene Yellowstone National park.

There is something in nature; something that cannot be named, for it is too pure to be worded, that awes and inspires; relaxes and unclogs. I had been struggling to put words together for a while now, but, it would be too disrespectful to outrageous splendor of all that is Yellowstone, to not make an attempt.

White: The colour of chastity; the sign of pristineness; the all-encompassing; the terrifying, the tranquil; the marvelous. I am sure Yellowstone is plenty beautiful in the warmth of the summer, with sprawling vastness of green and colours, providing the keen and click-happy ample opportunities to snap some stunning pictures; but in the raw barrens of unrelenting white, its beauty is something that can only be beheld in person.

The mountain air: so wholesome, the untrained lung almost gasping for every breath of the freshest air. The wonder of a quasi-frozen lake, with fissures on its banks: spewing out scalding hot water. Proud, ostentatious, magnificent mountains capped immaculately with just the appropriate quantity of white: eliciting a unanimous sigh of silent awe. Great geo-thermal vents that in patient furious rebellion have for ages reshaped and restructured the very ground that we walk on; existing in perfect harmony with a meandering, gurgling river carving through the mountains: bewilderingly gorgeous canyons.

The sunlight: just warm enough for leaves to shed a miniscule weight and bask briefly while another flake deposits itself. Mostly gray, comfortingly appropriate.

The Bison: grazing lazily, oblivious to the excited spectators and the low whirring of cameras. The Elk: some sprawled in the lush meadows, some gently grazing.

The Grizzly, the first sighting: After a long winter of hibernation, this one was praying. To the naked eye, a distant contrast of dark grayish black in a field of white possibly hunting: an exhilarating encounter. The second: perched atop a coniferous tree, this one was only about forty feet from the ogling spectators. Cozying for the night; perchance: a feast in the river nearby. Third, a brown: on a distant hilltop, scavenging for honey. The fourth, a grizzly: coasting in the woods, about twenty feet from where we stood. This one was in a hurry to get somewhere, the closest sighting, perhaps how it was in the days predating the concrete jungles.

I am not the reclusive hermit kinds; but those five days, knocked on something deep inside, perhaps an impulse that is hard-coded somewhere, between the Neanderthal and the king of the urban jungle, a beckoning of sorts: a beckoning back to...

Provenience....

2010-08-13T03:21:00.003-07:00

First, I must apologize for this belated composition. By now, the film has either carved an irreplaceable niche or has been banished to a remote, inaccessible corner of most minds. Second, please don’t mistake this to be a review or a critique, if you are looking for either, here is your chance to leave. This is a nugatory effort to resuscitate some of those awe-inspiring, mind-blanking moments and another opportunity to revel in the marvel that is: “Inception”.

“An idea is like a virus. It can be so powerful so as to change a man forever.” Over a course of ten years, as Inception went from being a thought to becoming an epic; I wonder if that was how Mr. Nolan felt and that feeling eventually culminated into a movie both visually brilliant and intellectually challenging. While, the idea of the human mind being at its creative best as well as its height of vulnerability in the subconscious state is not completely original; the extrapolation of this idea to a realm where extraction or inception is possible, can be fathomed only by a mind that has been molded by the austere hand of its own creativity. Then, he has scripted a team of characters that is skilled enough to go as far deep as four levels in another person’s dream be able to keep their bearing about themselves.

Then, there are mind-numbing special effects like the city of Paris folding on itself at Ellen Page’s whim, but that again is just a demonstration of the creative influence the subconscious mind is capable of exerting. Here’s a thought: the theory of “Maya” advocates that the whole world is an illusion, an illusion created by powerful, unified thoughts. By changing our thoughts, we change the world we live in. By changing our thoughts, we change the “reality” we perceive. Having said that, DiCaprio is in possession of a totem that is supposed to keep him sane and aid him in delineating reality and fantasy, however, his psyche is so muddled with inky blackness, there are instances where he cannot distinctly draw the lines. Is there a chance that he had become so accustomed to dreaming that his perception of reality had changed?

On the surface it is a very simple film: In an era where technology is so advanced where even dreaming could be perfidious to oneself, crime has reached sophisticated heights. A group of people can plant or steal ideas from the subconscious mind, while another group of people can provide security against such inapposite flagitious enterprises. There is no pretense of maudlin sentimentalism, or unnecessary details. It is a crisp film that begins, tells you a story and asks simple questions and at the end leaves your expectation darkened into anxiety. It is when you start pondering the answers to the questions that you get lost in the labyrinthian windings of this masterpiece of a script.

“An idea is like a virus. It can be so powerful so as to change a man forever.” Christopher Nolan, in the process of giving us this film, has gone from an entertainer to leaving audiences baffled at his sagacity.

“Inception” is such a mesmerizing experience that one does not know exactly what the appropriate reaction is…

God!!

2010-04-09T22:32:00.002-07:00

Since the birth of sports, sportsmen have somehow had fathomless powers to generate deferential regard and inspire awe in fellow sportsmen and fans alike. Sometimes with something as spectacular as a Roberto Carlos’ free-kick from near center field, or a Lebron James power slam dunk; sometimes with something more subtle like a Roger Federer drop that teases the net and dies on contact with the court, or a quick calculation made by Brett Farve that makes a difference between an interception and a touch-down. The known ingeniousness of these simple, bare beings transcends into a larger than life persona with such imposing mien that crowds are sent into stentorian bewilderment and awe. That being said, here’s another attempt at paying homage to the skills of a sportsman that has purged his soul of all nonsense and has dedicated his life to spelling lesser mortals into a delirious wonder.

Twenty20, the grotesque nightmare of a haunting dream (the purists’ perspective ofcourse), has revolutionized modern day cricket as the advent of One-day Internationals did Test match cricket. Though this callous and conscienceless brute has led to the upper-cuts, and slashes being played with exoteric scorn and has led innovations like the Dil-scoop and the mongoose; it is not just about euphuistic affectations, an example: Jacques Kallis leads the run-scorers in IPL-v3.0. But this is not a Twenty20 bashing.

There is nothing about Him that hasn’t been said already. A couple of years ago, when he was undergoing a rare lean-patch, some self-proclaimed experts believed he should retire; had he listened, the cricketing world might have missed its first double-centurion in the limited overs format, and who better to wear that throne. I shall, however, refrain from digressing; this is about his latest conquest: “Welcome to the text-book, let us please turn to page Tendulkar.” After an eternity of resolutions, doubts and indecisions purists have slowly begun accepting Twenty20, but just as it threatened to head toward monotony Tendulkar has arrived to the format to clutch it at the very heart and to usurp mediocrity.

Tendulkar’s batting has never been about smoking the leather off the ball, it has always been about mellifluous timing and perfect precision, and during this IPL it has been no different. He is the second highest run-scorer, and whist Kallis has himself admitted that he has had to change his technique to adapt to this format, to Sachin it is just an extension to his wonted activity. He has hit only one six in all the matches thus far, not manufactured any new shots, has faced the likes of Dale Steyn, Ishanth Sharma, Dirk Nannes and others and quite nearly destroyed them with effortless ease:

1)MI vs. RCB: Dale Steyn to Sachin, short delivery darting in (140+k’s), it might have crashed into the ribs of another batsman, Sachin hopped up on his toes and guided it just square enough to beat short fine-leg for four.
Next ball: Dale Steyn to Sachin, short delivery darting in (140+k’s), it might have crashed into the ribs of another batsman; Sachin moved ever so slightly onto the offside and flicked the ball, just fine enough to beat the short fine-leg for four
Next ball: Dale Steyn to Sachin, short delivery darting in (140+k’s), it might have crashed into the ribs of another batsman; Sachin rocked onto the back foot and pulled just enough in the air to beat short fine-leg for four.

2)MI vs. KKR: Ishanth Sharma (priced at $975K at the age of 19) was taken for eight fours by Tendulkar alone. Ishanth ran in and bowled a good-length delivery, just outside the off-stump moving back in off the deck, unfortunately, it was met by a derisively luxurious pull shot by Tendulkar, hammered in-front of square for four. Other batsmen play the pull shot, some with insolent disdain; somehow, Tendulkar managed to maintain a halcyon innocence despite announcing his presence with unmistakable authority. Harsha Bogle summed it perfectly: “Ishanth will walk up to Tendulkar and ask: ‘Sir! Please tell me what I did wrong with that delivery?’” Ishanth was subsequently, square driven past point, square cut past point and mercilessly lofted over mid-on with indescribable ease as Mumbai coasted to an easy win.

3)MI vs. DD: Jayasurya and Sachin carved the DD opening bowlers by scoring 38 runs in 3.4 overs. When Jayasurya was dismissed, he had scored just 7 runs. Sachin meanwhile had already played a cover drive and an exotic square drive off the back-foot off Nannes.

These are just flashes of brilliance the genius has produced through this tournament. In a tournament like the IPL, where franchise fanaticism is everything, one man has managed to generate moral obliquities as was evident in the game against Chennai. Expectation darkened into anxiety as Sachin walked off because of dehydration. His return was met with one of the most vociferous cheers despite the anguish of moral conflict tearing through a franchise favouring heart.

So, despite the heartless perfidy that is Twenty20, there is still scope for aesthetic pleasure as long as the likes of Tendulkar continue to engage the purists with subtlest of subtleties. Beware the facile critics, Sachin has arrived and is here to stay and His simple genius still continues to hold millions of followers in groveling servility.

What next..???

2010-03-06T19:55:00.004-08:00

Here we are again. It has been a while and I am finally coming out of a, well let us call it a ‘self-imposed’, exile, some of it by chance and mostly by choice, enough said about that. Suddenly, I find myself inundated by an unsuppressable urge to write. Thanks to the indulgence of some gracious readers, I find myself quietly inspired.

Since, I can’t really think of any deep, gut-wrenching, seemingly abstract moral issues, also, the lack of a necessity to rant has caused me to abjectly submit to delve on some of the more obvious things that have troubled me, and hopefully some of the other guys, for a few years now. An immediate incident comes to mind: back in the days at the University, on one of the days when we’d suddenly realize that the University was home to a multi-million dollar gymnasium and decide to use the facilities; I have never been an out-and-out-pumping-iron kinda guy, so I decided to get on the exercise bike. So, anyway, I was about two minutes into my twenty minute cycling run, when a gorgeous brunette, what some of us might even call a perfect twelve, walked up to the bike next the one I was on. She wore ankle-cut socks, grey exercise shorts and a pink tank top; her hair tied up in a high-pony, and a white sweat band on her forehead, left arm sporting a pink ipod. The first, thought that crossed my mind was, why in heaven’s name would she need to work-out? Anyway, after I somehow defeated the monsters of temptation and resisted staring at her, I noticed that she was struggling to get the bike started. She almost looked flummoxed, feeling like the hero sent to save the damsel in distress, I turned to her, and with the sweetest smile I ever smiled on my face, and said:

“Hey! You need to start peddling for it to start.”
She started peddling and sure enough, the geeky Indian guys advice paid off, so with an equally sweet smile she said:

“I’m so retarded!”

“Happens to all of us” I said. Then I continued cycling looking straight ahead like a moron. After a couple of minutes, she asked:

“Where are you from?”

There it was. The ice was broken. I mean com’on, it’s not that hard to guess where guys that look like this are from. We are everywhere after all. She was obviously trying to have a conversation, even if it was just for a conversation’s sake. It was a dream come true. The many million times when I travelled in India, either by train or bus or by air, always secretly wishing a hot girl would sit next to me, it never happened. The once or maybe twice it happened, I couldn’t really ogle ‘cos either dad or mom was around. But, here I was, in the presence of the fructification of that very same yearning. So, I said:

“India.”

“Oh wow! I hear it is a beautiful place. I’d like to visit sometime.” She said. I just smiled back. Then an awkward silence ensued, I didn’t know what to say, and my mind was going:
“Say something, anything, just keep the conversation going. Don’t feel nervous, she just a girl. Talk to her!! Say something, anything…”
but no words came out of my mouth, and the remaining fifteen minutes on the exercise bike passed, she left before I was done. She even smiled and said bye when she was leaving. All she was doing was, making small talk, something we are inherently pathetic at, it wasn’t like I was expecting to date her as a result of teaching her how to start an exercise bike. Which brings me to the original point of this script, what would I have done, were there to be a pretty girl in the seat next to me on a train or a bus? Ogling aside, if she did have a conversation, would I be able to respond in a civilized manner instead of unnerving quiet?

So, the question is: what’s next? After the ice is broken, how does one proceed toward small talk? Is it just me or are there other guys with similar problems? The only thing I know as of now is what the legendary joker said: “I am like a mad-dog chasing after a car, I wouldn’t know what to do, if I actually caught up with one…”

The Dark Knight

2010-01-03T20:08:00.007-08:00

The India-Sri Lanka test series has concluded. After seventy seven years of test cricket and a hundred and one victories, finally, we have reached the top most rung of the ladder. Kudos, to the Indian team! This series completes yet another series in what has truly been a golden period for the Indian national team, and what a pleasure it has been to grow up watching probably, the greatest quartet India has ever produced. And before I succumb to the temptation of going into great detail about the casual arrogance of Ganguly, or the Very Very Specialness of Laxman, or the (for the lack of phrases) Tendulkarness of Sachin, all I am trying to do is merely, mention Dravid.

When words fail to measure the extent of one’s achievement; when expressions sound as ridiculous as the syllables of an unknown tongue; when comments are conceived by the utterances of imperfect knowledge; when a life as common, as bare and brown as a box of earth transcends beyond the space where fame and achievement intersect; when the absence of prodigious talent is outdone by concentration, forbearance and patient application, ‘LEGEND’, is probably the only befitting appellation one can be granted. Rahul Sharad Dravid, has gone from being just another cricketer, to being granted a family member status in almost every cricket loving house in India, whose simple powers of concentration, charm and grace have held test cricket audiences in thraldom. Here is my attempt at paying a humble tribute.

June 22, ‘96: Harold Dennis Bird, fondly known as Dicky Bird, stood in what was to be his last match. A stolid, Rahul Dravid wore the Indian cap for the first time, against England, at the Home of Cricket. Six hours and three minutes and some six boundaries later, atleast one of which was a drive through cover point; elbow high, collar up, left foot forward, toes pointing in the direction the ball was meant to head, right knee on the ground, and the lower lip firmly between his teeth, ‘The Wall’, had laid the first brick in building the foundation to what was going to develop into a fortress eventually. But the talking point of the match was going to be, Sourav Ganguly. In the following test; accuracy, ease and grace hardly describe his innings of eighty-four, with the tail-enders. This time, Tendulkar along with Ganguly would rule the roost. But, don’t worry, Dravid would get used to it.

Since then, Rahul Dravid has been the backbone of most Indian victories, both at home and overseas. On a typically South African pitch, he managed to break his jinx and made a hundred; his first major knock at number three. His eighty, in the second innings, almost set India up for almost their first victory in the land of the infamous chokers. But a defiant century by Daryll Cullinan and a sixteen ball, twenty five minute exhibition of sanity from Alan Donald saved the day. Having scored five out of his first six hundreds in different countries, he was well on his way to become the first batsman to score hundreds in all test playing countries.

With the turn of the century, Dravid turned a new page in his career. There is nothing that has not been said about the epic at Eden Gardens in 2001, which I can dare to say, but it cannot be left unmentioned. After having brutally collapsed, forced to follow-on, all the big guns back in the hut still being forty three runs adrift Australia’s first innings total, one can merely speculate the source of inspiration to the bold, beautiful, methodical and ingenious partnership that followed. The hideous thought of an uncivilized battering flirted athwart the musings of passionate followers; but within their pure, uncluttered and gentle minds it could find no rest. The result: the Australians were crushed by a hundred and seventy runs; Steve Waugh’s dream of conquering the ‘final frontier’ had turned into an endless nightmare.

Four hundreds in four innings, three against England, was another bit for the history books. He was only the second batsman after Sir Everton Weekes to have achieved the feat. In Headingly, on a typically English day, heavy, dark clouds hanging in the sky, winds stinging like a frozen lash, India being put in to bat, had lost Sehwag. Dravid combined with Bangar to construct a workman like one hundred and forty eight, every lineament of which was clear as in the sculptor’s thought, laying a platform for the swashbucklers like Tendulkar and Ganguly to leave Nasser Hussain’s Englishmen feeling like sun-rent clouds over the quiet Leeds landscape.

Riding on a belligerent two forty two by Ponting, the Australians looked like they were perched on a pretty peak, from whence to plot their hunt on the visitors, and India reduced to eighty five for four, looked ready for an all-so-familiar surrender, at Adelaide in December 2003. But, the Aussies had yet to get past the formidable barrier of the Laxman-Dravid nexus. The pair once again combined to bring back nightmares from Calcutta and steered India from the depths of despair to safety. An inspired spell from Agarkar and an unchallenged seventy two from Dravid sealed the fate for the Aussies once again.

India-Pakistan matches have an unctuously war-like quality to them. So, when India toured Pakistan in early ’04, nothing short of acute, honest fearlessness was expected from them. The series had see-sawed back and forth with the momentum shifting between the two sides, and Pakistan, having won the previous test clearly had the edge. Dravid’s herculean two hundred and seventy ensured that India would emerge victorious and register their first ever series win across the border.

In a low scoring thriller at Kingston, in mid ’06, India had sinfully collapsed to a paltry two hundred. Despite having salvaged a ninety seven run lead, they successfully collapsed for a second time, having piled only a hundred and seventy more runs. Both innings together, Dravid had labored almost ten hours, and had been like the purging sunlight of simple, clear poetry exhibiting unaccountably, eloquent strokeplay. India were set up to register their first ever series victory in the West Indies.

Here are some facts/stats some of us may or may not know:
• Has been involved in the most century partnerships in Test history - 80 (03 Dec 2009).
• Scored nearly 23% of the total runs put up by India (with a batting average of 102.84) in the 21 Test matches won under Ganguly's captaincy. This is the highest percentage contribution by any batsman in Test cricket history in matches won under a single captain where the captain has won more than 20 Tests
• Has played 150 innings of 94 tests at number 3. He has scored more than 8000 runs at this position. Both feats are world records.
• One of the only two Indians to score 5 double hundreds. (each bigger than the previous 200* vs Zimbabwe, 217 vs England, 222 vs New Zealand, 233 vs Australia, 270 vs Pakistan).

And for those of us who even had a semblance of a doubt about his One-Day ability:
• Is the 3rd Indian (6th in World) to score more than 10,000 ODI runs.
• The only batsman to have been involved in two ODI partnerships exceeding 300 runs.
• Involved in the highest partnership in the history of ODI cricket with a 331 run partnership along with Sachin Tendulkar vs New Zealand at Hyderabad in 1999-2000.
• Was the leading run scorer in the 1999 World Cup with 461 runs.
• Was only the second wicketkeeper-batsman to score an ODI hundred in the World Cup.
• Was the second batsman after Mark Waugh to score back-to-back hundreds in the World Cup

Dravid has undoubtedly been India’s best No.3, notwithstanding, the competition from the likes of Mohd. Azharuddin whose breathtakingly magical wristwork, murderous square-cuts and silken drives were called upon more than once; Or Sanjay Manjerakar whose amiable, genial and charitable solidity and strokeplay were pressed into services more than once; Or the more contemporary batsman like Yuvraj Singh with powers to dazzle, amaze and overpower audiences and oppositions alike; Or the ridiculously bombastic, exuberant and unsymmetrical hammering from the likes of M.S. Dhoni. As the impending retirement of the Legends draws ever so close with every passing series, one, can only wonder weather the crude, perverse and rebellious infusion of reckless youth that will be called upon in the near future will embrace the opportunity with yearning eagerness or magnify the yawning space created by the absence of the legendary No.3.

As the end of an era approaches, one can only hope that creeds like ragged clothes are laid aside and accolades, finally, be bestowed where they are deserved. But, then maybe ‘Dark Knights’ are predestined to a great circumstance smitten and scourged but their souls invested with the dignity of morality leave behind a presence as eternal as the skies.

Flashes of 'In sanity!'

2009-12-17T23:34:00.003-08:00

My stay here has now been extended infinitely. So, I could either, go on enunciating untiring platitudes and fallacies about the vast plethora of olive grayness and the unrelenting chill of gloom all around me, be a sycophant to the vanity and conceit of vulgar, insular self-satisfaction, or embrace the strange frankness of clinical brutality and just suck it up. Since, silent endurance is as phantasmagorical as an absurd reverie; I will ignore the proprieties of etiquette and just say I am trying to stick through it. That being said, I am now coerced into following an unintelligent routine: succumbing to the tediousness of inactivity. So, I am just going to continue transferring the burden of my boredom.

As has often been the case lately, I never quite know where to begin and what to follow it through with. Far sighted continuity of thought has never been my forte, so once again I shall just begin with the first ‘excuse for a thought’ that occurs to me.

The word ‘first’ brings to mind a flood of nostalgia: A newest first crush, a first toe-crusher, soft reverberations of a meaningful melody that touched the soul for the first time, a first six, the blunt rusticity of a first compliment, a first shirt with six buttons, a first dance, a first commitment in the vanishing thoughtlessness of youth, a first gentle glance/smile of tacit acquiescence, and so forth. Exactly mid-way through the twenties, in what is supposed to be the prime of one’s youth; these sublime memories seem more like anachronisms of a self that was lost somewhere between being sixteen and twenty-five, to some unforeseen vicissitudes.

The beasts of burden have taken over since. From being one among the also-rans to being ‘the one’, to being ‘someone’ to being ‘no-one’; an identity crisis has taken over. Suddenly realizing many things about me I didn’t know existed in me and not necessarily liking all of them. The ease with which insecurity has taken over: scared of not knowing where I will be in a year or two; petrified, because I hardly know where I am now, and the dawning that I have not scaled an inch in the rat-race in a year is no consolation.

My job: Aside from the fact that I haven’t had the necessity to go into a scrooge mode of living, is nowhere close to what I thought I deserved to be doing. But, then again, my evaluation of my own worth is probably skewed by my bias. When I do catch a break, whenever that might be, the fact that I have to start at the bottom, playing catch up all the time is a terrifying thought.

In a life where change is the only constant, suddenly, change is the enemy and in trying to cling on to the past with dear life, realizing that the past is drifting farther away, there is nothing to do but stay where I am or move forward. Constantly attempting not to judge people based on any self laid precincts, I find myself passing judgments, and my opinions have got far stronger and strangely weaker. What qualifies me as an acceptable judge, I do not know. I ask myself; do not care enough to find out. Unfathomably insecure one moment, cloyingly secure the next. Laugh and cry with the greatest force of life. Waking up with a quenchless despair of dissatisfaction and sleeping with a satisfied tiredness in the mind and body.

Sometimes, getting my heart broken and wondering how someone I loved so much could do such irreparable damage and how I could let someone have so much power over me. Sometimes: lying in bed and wondering why I can't meet anyone decent enough that I want to get to know better. Sometimes: content with everything that I am! Sometimes: dancing with random strangers for hours-on-end, with no purpose. Sometimes: one night stands and random hook ups look cheap. Sometimes: getting wasted and acting like an idiot looks pathetic. Going through the same emotions and questions over and over, and talking to friends about the same topics never being able to make a decision. Worrying about loans, money, the future and making a decent life for me, so I can face myself in the mirror someday. Sometimes: screaming into a pillow, sometimes, just saying it is all alright! Sometimes: wanting to start over.

If I have to have another lifetime: I want to live my next life backwards. You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old age home feeling better every day. Then you get kicked out for being too healthy. Enjoy your retirement and collect your pension. Then when you start work, you get a gold watch on your first day. You work 40 years until you're too young to work. You get ready for College: drink alcohol, party, and you're generally promiscuous. Then you go to primary school, you become a kid, you play, and you have no responsibilities. Then you become a baby, and then you spend your last 9 months floating peacefully in luxury, in spa-like conditions - central heating, room service on tap, and finally... You finish off as an orgasm…

As for this lifetime, hopefully, this is rock bottom. Atleast, that way I know which way I have to head!

An ode to....

2009-11-22T20:55:00.009-08:00

“Cricket is our religion!”

Almost every little boy in India at some point in his life wanted to grow up to be a cricketer. Fifteen or so years hence, here we are, some of us playing taped ball cricket, some playing seasoned ball (the authentic INDIAN term for the cricket ball), and some of us just wishing we could still play like we used to. This is just an attempt to put together some of the innumerable moments from years gone by.

Like always, I do not have a distinctive, organized flow of ideas to pen down, so I am just going to go with the chaotic thoughtlessness of spontaneity. Inception seems like a good starting point. My very first memory of playing cricket, per se, is as a boy of seven. I had with me a boost bat, with a picture of Sachin playing a punch through the covers off the back foot. Along with the bat came the first power struggle, I am sure those of us who owned bats as kids would concur with me here; the owner of the bat had to be kept happy, because, if he was messed with nobody else could bat. So, I had my say for a while. Sumanth, Sujeeth, Sunil, Bhanuprakash and I used to share our play ground with workers at the brick firing place, a grinding mill, a sole tree upon which DS and I sat yelling “Hodi tini” to passing strangers and, pigs on a ground superfluous with filth. Enough said about that.

Fast forward two years: Venue: Terrace, Ashoka Gardens, Madras. Team: DS, Kutti Praveen, 9(read ombodu tamil)-Karthik, and me. I don’t remember if I am missing someone. Accessories: 2-rupees rubber ball, a wooden excuse for a bat (both sides could be used as the blade). Rules: under arm bowling, one-pitch-one-hand catch out, side walls and the wall behind the bowler were the boundaries. My first lessons on how to kill the ball were learnt here. Ever since, consciously or otherwise, big brother has had a huge influence on how I play my game.

A year hence: Venue: Bangalore, Gymkhana grounds: My formal introduction to seasoned ball cricket. I should take this chance to point out that this was the only time in my life that I ever played with proper left hander’s gear. My first year at the coaching-camp was not particularly promising, I was still finding myself, I had completely figured out I was better off batting left handed, bowling loopy, fill-in leg-breaks and fielding somewhere agility was not necessary. My best batting effort was a crawling three runs from twenty one balls and I was run-out going for a single I should have completed walking. Bowling was a different story, as it turned out, I could be a part of the playing eleven, slotted to bat at nine or ten, but bowl the full quota of five overs and be expected to get two or more wickets.

The following year however, was a completely different story. I failed to land a single leg-break, so bad that my coach actually asked me to stop bowling. A crazy idea, to send me in as a pinch hitter at three, chasing a hundred a forty, gave me my first glimpse of batting aptitude, I made only eighteen runs, but I faced six balls; the best part: I had scored more runs in one inning than I had the whole season, the year before. The next time I went in at three, we were chasing two forty five from thirty five overs and had quickly been reduced to seven for three. We went on to win with fourteen balls and seven wickets to spare; I had quietly made 84 from 88 not out, also featuring my first leather ball six! Then, I stopped playing seasoned ball cricket, for some reason.

Summer 1997: Enter Vikas, Harish, Venky, Bala, Vinay (Kumar & B.K), Anil (whatever little I can do with the bat today, I owe it to him), Budda, Chile, Sodu and a whole list of others. Begin: The passion, the commitment. Well I will call it madness…
The first time I bowled (medium pace, by now), I was called for chucking and I didn’t get another chance till four years later, more of that later. The game: B.P.I.P.S ICSE vs. B.P.I.P.S state board. Bala and I opened. Back then, aggression was violent display of fury. The guys that made no dexterous attempts at concealing: Mr. Vikas and yours truly. The guys that bore the brunt: everyone else. I remember this one occasion when I was given out, I was so livid, I smashed the bat into the stumps and a stump went flying into Bala’s face. Mr. Vikas had to keep the score all the time, irrespective of whether he was asked to or not and any discord there met the wrath of Zeus’ favourite disciple.
Every Sunday morning like clockwork, we would be at the grounds at eight, some of us riding our cycles, others having dads/bros dropping them off, other arriving by bus. Any later than that, we’d have to scout one play ground after another just to find a patch to play on. Then we’d play in the scorching (by Bangalore standards) sun. If there weren’t enough players, we always had the luxury of defecting to the comfort of practicing defense in Vikas’ hallway or playing in the driveway of my house to the audience of the sole girl in the third floor of the opposite building or play for hours-on-end in conservancy.

Twenty five highlights from the days, in no particular order:
1) The bat: Legend.
2) Harish’s infamous drop-the-ball-dead defense.
3) Budda’s seventeen run last over, all of which he gave away in extras.
4) Vinay’s catch at mid-on, he took running in from deep mid-wicket.
5) Vinay’s four/six of the last ball, which till date is undecided.
6) Vikas’ century in the confines of conservancy.
7) Madan’s epic fall off the bicycle, after the strain of three straight wins at PP grounds.
8) Bala’s 4 sixes in 4 balls against Megha at PP.
9) Vikas’ blinder keeping to Zulu to dismiss Petu.
10) Harish’s lazy ass drives off Marthas.
11) Venky’s Bevanly finishes.
12) Anil’s speeches from behind the stumps.
13) Big bro DS’ broken toe in his only appearance in Bangalore.
14) Vikas’ red face (scoring disputes).
15) Bala’s “Let’s have something da!” (hands in drink like formation)
16) Manoj’s grunting at bowling even slower balls.
17) Wasim Khan’s incorrigible excuses.
18) Vikas’ straight six of Giri, just to prove a point.
19) Petu hammering Zulu for 5 sixes in an over before being bowled last ball.
20) Bala’s bowling action.
21) The unbelievable number of wickets Sri Harsha got (his guard: right arm super slow).
22) Madan’s stunner at long off at PP.
23) Zulu’s straight six off Marthas at PP.
24) Zulu’s diving catch at short covers at Shadypuram.
25) Zulu’s unbeaten 66 in a partnership of 98 with Bala.

Cast:
Budda: Vikram Natrajan
Chile: Vinayak Vishwanath
Sodu: Vivek Pawar
Venky: Venkatesh Balachandar
Bala: Balakrishnan Shankaran
Petu: Sandeep HD
Zulu: Yours Truly…

Angrez hume chodd gaye, hum 'angrezi' chhod gaye!

2009-11-16T21:41:00.005-08:00

Since I have a reputation of being a bit of a witless-excuse-for-intelligentsia/a-dreary-wanna-be-moonstruck-charmless-romantic, I am making an attempt to go out of character and do something slightly different.

I had absolutely nothing to do, which is not that uncommon, so I decided to check if I could still spell like I did when English was a mandatory subject at school. As it turns out, I “can’t” or, is it ‘cannot’? From a list of thirty simple words, I could only manage to spell a half of those correctly. I have always been secretly proud of my so called ‘command’ over the language; and I was greatly disappointed to find that my capacity for orthography has declined so dramatically. So, I am making an attempt to explore the effects MS Word/SMS/IMs and other technological aides on our/my most commonly used language. My source is an e-mail a room-mate sent me a while back, ergo, the material that follows is not completely original.

It is not that difficult to understand, though some words could be spelt phonetically, most can’t be, because they do not follow common laws of orthography, as challenging words in most languages can be. Since, we are non-native speakers of English, setting aside the fact that English can be a funny language; our sentence-formation is loosely based on translation from thoughts in the native language. Hence, words like memento (momento), committee, harass (haraas), embarrass (commonly pronounced em-ba-raas), minuscule (miniscule), dais (dias), manoeuvre (Microsoft Word suggest this be spelt as ‘maneuver’) are easily misspelled/misspelt (again, Word suggests this is ‘misspelled’). Anyway, I do not want to sound like a drab English/Grammar class, so I will get right to the point.

It is not just the spelling say hello to the pronunciations, to quote anonymous: “forget the Gujarati ‘snakes’ (snacks) and ‘takes’ (tax). Or the Bengali ‘brij’ (breeze) and ‘shit of paper’ (sheet of paper); or the infamous south Indian ungles and aundies; or the Punjabi celebration of ‘birdays’ (birthdays), especially if they fall on ‘Sacherdays’ (Saturdays) and the person concerned is of good ‘krakter’ (character)”. WTF cares anymore, since, misspelling is kewler and disregarding basic, correct, grammatical formation is the hip thing. What could be more worse than the effect showing among the youth so ostentatiously (check out orkut)? A small crowd of people I know would find absolutely nothing wrong with the sentence above. Well, I guess those of us who can are just more luckier than the rest. It is almost vulgarly obvious when I read the sentence all over again, but good luck explaining why you cannot have a comparative comparison going together.

Advertisements say: “offer open till stocks last”, never “while”. Till is used to signify termination: ‘till death do us part’, while is used to signify duration: ‘we will love each other while we live’. Fewer and fewer of us tell the difference between ‘fewer’ and ‘lesser’. ‘You’re’ and ‘your’, WFT, what difference does it make? It doesn’t. We will use apostrophe as we will or as in our wont! Or should it be “won’t”? When ‘it is’, went from being “it’s” to ‘its’ (originally a pronoun), I guess d tym has cum for d children of a lesser god 2 stop worrying abt wat is misspelt r pronounced wrongly nd worry abt d kewler things in lyf.

But then what do I know, I am just a delusional fool that is represents a small cabal of fewer and fewer people, or is it lesser and lesser people?? I don’t know anymore!

Once bitten, twice shy??

2009-11-10T20:26:00.002-08:00

I have been wanting to write for a while now, and since I am sitting pointlessly embraced by the gloomy Minneapolis winter, what better way to de-stress than by doing what I like doing best. That being said, now I don’t really know what I want to write about. I could rant. That is a good option; I could rant on about being a drive tester, about the few ups and the many downs of the stuff, that I and other sons/ daughters (these days) of destiny’s insane fury, have been doing for a living; or I could pick on a quote/a famous cliché: The only direction you could possibly go when you’ve hit rock bottom, is up. But here is food for thought: how do you know how far down is rock bottom?? Or I could rant on about how life is unfair. To quote Bill Gates: “Life is unfair. Get used to it”, it is easy to say that when you enough money to buy the world. So blah…. But, that would be tortuous to me and anyone that might be misfortunate enough to read this. So, let me try, I am making an effort to induce endorphins so eventually I will end up feeling better. Hopefully! Here goes nothing…

Statutory warning: All the characters and incidents that follow are completely factual and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely…….. INTENTIONAL!

A very long time back, back when I had enough hair to hide full length pencils, I was travelling alone by train for the first time; a journey from Pune to Bangalore, lasting a good twenty hours. Most of my journey was eventless, a very normal train journey. But, just as I was about to disembark I saw a very pretty girl. She had a peculiar face, strangely attractive, a hawk’s beak for a nose and a very unnerving beauty-spot on it; her hair in a high ponytail with a fringe in front. Just as the train was squealing to a halt, she exited the platform and looked behind, for no apparent reason. Her eyes caught mine; it was a blank honest stare and she looked at me as if I was standing there bare. And then she left without looking again. After that brief encounter, I felt like some part of me had changed, in a way I could not put my finger on.

“Sometimes, we find our true direction in the winds of change..”

Which brings us to the act-II. After graduation, infact a day after, friends and family had scheduled a trip to the temples in Irving. It had been an excellent year, nothing spectacular, to quote another pessimistic cliché: “No news; is good news”, summed up my year. So, I was at the temple praying, honestly, desperately beseeching god to heed. And in walked the prettiest ABD girl I had seen till date. She wore a delicately crafted black ghagra; she was the dusk, quite literally, and she had almonds for eyes. The most beautiful pair of eyes I had seen yet. Very carefully she trotted to the front of the crowd and bent her head down in a silent prayer, before opening her eyes and kissing her palms joined in a pranaam. Then she walked over to the next deity and repeated the whole process. We had to leave, as the authorities at the other temple would not wait for my philanderer soul to haul itself there after content letching. I had gone through my process of praying at the other temple and in walked the very same girl, what were the odds; it was a sign from god! And I stared at her in incorrigible awe. She twisted her head gracefully, in a very fast motion, flicking a small flock of hair from her eyes. The damp hair caught her mascara on the way out and drew a faint line on the outside of her left eye. She went over her prayer routine and on her way out; she looked towards where I was seated and smiled very gently, and left. Was I in love with a stranger I was never going to meet again?

I beat-boxed you into a corner
And sometimes I wonder
If the reverberations
From the memory shards
Still haunt the
Capillary walls
Of my present…

Final Act: It has now been a year since the temple girl. Not much is different, except maybe the fact that I now have more hair than I did at the temple, which surprising as it maybe, goes to say that my treatment is working. Kudos to naturopathy! So, here I am in Minneapolis fresh out of San Diego wishing I wasn’t. It is another opportunity to get on my feet for a while, which has been a feel good factor so far, but I am blue. What has changed? I don’t know! I am more home-sick now than I have ever been. For the first time since I was sixteen I have butterflies in my stomach, a weird sense of anticipation, an inexplicable feeling of joy and sorrow at the same time and a tendency of rambling on about I don’t even know what! I keep replaying conversations to myself involuntarily, my pulse races and for no apparent reason. I think and my pupils dilate. And my oxytocin levels are running high!

The sun rays that bounced off her face were sanctified,
Because she glowed in a halo, she was chastity personified,
The winds sought refuge in her silken tresses,
She was the angel with an infectious smile on her face.
Uncomplicated yet obscure,
Born from the ruins, fading into dust.

Checked by Reality...

2008-10-18T16:40:00.008-07:00

“That is the thing about egotists. They do not have a necessity to talk about others”, somebody said. Hold onto that thought, we shall come back to that. Ever since I can recall, I have been as egotistical as one could be. Egoism or egotism or more commonly known as selfishness is often misconstrued as a negative, destructive trait. I beg to differ. The following are the definitions for egoism, egotism and selfishness from some of the frequently used sources of reference:

1) Egoism: an ethical theory that treats self-interest as the foundation of morality (Oxford dictionary).
2) Egotism: an exaggerated sense of self-importance (Webster's dictionary).
3) Selfishness: arising from concern with one's own welfare or advantage in disregard of others (Webster's dictionary).

My point being: the closest, any of these definitions comes to harming the idea of preservation of human interest is the third, stating, one is concerned about his welfare in disregard of others interests. Is self-interest not the basis of all human acts? The lone driving force for all human deed is happiness, I am sure most would agree. Happiness comes from satisfaction; satisfaction is a consequence of some form of triumph; usually a goal realized. Is the 'goal' not the simplest form of self-interest? Where exactly does one draw a line to demarcate to oneself that he has surpassed the acceptable limits of self-importance? There is a very thin line between self-esteem and ego, but is it possible to explicitly point where the precincts of self-esteem lead into the realms of egotism? There are no gray zones, it is all white or black, yet, so many of us have comfortably found ourselves an easier path. The one in between, and choose to coin this particular trait as being vicious. If one does not have self-esteem, if one does not take pride in his own achievement is he capable of appreciating the magnitude of another being’s achievement? Self-esteem, pride, ego are just different expression used for the same end, the concept of “I”. Ego - the self especially as contrasted with another self, if there be no pride in what one is; if there be no distinction of oneself from another, is there not an identity crisis?

I have digressed completely from whence I started, so getting back to my original story. Even egotists find the need to talk about others. I was on a plane recently, headed to California to meet my cousin. It was a five hour flight and I had had a good night’s sleep. Therefore, I had only two ways of entertaining myself, I had either to talk to the person sitting next to me or look out of the window. Since the idea of looking out of the window for five hours seemed almost impossible, I turned to the person sitting next to me, without being obvious and looked at him from head to toe. One of the things that comes naturally to me from being the person I am, is the obvious need to judge a person from the way they are clad. This person was wearing a pleated cotton trouser like the ones that were famous when my father was in his early twenties and believe you me that was eons ago, and a checked cotton full-sleeved shirt. The sleeves were folded half way up his fore-arms and his shirt was not tucked in, and he wore brown shoes. He looked ‘desi’ and seemed like he might be in his late twenties or early thirties. I looked at him again, from head to toe and then looked at myself. I was wearing a branded American t-shirt with a smart caption, a pair of light denims, a pair of sports shoes that burned a hole in my pocket, and last but not the least my novel hammer mustache. It took me a minute to picture both of us together and then contrast us.

Just as I was beginning to consider the option of looking out of the window for the rest of the flight, a compelling desire to sound condescending took over and I turned to him and spoke:
“Hi”, I said. “Are you from around here?”
“No. I am from India”, he said. I was quite surprised with his honest response; I was half expecting to hear which American state he was from.
“Oh. I see. What part of India?” I asked, trying to sound as genuine as I could.
“Hyderabad”, he replied. “What about you?”
“I am from Pune”, I said.
“So? Is this your first time here?”
“I work in California”, he said. That caught my interest, my first thought was, "THIS GUY WORKS HERE?"
“Oh! Really?” I said, it did not sound good. I was sure my tone had betrayed my face.
“Yes. Really”, he said with a smile. It wasn’t until an hour into the conversation that I found out he had done his engineering from IIT-K, had done his Masters' from a very reputable American university, then gone on to do a Business Administration degree from Stanford and last of all, he ran his own company. He was thirty two years of age and owned his business. Here was a person, who had established himself in an international market, half the way around the globe from his home and still said: “I am from India”. I was just about beginning to digest that when he told me his story.

Just before he finished, he said: “Always stand up for what you believe. People will call you selfish, self-centered, egotistical, and every other possible synonym they can manage. If you have the courage to dream, then you must possess the endurance to chase after it. Take pride in who you are and what you do. There is no point in doing something you are not proud of, and not being proud of that which you have done. The only righteous thing to do is to do the right thing. The question as to what may be right and what may not be is relative. You cannot please all of the people all of the time, you can only please some of the people at any given point in time. The only choice you have is whether or not you want to please yourself all of the time.”

“Altruism is as fantastical as Utopia, every human act is driven by some self-interested motive. Selflessness a word coined by a large majority that is unwilling to accept the consequence of brutal honesty. The only honesty is the bare naked pride that one feels in accepting that which he is.” But then again this is just me; all I am is an egotist.