A Rush of Blood

Introducing

2011-09-10T11:06:00.000-07:00

http://kanangill.blogspot.com

Kanan Gill is sadly misogynistic and ostensibly narcissistic, but he has a damn fine sense of humor. In the age of comic blogs with zero literary value instead offering a mishmash of narrow minded pop cultural references that betray their absolute inability to articulate beyond meaningless urban slang, Kanan is well worth your time.

And please comment on his damn blog.

Cricket at Lords

2011-06-28T20:44:00.000-07:00

Through the past few years, I’ve stood my ground. While the hordes about me bemoaned the end of an era, I looked forward to the beginning of a new one. While the hordes picked on errors of technique, I defiantly pointed at the latent talent clearly visible in the new lot. But there comes a time when one must face facts and bitter as it may, there will never again be a Sachin-Rahul-Laxman (SaRaMan, if you will) in international cricket. And that makes me sad in a way only people who’ve shared glorious Saturday afternoons over the past decade engrossed in the finer complexities of a session’s play could possibly understand. Picking only thirteen reasons why there will never be another Sachin-Rahul-Laxman is much like having to pick one reason why the great Baba’s fast at Ramlila was funny. But in the interest of brevity being the soul of wit and all that (so misquoted, so misquoted):

1. The straight drives, the cover drives and the wrist-breaking flicks.

2. The cover drive, oh the cover drive.

3. It has been said before and will be said again, and again, for ever more. There is no better sight in cricket than Sachin stroking the ball and any lover of the game would no doubt think of him as Plato once famously said of Socrates: Above all, I thank God that I was born in the age of Socrates.

4. They walk to the crease as they would into a zoo, with a gentle curiosity and all the composure in the world. A certain calm overcomes you as you watch them take guard, much like you are neck-deep in some good old Romantic verse (oh my heart with pleasure fills!) On the other hand, dear Virat walks in looking like Dr. Hannibal before breakfast. Don’t even get me started on the skipper.

5. The young lot has it all- talent, determination, energy- but oh, they do not have the one thing that cannot be taught, that does not come “with time”. They do not have class. They retaliate with fire when a smile is so much more becoming. They hit the ball rather than guide it.

6. Much has been made of the young dudes’ travails against quality swing and short-pitched bowling. But the biggest difference there isn’t the technique, it’s the patience. Sachin rarely forces the issue, preferring to buckle down and pick off the loosest of loose balls. While Laxman is more flamboyant, he often knows exactly which balls to play, given his strengths. And Dravid, oh well. Let’s just say that Sunil smiles benevolently every time Rahul steps to the crease. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that dear Gautam is not going to spend 600+ minutes at the crease, ever (WC finals anybody?)

7. Because it was an age in which one of the slowest players in history was the fastest to score 9000 runs.

8. SaRaMan’s attitude to the game was transcendental. A test match became less about winning and more about playing cricket. The will to win is often overstated in cricket, especially in Test matches. It used to be about cricket first and winning later. For this lot, it isn’t as much about the game as it is about winning. And that’s a sad thing, even if it makes the team more successful.

9. Because no Indian batsman will likely score 241 runs without playing a cover drive again, especially Down Under. Not Virat, not Raina, not Vijay and definitely not the latest “next-Sachin” candidate, Cheteshwar Pujara. If there ever was a testament to Sachin’s respect for the game, that innings was it.

10. Because when they played a sublime shot, you weren’t astonished. It was the order of things, the way they were, the way they always would be. A Gambhir pull shot, however, can go anywhere between fine leg and deep mid-wicket and is often a story in itself.

11. Because in every small pocket of the country, boys copied every last thing to do with them, right down to the abdomen-guard-adjustment and really, trying to imitate Sehwag is probably the easiest way to a short cricket career, be it in the gully or the ground. Perhaps Virat will be that role model, but didn’t your heart sink a little when you read that?

12. Because “Sachin century” is a unifying phrase in India in a way that “Gavaskar century” is not and “Virat century” will never be.

13. That cover drive, by God that cover drive.

Death of the author

2011-05-26T08:18:00.000-07:00

Before I start on the matter of what qualifies one as a 'writer', one quick diversion:

Book dedications really bring soul to a book. When I see a stirring dedication, I'm inclined to get on board any book and stay course through however tempestuous sailing. When I think of really good dedications, E. Hornung's gem from the first Raffles book comes to mind:

To A.C.D
This form of flattery

Hornung, for the uninitiated, was Arthur Conan Doyle's son-in-law. Following the success of Sherlock Holmes, Hornung created the character of Raffles, a "gentleman's thief" who is something of a doppelganger to Holmes.

Another interesting dedication is from Howard Jacobsen's The Finkler Question, which reads:

To the memory of three dear friends, great givers of laughter

To Terry Collits (1940-2009)
Tony Errington (1944-2009)
Graham Rees (1944-2009)

Who now will set the table on a roar?

I can't think of a better In memoriam for a friend. The Finkler Question is among the funniest novels I've read. On a side note, why do columns keep saying TFQ is the first comic novel to win the Booker since Amis' The Old Devils? Vernon God Little was uproariously funny, which, in my humble opinion, should qualify it as a comic novel.

Now to an essential question that I've been tossing about in my head for the past so many weeks.

What qualifies one as a "writer"? Lord Byron wrote, during a rare sane (and sober) moment, "If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad". While writing clearly didn't help him on that front, it is pertinent to ask the question: is that what qualifies a writer? One who has a pressing need (let's just do away with the hyperbole) to put thoughts to paper? But that would mean the act of writing in itself is the sole purpose of writing, which is largely untrue for anyone not named J.D. Salinger.

Or is a writer qualified by creativity, the ability to create a world nobody else can? In the words of Anais Nin, the role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say. But then again, given what we know about the individual talent, it is safe to assume that everybody's got a different voice, but everybody's not a competent writer nor does everyone show an inclination towards writing.

Or is a writer merely a provider of services, an entertainer? The purist in me rebels at the thought, but that's an important question in today's context. How arty is writing compared to, say, being a clown? Then again, literature has always concerned itself with depth of human understanding, so perhaps that qualifies a writer.

People are always telling me that one can't be a writer, it's something that's already in you. A famous argument against teaching creative writing in universities is that one can't teach creative writing. That's true only in part. One can, in fact, be a writer without really knowing if it's in them or inside them or into them or whatever else. One can't become creative though. Writing is taught and writing is learnt. One can't write well without being well-read, a testament to the learning process. One can write creatively, just not with form or real depth. Suffice it to say that while creativity comes from within (to use a cliche favorite) writing is, in fact, a technical skill.

All said and done, I think a writer is anybody for whom words rearrange themselves into sentences as soon as they see paper. In other words, a writer needs to be able to just write

Tom Hooper: A New Narrative

2011-03-26T05:15:00.000-07:00

As the stardust from the Academy Awards settles, a small gold nugget has gained some sheen. Tom Hooper, Oscar winning director of The King’s Speech, is an interesting new narrator in the medley of auteurs who have risen to the fore in the last few years. The King’s Speech was met with emotional reception throughout theatres in the U.K; rousing a feeling of patriotism that British cinema has been reluctant to touch for decades.

The King’s Speech works because of its context- a king who must overcome his inner demons to lend voice to a nation “at its gravest hour”, a nation known for its impassivity and stoicism outside of a football field. At the very heart of the movie’s resonance, however, is the relationship shared between Bertie (Colin Firth) and his speech therapist Lionel (Geoffrey Rush).

The notion of a man in power overcoming great odds to lead his people to victory/freedom/success is an oft used narrative in cinematic tradition (see Braveheart, Miracle, Avatar etc.) Sometimes, this man is flawed and must overcome his flaws and let his “heart of gold” guide him (see Schindler’s List, The Lion King etc.) Hooper has created a new narrative for this archetype, mixing the “buddy movie” with the notion of the powerful but solitary individual.

In The King’s Speech, King George VI/ the Duke of York/ Bertie is a man of character, a quintessentially British individual in every aspect except for his quick temper and a stammer. He is strong-willed, marked by dry humor and a readiness to take responsibility for his actions. However, he doesn’t believe he is fit to be king, though he wants to lead the people of Britain as the threat of war looms close. For the people of the nation to place their faith in him, he must first have faith in himself. Enter Lionel, a failed actor yet excellent orator with unorthodox methods of speech therapy. Lionel helps Bertie with his speech defect by making him come to terms with his tumultuous relationships with his father and elder brother as well as his identity as the heir/King of England. The point to be noted here is that Lionel is instrumental, even indispensable, in Bertie’s treatment. This power equation is best characterized by a scene towards the end of the movie where both are seated in Lionel’s study- Lionel is seated on a chair of higher rise than the King of England.

The blueprint for the Bertie- Lionel relationship can be seen in The Damned United (2009), the only other work by Hooper worth considering as that of an auteur. The Damned United is the story of Brian Clough’s (Michael Sheen) tenure as coach of Leeds United and Derby County, as well as his game of one-upsmanship with coaching great Don Revie. Brian is, again, a flawed yet strong-willed and capable coach in late 1960’s England who scripts a Cinderella run for Derby County with his assistant Peter Taylor (Timothy Spall). He then leaves Derby County to take over the reins at the number one football club in England, Leeds United, to prove that he can do a better job at coaching them than their former coach, Don. He struggles without his assistant Peter, letting his ego overcome him. The final scene of the movie has Brian on one knee, telling Peter to “Please, please, baby, take me back”.

The fact that Hooper’s British is important in understanding this new style of characterization. Hollywood, like the rest of America, takes to glorifying the individual and individual accomplishments, something that can be seen in every coaching movie over the last few decades (Miracle, Glory Road, Hoosiers, Remember the Titans, Any Given Sunday etc.)Essentially, Hooper has created a two-man narrative, where the success of one is due to the other.

Another important feature of Hooper’s narration is his startling ability to completely engage his actors in his direction. Michael Sheen delivers a tremendous performance as Brian Clough, as does Colin Firth as King George VI (honestly, the only thing that separated the two performances acting wise was Firth’s added bonus of a stammer). This is not merely incidental. It is clear that Hooper handles his characters with great care, as evidenced with almost affectionate shots of them. His lead characters are filmed in a medley of shots throughout the movie, with a special emphasis on the close-up. The enormous risk Hooper takes with this approach is the risk of utter failure if his actor is unable to live up to the role. Hooper’s ability to direct his lead actors and his treatment of his lead characters on-screen puts him in unchartered waters, establishing him quickly as another in the list of modern auteurs.

The Importance of Being Desi

2011-02-05T09:49:00.000-08:00

Write Indian. Preferably of wrinkled old women in a thoroughly rustic setting replete with tinkling cow-bells and dried cow-dung adorned rooftops. Write of streams and ponds by villages tucked away in the middle of nowhere. You're Indian, aren't you? Write Indian. Write of grandmothers, pujas, weddings, of italicizable words. Because that's your culture. Write of the Hooghly and the Ganges, of zaris and saris, of betelnut and bangles. These are authentically Indian, trust me. Write of the poor, of farmers and villagers, of hardship and strife. Write of humanity, of downtrodden women in a rigid, casteist society. Write of religion, of burkhas and riots, of vibhudi and brahmans. If you're just uncool and don't want to write about these things, write about the diaspora experience. Write of India in the United States of *SALUTE* America and of the United States of *SALUTE* America in India. Write of identity and color, of inferiority and colonialism. This is who we are. We're Indians. Write Indian.

Don't for a second think you can write anything else and be taken seriously. Don't, for a single fucking second, think you can write about why you'd use 'fuck' when you talk. No, no. Don't, for a second even, think you can write about why you'd rather hang out in a mall sometimes rather than a temple. Because then, you're part of young India. You know, the India that people read about in trashy throwaway novels? You're about drugs, parties and sex. If you want to write and be taken seriously, learn to be Indian. When you're sitting in McDonalds eating fries, make sure your protagonist is in a roadside tea shop, perhaps in a lungi, ideally either in Kerala or Calcutta. Now, THAT'S romance mate. Oh wait, never say mate. maaderchod, behenchod, sab chalta hai, just not words like 'dude' or 'mate' OK. These are Western words and we're pseudo-Western that way, us Young India. Learn to glorify Indianness, you know, the quality of these little-little things like diyas during Diwali and sugarcane arrangements during Pongal. A middle class urban story? Not mid-life crisis? SERIOUS teenage literature? Right. You're high on crack only no?

Don't write about teenage love unless it's got sex. Don't write about growing up unless your protagonist is either clinically depressed or bipolar. Don't write anything about family that's not either of a conservative middle class or economically backward lower class. If you write of the upper class, make sure that you underline the emptiness of richness, the inane consumerist lifestyles they lead. Jalsa pannu illana jilpa kaatu

Don't write a story that deserves to be told. Write an Indian story. Be Indian.

The Art of Fiction**

2010-12-24T08:55:00.001-08:00

** RANT ALERT. IN BIG RED FONT, NO LESS. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART.

OK, I've had it. I cannot tolerate bad fiction or people who choose to read bad fiction. No, I'm not an elitist wanker turning his nose up at lesser mortals. And yes, there is a clear cut, Great Wall of China like line between good fiction and bad fiction.

The other day, when I was browsing through the latest the Indian fiction industry had to offer, I made the mistake of actually flipping through a couple of them. Huge, huge, mistake. Lewinsky, I-did-not-have-sexual-relations-with-that-woman huge. Right, now that we have established the general hugeness of the mistake, I'll get down to it.

Tania, an interior decorator in Bombay, is in love with Sameer but finds it difficult to manage her long distance relationship with Sameer ever since he moved to the UK to pursue an MBA degree.

After five years of togetherness will their love last or will Tania walk into the willing arms of her business partner, Ankur?

Sameer is torn between his ambition to spread his wings and begin his career in the UK and his difficult long distance relationship with Tania whom he is committed to. Does he choose love and family or his career? Or does a life-altering event change his decision?

You're kidding, right? Why oh why would you buy this book based on this blurb? I tried reading a few pages, I really did, honest. I'll put it this way - the cheapest whisky I've consumed didn't make me retch as much as this book did. Spread his fucking wings? I'm not going to mention names or love or life or any of that jazz (HINT!) Guess what? This book was a bestseller. Oh, to what depths we have sunk. I'd prefer pornographic literature to this junk.

Next up on the menu is:

He could have had everything. If only he had said, 'Thank You'.

In September, the month where IIT-ians do distinctly non-IITian things, Samar was having the time of his life. With Rock shows, JAM sessions, debates and politics, his life resembled a colourful graffiti. Adding chaos to this randomness were his three partners-in-crime, Pranav, Skimpy and Jiya. Together they made sure that life was impossibly wild and barely legal.

Things hit a crescendo when Samar found himself as the frontrunner in the race for the head of the student body at IIT. And that is when the tide began to turn, in a way Samar could have never imagined. A causal ambition threatened to come true, and threw at Samar dilemmas that would stump any IITian with a pair of glasses. Dilemmas which required skills not taught in any classroom, including the secret art of disaster management.

The phrase IIT features four times in a 100 word blurb. Coincidence? I think not. Look, I get it. A lot of people try really hard to get into IIT and they don't. A lot of people are fascinated by the lives of the greatest fucking minds of country or whatever. But believe me, our lives are far from being "impossibly wild and barely legal". We're not in American Pie XX. This time, however, I was prepared for the barrage of foul grammar, inept narration and downright moronic sentence composition the novel (I call it that out of compulsion, trust me) hurled at me. I braved through it, looking for a ray of sunshine somewhere, anywhere. Oh well, now I know exactly how Jezebel felt as her half-alive person was being torn to shreds by dogs.

This is something of an appeal, people. Buy good fiction because that's the only way to encourage people to write wholesome, relevant fiction. Let's do a quick FAQ as to the many questions that are forming in your mind as you read my every word...you are feeling sleepy...slee No, wait. Stay awake.

1) Who the fuck are YOU to tell ME what to fucking read? Hmmmmmmmmmmph (or some such sound)

Ans. So, you've been diagnosed with something or the other by a doctor. He gives you two options: a quick-fix, which will not permanently fix the problem but provide some relief, however momentary. Or you could go with long-term rehabilitation, which might take a while, but you're going to be A-OK at the end of it. What do you choose? No-brainer, right?

Good fiction is the long term treatment. Good fiction, by definition, paints a vivid canvas of a certain world while showing you the world through deep, meaningful characters who evolve over the course of the novel. Bad fiction, on the other hand, packages sex, love, women, breasts, sex, IIM/IIT, love, women, men, sex, breasts into 150 pages in any which way. I'm not saying that this type of fiction is writing in its crudest form or anything. No, wait, that's exactly what I'm saying. Reading this type of crap is a sign of weakness and indulgence. Look, my beef is not with commercial fiction, it's with pure bad writing. Commerical lit like Wodehouse or ludlum or Archer or Grisham or whatever is fine, because those are authors who take their writing seriously and you can tell. Ian Rankin is a fine example of an excellent commercial fiction writer. But stay clear of crude, spicy, thrill-a-minute literature, for heaven's sake. Go for the long term treatment. Take my word on this, it's worth it. A good book can take you far and beyond the limits of this world and evoke feelings in you that you never knew existed. Bad fiction, at it's finest, gives you a boner.

2) It's all about perspective...

Ans. No, it's not. Writing, though an art, has certain guidelines. There is no such thing as pure creativity without form. When you read a sentence, a passage, you immediately know if the writing is competent. It may not be good writing or a good book, but you know the writer takes his work seriously and that makes you take the book seriously.

I have much, much more to say on this, but I'll save that for another day. In the meanwhile, here's a little gem of a book for those who actually take their fiction seriously: Everything You Know by Zoe Heller. Nothing short of a comic masterpiece.

Poker & Life

2010-12-23T09:05:00.000-08:00

Poker is among the more interesting card games out there. While games like Bridge are less dependent in luck, they deal less with people and human nature and more with chessboard-esque strategy. In the words of a poker legend, Dan Negreanu: Poker isn't about playing cards, it's about playing your opponent.

For the intelligent player, playing poker is a lot like playing life (because life's a game and blah blah blah). Here are five important lessons that Poker preaches:

1) Stick to your guns, your Poker philosophy

Here's the thing: Poker, in the short-term, is largely about luck. You can make the best decision with the best hand and still lose because a single card defied all mathematical logic and popped out of the deck. Kinda like knocking a girl up despite wearing a condom. Not cool.

For example, the other day, I had AA while an opponent had a suited 45 hand. I made a set on the flop while my opponent made a four pair (flop:42A) Both my opponent and me were short stacked. Deciding that a 4-pair and a straight draw was good enough, my opponent goes all in, which I insta-call, seeing how I easily had the best hand. I had 17:3 mathematical odds to win the pot. Turn card? 4. River card? 4. Moral? In the short term, the beautiful game of Poker can ram a 20 foot pole up your ass, but you've still got to make the right call every time. Guess what? 17 out of 20 times, I would have won that hand. You've got to make the best call given the mathematical permutations and based on your read of the opponent's hand. There is simply no other way to win long-term at Poker.

Life is a lot like that - sometimes, in the short term, doing the right thing doesn't always mean the Guy Up There will treat you the right way. But you've got to stick to your guns, to your rationale.

2) Never stake more than a percentage of your bankroll

Poker is a dangerous game, as evidenced by the above anecdote. While it is a high risk- high reward game, to finance a game with more than a percentage of your bankroll is a recipe for disaster. You've got to leave yourself an out, a chance to call it a night and get back another time to charm your way into Lady Luck's pants. You cannot afford to strike out in one go. Life's the same, you cannot put all your eggs in one basket. Maybe you'll get lucky but that's going to ingrain the wrong principle in your head. Eventually, greediness will overcome you and you will lose and lose big.

3) Patience is an unparalleled virtue

The most patient player at a Poker table will likely be the biggest victor when the curtain falls. Take your time, scout your opponents, observe how many hands go to a showdown and the frequency at which your opponents bluff before making an aggressive move. Control is very important both in life and Poker, and you can make a confident move only when you know you're in control of a hand. Which brings us to

4) Fold and fold some more

Half the game of Poker is knowing when to fold. Playing for the adrenalin rush is fun, but every poker game is a grind. Folding till you've got aces up your sleeve (figuratively speaking) is always the best shot at winning in life.

5) All said and done...

To live in poker, you've got to be willing to die. That's the only way you're going to get the maximum from life.

My secret garden

2010-12-19T13:45:00.000-08:00

Every time I look at my grandmother’s garden, I feel like I’m in a forest, swinging from creepers all Tarzan like. And that’s not because the garden is heavily foliaged or anything- it’s simply the most vivid memory I have of the place. I lived with my grandparents for two years as a kid, till I turned eleven. Two years in a community consisting of only retired military men, those who were “in the service” as my grandfather proudly refers to his brethren. Stiff, upright and intimidating, they were an exotic breed to me; I preferred isolation, especially so given that the television did not have cable.

So I crawled through bushes and swung from branches through the day and read Enid Blyton through the night, ensconced in a world that I haven’t been able to recreate since. When India played a cricket in India (read: when DD telecasted a cricket match), I would watch every ball. When the match finished, I would run out to the parking lot by the garden with a Milo bat and a tennis ball and play solo cricket. I was Sachin Tendulkar, straight driving with elan. I was Brian Lara, pulling with panache. I was Sourav Ganguly, dancing down the track for a magnificent six that sailed above the envious eyes of deep mid-wicket. I recall having spent entire days not speaking to anybody but myself and I loved the silence. There are few things in the world that are more exhilarating than being yourself, uninhibited and free.

I look at my world now and I can’t help but wonder what went wrong. I don’t think it’s about innocence or any of that jazz, but simply this – in a world where the best things are always so simple, why do we try to complicate things? Sometimes, when I’m overwhelmed by anger or by embarrassment, I find myself a tree to look at, because every time, I see a little kid in there with wild eyes that really doesn’t give a fuck.

2010-12-19T13:41:00.000-08:00

In every house in every city in every state in India, there is a story that deserves to be narrated. And that is what makes our culture so rich. None of us are little boxes, all the same.

My changing ways

2010-12-19T13:32:00.000-08:00

My attempts at fiction can be found at www.oneofushasgottogo.blogspot.com. Check it out.

This blog will now serve as a personal space; maybe I'll write more this way.

Ganja babe, my sweet ganja babe

2010-12-10T09:29:00.001-08:00

I just don't get it. Why oh why would anybody write a poem on daffodils instead of the funky stuff? Seriously, if anybody's heart with pleasure fills, it dances with a big fat reefer. I know it doesn't fit in with the whole rhyme scheme and metre and rhythm and prosody and hara-kiri and shit, but it just seems a whole lot more, well, natural. It's about time somebody with literary talent gave a shout out to marijuana instead of stars and the moon and how *swoon* incredibly beautiful they are.

Since we're on the subject, in the interest of keeping my blog active and informative, here are a few fun facts about marijuana-

1) You can talk about marijuana.

2) You can talk about marijuana.

3) Smoking marijuana is not really "doing drugs". While marijuana is a drug, the phrase is reserved for drugs that are actually addictive and fatal in large doses. Marijuana is about half as addictive as caffeine and ODing on weed is like the Friday the 13th film series actually ending. It's just not happening.

4) Smoking pot and getting high does not entail hallucination. Your body does still function and yes, you still have control over your hands and legs and other, um, vital body parts (your body has increased sensitivity, which means certain activities are actually more pleasurable after you're bombed out of your mind)

5) You will not die while smoking marijuana. Unless your bulldog mauls you to death because you've hotboxed it and it's got a bad case of the munchies and there are just no bones handy. No, seriously. It's like the paleolithic age after you're bombed. You'd kiss Justin Bieber for some food. OK, maybe I'm exaggerating.

Us

2009-07-04T01:26:00.000-07:00

I walked out of the auditorium trying hard to look casual. Inwardly I was trembling with excitement, apprehension and a host of other emotions that were magnified a thousand fold by the misanthropic nemesis of mine that I call fear. She walked out, with a certain jauntiness of gait that was entirely disconcerting, especially so in my state of nerves. Or was she scared herself, merely projecting an exterior countenance of flippancy? I shall never know. We exchanged cursory greetings, but that was hardly the reason behind the rendezvous. We had never seen each other before, and yet we seemed too shy to look into each other’s faces. I shuffled from left side to right and then right side to left and looked in every possible direction except right in front, right into those bright eyes, right into her perfectly chiselled face, right at those tranquil, alluring lips, at those flushed cherry red cheeks. She permeated freshness, a radiance that was at once overwhelming yet obscure- full of vitality, but for my eyes only. To the crowd that thronged the auditorium, she would be just another face. The precious minutes I spent with her would soon come to an end, and all I can remember of that day was her presence; our conversation seemed irrelevant. There would plenty of that in our fleeting relationship, inconsequential banter that propped up an image of social relevance; for her that was what drove the relationship.

We would meet again, several irrelevant conversations later, in a cerebral coffee shop, for her birthday. Again, I found our time together altogether insufficient; yet wholly fulfilling. Several minutes would be spent in casual talk, in crude jokes that were almost never funny. Yet, we would laugh. We knew each other, but we didn’t really know each other. The awkwardness we felt in each other’s company was palpable. But what more could I ask for than to bask in the freshness, her freshness, that was like a poem; like a “globed fruit”. It was never through words that I understood her; it was always in those stolen glances that form the essence of love, in those innocent moments where my hand would brush hers, in those sudden moments where we turned to look at each other only to find ourselves staring uncontrollably into each other’s eyes, knowing, knowing that there was more to both of us than what we revealed through inane banter.

We would not meet for months after that; I would find new fancies, yet nothing that went deeper than the skin. Her fragrance always lay in my sub conscious, biding its time, waiting for an opportune moment to surface and plunge me into the heartbreak of passion. In the wintry chill of December, we would speak again. And in the wintry chill of December, our relationship would bloom into an orchid of dazzling countenance. But nobody ever understands an orchid, its sensitivity, its frailty..

The next time we would meet, I would force those words that lay unsaid for far too long out: You look beautiful. Later, the words seemed cold and hollow, and those familiar butterflies of blunder filled my stomach. The words seemed altogether inadequate, altogether ... mortal. But her presence was immortal, and it slowly ate me up from within that I was unable to convey the true extent of her beauty. There would be words, soft words, reassuring words, mushy words- these words meant nothing. I would utter them because she expected them. We had a game to play, and I think she knew they meant nothing. Like Elizabethan compliments, paid out of courtesy. For there was truly little I could say or do that could make her understand the bottomless abyss that was us- falling deeper and deeper into darkness, first yelling at each other, then feeling the joy in each other arms and then...

The day our lips first met, was the day I knew that something was wrong and yet everything was just right; the awkwardness that should have passed, the shyness that should have dissipated; it all remained. Yet the moment remains one of utter bliss, the slow embrace, the awkward parting of our lips, the lingering fragrance of her skin, the gradual closing of our eyes.. There would be a lot of emotion after that- promises made, words cooed, brief accidental touches that would suddenly mean a whole lot more.

To this day, I’ll never truly know how much she really understood. After several tumultuous months, we ended it, not knowing where to go. She started relying more and more on words while I grew increasingly frustrated with their irrelevance; these words could not express, they were superficial, without that true depth, without any insights into what she truly meant to me. We were young, and we were very different. Perhaps she cared more about the superficial, about the image, not realizing that the image was really a mirage, a trick of the light where nothing would really remain. To this day, I do not know if there was more to her understanding, whether she could decipher the depth of meaning in my glances, in every touch- or whether it was just words, moronic words, blithe words, succulent words, fragrant words, yet only words that made us tick. If not? But I have promises to keep..

I always told her that she was “the one”. She found the statement exceedingly dubious and was always ready with a reply: How do you know for sure? I just know, I would say. In retrospect, whether she was “the one” meant very little; for I could not understand and she could not understand and the albatross just grew heavier and heavier and the vultures started circling lower and lower. But that fragrance, that freshness, that inexplicable vitality, those sparkling eyes..

S---
You know something? I’ve never had a proper valentine in my whole life. But this year, things sure have changed. I can’t possible ask for more, now that I have you.
You’ve been the root cause for my recurring insomnia and those weird dreams I get since God knows when have been a constant topic in my diary. I’m sure I’ll need a few more diaries real soon. I like wasting pages on you.
My point is, you make me real happy and I love you to pieces!
I’ll always remember the guy who came all the way to watch an absurd dance show just because I was in it.
Sometime I wonder.. if he’s the one.
S---

Of a rather absurd love affair, among other things

2009-04-30T09:26:00.000-07:00

The subject of women has been an age old topic of debate, with the fairer sex seemingly overcoming any and every norm men have learnt to treat them by. Often, the greatest womanisers tend to be the people bamboozled by women the most. Guy De Maupassant, for example, has strong views on the sincerity of women. He believes (the point being moot) that women are sincere at any given point of time; this sincerity, however, changes in accordance with their fickleness of mind.

I have never quite been able to understand the spectrum of emotions the opposite sex deploy to suit their means. A particularly humorous incident that occurred to a certain auto rickshaw driver in Chennai begs to be narrated at this juncture.

The incident occurred during the heavy December downpours of 2008. I was interning at the Hindu at that time, and owing to infrequency of buses during the rains, I had to make the long journey from the Hindu offices in Mount Road back home to K.K.Nagar by an auto rickshaw. The auto rickshaw driver, who was in a particularly benevolent mood (influenced no doubt, by the ridiculous sum he demanded for his services to which I had acquiesced) plunged into an eloquent monologue on the subject of traffic. Auto rickshaw drivers, when in benevolent moods, tend to expound on topics they view with an inherent, deep rooted hatred with an extremity of passion that has to be seen to be believed. The topics are most commonly the traffic situation (a meaty topic of elocution in India) and petrol prices. The auto rickshaw driver in question seemed to have sized me up as the sort of individual who would sympathize more with the problems caused by traffic (although I must confess to being baffled by the basis for such judgement). After rambling on for a good fifteen minutes, he paused for breath (he had narrowly missed de-capacitating a hawker on the street). Almost subconsciously, I seized the opportunity to change the topic with a few words on how the weather had an overtone of romance to it. I naturally expected this turn in the conversation (unheard of, in normal auto rickshaw worlds) to throw him off track and shut him up. What I had obviously not taken into account was the resilience of the prestigious breed of Central Railway Station area auto drivers. He embarked on a rather curious story that occurred in his youth, with a rather whimsical smile. Now, when Chennai auto drivers smile whimsically, there is most decidedly a certain thickening of plot that occurs. The facts of the story are as follows.

Each folly of youth he opined, often had its roots in the susceptibility of the male sex to the female sex. Compliance to the various whims of the attractive specimens of the fairer sex, are often no brainers for men. This particular auto driver (let us call him Ram, for convenience, shall we?), apparently, was no different. A certain girl had awakened the most primitive of human emotions in him and he had hastened to build a relationship with this specimen with a view of finding pleasurable company to kill idle time with. The basic human nature being what it is, the relationship shared by them eventually transcended the boundaries of being conversational to a more holistic one. After a certain period of time, Ram decided to put an end to their frivolous relationship.

What he did not take into account was (in his words) the diabolical and conniving nature of the female sex and their overwhelming desire to get hitched. The girl, having accepted the dissolution of the relationship rather gracefully, returned home and spilled the beans, so to speak. Her parents immediately ferreted out Ram and decreed the only honourable course for him as that of marriage. Being a conscientious and religious fellow (and spurred on by the fear of being socially ostracized), Ram saw no other alternative and acquiesced to the parental decree.
Ten years into their marriage, Ram is wise to the method to female madness. “Never get involved with a woman, however casually. They will find a way to get married to you, I tell you”, he says with a grimace. As I reached home and paid him, a gradual smile worked itself onto my lips. I was conscious of a rather undeserved sense of satisfaction and benevolence. Paisa Vasool, I believe is the term that describes the situation the best.

“Catch It!”

2009-04-16T01:00:00.000-07:00

In the melting pot of cultures that is India, regardless of what the upper echelons of Hindutva politicians or the Minority politicians say, there is a singular, definitive God. A secular God, a God of passion, of sweat, of devilry. This God however, manifests itself as a couple of sticks and a ball- and has the undulated faith of almost a billion people. So, what is it about cricket that sends the aam admi into raptures of such considerable proportions? Cricket is hardly the most exciting game on the face of this earth. Neither is it a very short game. In fact, a single game of cricket takes more time to culminate that a majority of its contemporary foes. Cricket for India signifies independence, pure and simple. With the changing tides of the world post WW2, international cricket, which was a gentleman’s game earlier monopolised by whites, saw the rise of several so called “coloured” nations, notably among them the West Indies. With the advent of the World Cup, there has been no looking back for the classification of cricket as a sport of men of any race, colour, religion or nationality. This definition of cricket further cemented itself with the arrival of several native African players in the South African cricket team post Apartheid era.
Now what was it about cricket that symbolised independence for pre- Independent India? Indeed, Hockey gained popularity much before cricket due to the pioneering efforts of stalwarts like Dyanchand. But Hockey failed to set fire to the Indian imagination the way cricket did. Now, take the basic concept of batting in cricket. The bowler has six balls out of which he needs only one ball to get you out. However, you have to survive all six balls, and if possible, score in the process. Therefore, the key attribute a batsman must possess is perseverance. A quality that is common to each and every freedom fighter of colonial India. They persevered, endured and were at times aggressive enough to score a four here, a six there.

For independent India, cricket transcends the boundaries of a sport. It has become a symbol. See, cricket is a decidedly socialist game. A peasant can score the same or even more runs in an over than a wealthy, affluent landlord. Cricket remains a game that often rewards hard work and a game that does not require a natural, inborn, intrinsic skill set to succeed in. Beyond everything else, cricket is pure poetry in motion- poetry that even the simplest of simpletons can comprehend without any difficulty.

Cricket is often referred to as a religion, however, the symbolic status it occupies in the minds of the people would deem its categorisation as a God more prudent. It is all knowing and all powerful. The unifying spirit, the single highest common factor between Leh and Kanyakumari, capable of enthralling a snake charmer and a doctor alike, cricket, here, is life.