Sometimes the truth is not enough

I’ve always been used to fairly simplistic super-hero movies. The ‘typical’ superhero has a standard set of abilities, which usually mean above average physical strength, one unique power and a monk-like righteousness. The story revolves around these as a given with a cute love-interest, a quickly-passing moral dilemma and yes, the villain, with powers that just about match those of the hero.

Its not like we don’t know how the story is going to pan out, I’ve always found they’re fun to watch nevertheless, because of the always improving special effects and the no fuss victory of good over evil that end with the superhero kissing his love interest, lots of applause all around and a burning city in the background. Makes you wonder whether only tourists form the cheering crowds given I wouldn’t be jumping around waving wildly if my home or office or both had just been leveled by marauding alien robots (Transformers), blown away by a flying man dressed in bright red (Superman) or simply punched aside by a huge pissed off green dude in pants that seem to have torn around the calves (The Incredible Hulk). More likely taking pictures for the insurance claim.

I’d done my top 4 list of superheroes way back when not all of them had been turned into moderately successful movie franchises. And since everyone loves a superhero, I didn’t pay much attention to the brouhaha over the latest DC comics offering ‘The Dark Knight’. I’d even seen it, since I and the missus have an unsaid rule about watching any superhero flick that comes out (and I do mean ‘any’, since we’ve even watched ‘The Fantastic Four’! Invisibility, biceps made of rocks and spontaneous combustibility might be very practical powers, but what self-respecting hero acts like a rubber band!). Memories of batman limited to an evidently gay side-kick exclaiming “Holy utility belt Batman!”, a long week and a 11.15pm show meant that I didn’t catch much more than the opening credits, closing credits and some exploding buildings and yet felt I’d got the gist of it.

I finally actually watched it on dvd and woah! The batmobile and the bike must be the best looking modes of transport used by any superhero. Come to think of it, most superheroes don’t rely on mechanical modes of transport so there’s not much to compare. The supporting characters are not as one-dimensional as I usually like them. The villain describes himself as “a dog chasing cars”, sets fire to a mountain of cash and extols the virtues of chaos. He oozes menace in the way he makes clear that he wants to gain nothing and had nothing to lose. But it’s the last sequence that erased all memories of brightly silly exclamations and anatomically correct outfits (remember Alicia Silverstone?). There are no wildly cheering crowds. Only the body of Harvey Dent, activist District Attorney reduced to Two-Face. Commissioner Gordon saying

“He’s the hero Gotham deserves…but not the one it needs right now. So we’ll hunt him, because he can take it. Because he’s not our hero…he’s a silent guardian…a watchful protector…A dark knight”

Brilliant!

Its a free country, isn't it

It’s a cacophony of strident voices calling for action. The course is not very important, that there be one, is, very. Depending on what proportion of the words being expressed get the benefit of some cerebral horsepower, the courses vary from lighting a bunch of candles to giving the law enforcers tank armour for vests to installing battletanks outside hotel entrances to exercising our nuclear options against the neighbour, all accompanied with varying levels of reasoning underlined with “Take action!” then of course there are the opinions that aren’t saddled with the baggage of logic. These mostly involve rescinding the “secular” sections in our constitution as a fitting riposte to those who believe that making ones point involves plastic explosive and Kalashnikov rifles.

There is one underlying assumption in most of those lines of thought, that the root cause of our vulnerability to terror attacks is incompetence. The picture in everyone’s mind is a bunch of bungling bureaucrats and officials who can’t tell an approaching group of terrorists from the local group of party workers (actually, who can). Sure, it probably does not help that the average years of education imbibed by each of the elite members of parliament or legislature could be counted on one hand, but I believe, the root cause is beyond incompetence.

What do the Rs 100 payoff to the traffic cop at the signal for overlooking the slight infraction and the Rs 200,000 paid to the local corporator to ensure uninterrupted water supply have in common? Zoom out a little, and you have going rates for any kind of permission or right. Building contractors haggle over how much they need to pay the local representative to garner the plum contract. There is a line of work that involves getting agricultural land classified as commercial, thus multiplying its price literally overnight. In the nation’s capital, every confrontation resulting from a fender bender begins with reeling off the names of politicians that each participant has on his cell phone and can therefore the extent to which they can defy the law. Corruption. It’s a way of life, so deeply embedded in the Indian psyche that we look at it as fair cost of conducting the daily business of living. Sure, but what does it have to do with machine-gun toting maniacs?

Simple really. Does power corrupt or does it attract the corrupt? The latter, I believe. Just look at the profiles of each of the respected MPs or MLAs that govern this nation. Toss a stone and you’re more likely to hit one charged with multiple homicides than a novice who was just booked for disturbing the peace. These are the people who decide everything from expenditure on infrastructure, education, defense, law enforcement. Everything. A look at the income tax returns filed by these individuals does not require the paranoia of conspiracy theorists to guess that the only function of governance is to bleed the country dry for personal gain. The wealth amassed is then used to defend the fortress of power by making sure corruption reaches the grass-roots, in the form of television sets or bags of rice. In the midst of all this, they make some mundane decisions about whether India should sign the nuclear 1-2-3 agreement. Definition of a soft target anyone?

This august group is now responsible for developing the capabilities to evaluate and identify threats to India’s national security. To fund the right programs that enable building capabilities to erode the capabilities of terrorist groups to launch attacks, to develop early-warning systems to consider scenarios and ever-increasing means of attack, to address the root of the causes that precipitate local support to the outsiders. Is it not so much easier to reshuffle cabinet and post a truck full of soldiers within shouting distance of the gateway? Unless, someone tells them the contract sizes involved in installing a closed-circuit network across the city…

A lot of what I’ve said was under the premise that educated and driven leadership would de facto see beyond their personal gains but a slew of saber-rattling emails on a forum for supposedly measured and insightful discussion suggest that maybe the latter group might be afflicted with whatever leads a drunk to look for his lost keys under the lamp post and also punch the lamp post in the process. But hey, isn’t that one of the perks of democracy.

Prejudice and Stupidity

You arrive exactly two minutes to the time your reservation is for and announce yourself at the desk. “4 for Mr. Kapoor”. It is after all the most sought after restaurant in town. As you wait to be seated, you flip through the menu and start to imagine the succulent meal you’re about to have. Just as the hostess is about to lead you in, a person comes up and announces imperiously “Gill for 4”. The hostess doesn’t break stride as she leads Mr. Gill’s party of 4 to the table that was almost yours. So close… you think…but then what do you expect when your name has three of them damned vowels?

The crisp morning air rushing through the windows, the car surges forward on the empty stretch of highway. There is a reason you woke up at 5am, you think! You grin as you feel the horses under the hood begin to warm up to the task. You feel the urge for some good ol’ 70’s rock to complete the feeling. You rummage through your untidy collection for the perfect album. You don’t realize your car drifting to the left…not until you feel the dull thud. You snap out of your reverie in a rush and stop your car checking your rearview mirror fearfully. You go cold when you see the immobile person lying about 25 yards from your car. You hurry to check the damage and as you come up to him you realize he’s bald. You suck in a lungful of air in relief, turn around, and go back to your car and leave, this time, slower.

In my mind, these figments of bizarre logic are not dissimilar to Eddie Gilbert’s story. Imagine having a problem with including a bloke who, with his ability, can rattle the Don?!

How do we explain a broad set of individuals being ok with the idea of discrimination? Sure we label the ones who practice the most traditional forms of it as bigots. There are laws in most developed countries deeming most forms of it as illegal. My fascination is on two counts;
One, with the fact that we even need laws to enforce these ideas that are so blatantly counterproductive (here I’m not referring to the kind that is done to economically benefit one section, those make sense in a convoluted zero-sum school of thought) and two, I can’t even begin to pretend to take a ‘holier than thou’ approach to this subject. Who knows how many of these are so deeply ingrained in my psyche that they don’t even pop up as examples of discriminatory thinking. As a British businessman in colonial India, would I bat an eyelid on reading a sign that said “Dogs and Indians not allowed”? Or as a Middle-class, educated Caucasian in the early 60’s, would I think twice about the idea of racial segregation? Who knows?

It’s like our brains look for reasons to build prejudices, and is supremely creative in coming up with the relevant hooks. Race, religion, economic status, sexual orientation, gender, physical disability, physical ability, geography, language, diction (accent), profession, age, weight, marital status (single/married/separated), the list is long enough to suggest there is something very inherent in our thought processes that manifests in making cursory judgments of other individuals without even considering an individual assessment. Why?

On never losing teammates

Passion. It’s a lot rarer than we might think. Most often its mistaken for Drive, of that there is plenty. The professional who puts in 90 hour weeks, the sportsman who trains for the better part of each day, they’re all driven. Passion is so much purer. The pursuit of an activity or an endeavour, not because of what it leads to, but for the sake of the pursuit itself. The means is the end, in fact, there is no end. We come across it all too fleetingly in our daily lives. At the time I write this, I’m having a hard time thinking of any everyday examples from my personal encounters that can be categorized as passion. And it was one such clear example that got me started on this post.

L Rama Krishna (RK to us) had it. He one of those I made acquaintance with at ISB. I first met him during one of the dinky little indoor cricket matches played with a tennis ball and a couple of bats that had seen better days and also during ’07 application-review sessions. A rake thin structure, a bushy moustache, any guesses on his age would fall in the 40 – 50 bracket. It was his enthusiasm that you noticed, be it when he batted, bowled or even more when he fielded.

It was later, on seeing his email addressed to the student group id, inviting those interested in playing for the ISB cricket team, I realized, his interest in the sport was combined with significant talent and experience at the club level. As is my wont, I set aside brightly burning assignment submission deadlines, trooped off to tear around a mostly grassy field, lobbing a 165 gm leather sphere, waving a block of wood and called it therapy. My cricketing endeavours are all well-documented on this blog, a little too well-documented for some. We played half a dozen games against teams from various companies, lost all except one. But, dang, did we have fun. The game we won was our last at ISB.

Placements rolled by, term 8 parties did too, the next ISB batch moved in. Over 8 months after graduation, RK sent an email talking about his new role on the office of admissions and financial aid. I congratulated him and asked him how the cricket was going, for good measure adding in brackets “(was part of the 06 cricket team)”. His response was a good 1-page long, talking about how good the current team was and how they’d won 3 out of 4 games that season.

What will always stay with me is his chiding opening to his response “How can you think that I’ll forget you? A cricketer doesn’t forget his teammates.” As if to prove his point, he went on to recount, in commentator-detail, a couple of shots I’d played in one of our games.

RK passed away on August 13th 2008. Rest in peace buddy. Here’s to always being teammates.

Reflected Glory

India won its first gold medal in twenty years and its first individual gold..ever. Frontpage stuff, if ever there was. "Congratulate Abhinav" links spring up on every website to be dutifully filled in with comments that go"...you have made the country proud...". Courtesy the full spotlight coverage, we know that he's now back in India and has meetings scheduled with some well-known sports afficionados; for instance, the president..whazzername. From the slew of coverage that followed, there were 2 common themes; 1. He's rich. His training costs in the tens of millions were sponsored by a doting father and 2. The reason the third most populous country in the world routinely misses most sporting top 10 lists is the lack of infrastructure and financial support from the government. If the columns are to be believed, there are scores of atheletes in the nethers of this country, straining at the leash to burst forth and deliver Olympian podium performances if only given the right kind of support. Await calls on increasing funding for sports, coupled with complaints on how cricket has cannibalised every other sport in the country. No, this post is not in defense of cricket.

Firstly, how loud would the voices demanding the commissioning of world-class facilities be if they had to fund them? Going by data on Abhinav, it would cost anything between 5 and 10 Crores Rupees to win an Olymic gold. And this is after having identified those select few with a natural ability far above average. So how much are we willing to foot to garner another dozen medals? After all, you can't put a price on national pride. You think a dozen golds will do just fine, I think it has to be atleast more than that bully of a neighbour. Maybe we can settle that with parliamentary debate? But doesn't just plain natural ability count for something? Sure it does, its safe to say that the likes of Sergei Bubka and Mark Spitz would be leading sportsmen in their fields irrespective of where they were born, but its anyones guess whether they would be the legends they are if denied world-class training facilities. This might seem contradictory to what I started off saying that setting out to win Olympic golds cannot be a state endeavour. The point is, achieving sporting supremacy is a naturally evolving phenomenon, combining supremely talented individuals with the requisite training facilities to enable them. An economist Daniel Johnson has succesfully predicted medals tallies over the last four Olympics based on economic factors. We might therefore find our medals tallies growing exponentially once larger percentages of the population have access to potable water.

Secondly, what are the rest of us so happy about anyway? This is not a cynical, rain-on-our-parade kind of question. I'd ask this of any American exulting in the glow of the bushel of Michael Phelps' golds waving a red-white-blue. Winning an Olympic gold is the ultimate sporting achievement. Beating every other proponent of your sport, single-mindedly training for a significant portion of your life, only visualizing those final few moments knowing you will need to muster every ounce of skill you were born with while maintaining monk-like control on your emotions is stuff that the rest of us will never be able to imagine. For us, a lifetime's training and preparation ending disastrously on account of mistiming by a fraction of a second forms a 'sports bloopers' video on youtube. The discs of gold (or silver or bronze) are not symbols of one nations' superiority over all the others, they signify much more, of one individual's superiority over the law of averages, over the limits of human endurance and performance. They should indeed be applauded, celebrated...not by only those whose passports bear the same crest...but with unadulterated awe and appreciation by every individual.

The Fellowship of the aargh

It is a myth perpetrated by american sitcoms that the end of singledom coincides with the suspension of all acts upholding democracy and the imposition of military rule. If anything the opposite is true in the latitude that it presents towards personal grooming (imagine being single and taking someone out to a weekend lunch in a crumpled t-shirt and and a 4'oclock shadow?), delegation of shopping responsibilities (this is a big one!) or a bunch of others that stem from the 'no return' policy that the whole deal is to begin with. I know there is a concept that fosters separation and considerable reduction of your net worth. Look at it this way, being single is like when you buy an ipod from the mall, the slightest suspicion of a scratch and you make a beeline for the 'Returns' department for a replacement while being hitched, is like buying a vacation home in a rustic retreat, you like the location so what if the garage floods in the monsoon, it would take serious termite damage for you to demand a refund on your down payment.

However (there just had to be one of those, didnt there), every once in a while, there are these activities that you do that are 'good to deepen the relationship'. Roughly translated, this means things that one of you like doing and wants to minimize the guilt of being self-centered by inflicting them on the other. This is of course not applicable when I feel the need for both of us to watch a session of test cricket even though S thinks of a root canal as a more agreeable way to pass the time. I mean, how can one not agree that our bond would strengthen if she developed an appreciation for studied leave outside off-stump? Oh wait, this post is about me as the victim.

It all began innocently enough when a store with a loud red and blue front and an affiliation to a large indian business house opened in the neighbourhood. Apparently, they let you rent dvds. With no limit on the number, pick-up and delivery facility it was not much a decision to make. Our taste in movies would be depicted as two very large circles with significant overlap, illustrated by the unanimous decision to wrangle tickets to the premiere of Spiderman 3 while on honeymoon in Sydney. So, it was a safe bet (or so I thought) that there wouldn't be too many fallouts of exploring the non-overlapping areas on the movie-preference circles. I relied on historic data to suggest that if I could survive 'Sense and Sensibility' with the "fetching young ladies" and the "gentlemen who did not have a vocation" (read unemployed), then it could not be too bad.

Then the trilogy happened, the extended version. Tolkein's book is part of legend and there are many who swear by the adventures set in middle earth. Hobbits, elves, dwarfs, heroic quests, wars between good and evil, undying love, reincarnating wizards...its all there in the 3 stories. A screen capture of any randomly picked scene would make a fitting wallpaper for the artistically inclined. I, however could not stand it! The slow camera pan over the New Zealand vista gets old about midway through the first movie but continues through the length of the three. Thats hardly my grouse with the series though. It is be the surfeit of scenes with closeups of emotion-laden faces with a lilting background score, the plethora of characters, each with their own unique set of psychological disorders, the unending deliberation between any two parties involved, be it about going to war, or to the loo. Most of all it was the excruciatingly annoying Frodo Baggins, who spends most of the three movies widening his eyes in fear, flinching from pain or fainting from weakness while his slightly more bearable companion, Samwise feeds him, protects him and even carries him to Mount Doom (which was Frodo's only job to begin with!). With several hours lost, I'm watching hopefully as the ring bearer seems set to make the final ascent towards the mouth of the volcano that will complete his mission when his path is blocked by a giant spider. What is this? a goddamn video game?! On the other side of the landscape, a war, where a bunch addresses each other as "Aragorn, son of Arathon, ranger from the north" while a seriously large troll charges, club swinging madly. Made me want to charge into the battle to atleast end it sooner.

Am currently trying to find the movie versions of "Sunny Days", "Out of my comfort zone" or anything that documents the life of a cricketer in painstaking detail. Revenge will be mine!

Of throbbing members

There is this feeling I remember. A large part of it involved grimacing at the ceiling, which sometimes suspiciously looked like it was floating and wobbling as if not quite sure about wanting to be around. This is of course after the huge dark spots of various sizes that were gliding what looked like 2 cms away from my eyes would have gradually faded away. But the errant ceiling would be driven out of my mind by the sensation that my back had rapidly transformed into steel, not the thin ductile kind, but the girder kind used to reinforce concrete. But my muscles, perhaps feeling neglected, would radiate a kind of dull ache that would make me want to look around for the warranty papers that really ought to have come with the body. The right knee, (it obviously always had to be the right) would be busy sending thick stabs up and down the rest of the leg as if rioting in protest to the illtreatment. All this time I'd be aware of the sandpaper feel of my mouth and throat and after two movements, both in super slow motion to the right and left I'd decide that if my throat wanted the water, it could go and get it from the table by itself. Then, as I'd get the uncanny sensation of being able to tell the stitch patterns of the bedspread with the inside of my stomach?! it would dimly register that my last meal had been over ten hours ago if you dont count a third of a subway sandwich inhaled in less than 15 seconds.
Oh, and that other sensation...total and complete bliss. My mind, replaying with relish, everything that got me into this state.

The constituents would be the same, except in varying proportions. Some sprints of equal distance ending in quick leaps, hence the protesting right knee and the back. Some rotations of the arms interspersed with dashes, with lots of sudden stops and turning; hence the leaden arms and the wincing hamstrings. And lots of just plain flat out charging across not-so-even grass. Did I mention lots of running.

Some researchers say the there is a point, in the midst of intense physical activity, the body generates endorphins that diminish the pain emanating from the lactic acid build-up in oxygen-starved muscles and that the feeling is not unlike getting a high. I for one think that's one dreamed up by some slick marketing team at a sneaker company.
Me, I miss that feeling...I miss grimacing at the ceiling...I miss cricket.

For sale: Heroes

Pre-IPL school kid: Wakes up, dons whites, shrugs on his kit bag, warms up, visualizes his hero (one of top 10 list of run-scorers/wicket-takers on test matches over the last 5 - 10 years) , practises hard, dreams of donning the test cap...

Just over three decades ago, life in India was simplicity itself. Dyanora and Crown were the only widely available brands of television sets, the portly Ambassador or the angular Premier Padmini were the only two passenger cars available, Pele, Cryuff and Beckenbauer were the soccer-loving public's icons and Sunil Gavaskar was the cricket-loving public's homegrown ideal. For every kid who fantasized about the epitome of sporting achievement, it was simple; a match-winning performance (a hundred for 97% of the population, a ten-for for the remaining 3%) to win India a test match.

Today, electronics 'uber'stores showcase 23 brands of plasma televisions and 27 brands of the LCD variety, there are roughly fourteen different models of sedans, each with not less than 3 variants, Raikonnen jostles for poster space alongside Rooney and Lebron, and Yuvraj, Dhoni and Harbhajan are the cricketing superstars. While the fame was based on the on-field spats, chest-thumping sound bytes interspersed with the odd performance of cricketing relevance, it was still relatively easy to separate the wheat from the chaff. Obvious deficiencies in technique leading to failure to make it to the test team (which still counts for something) or to be sorted out by well-prepared batsmen meant that kids were clear about the difference between a Rahul Dravid or a VVS Laxman versus a Yuvraj Singh or a Mahendra Dhoni. The ubiquitous 'fan' might already be swooning at the sight of a 'Dhoni special' as he bludgeons the ball with the end of the bat describing a full circle as his feet leave the ground but the kid in the nets will still dream of standing tall on the backfoot and punching through the covers like he's seen Tendulkar do because he knows the supreme balance and coordination needed.

But what of it, three, maybe four years from now, when the IPL will hold consistent sway? When the TRP race will have elevated the bits and pieces cricketers to demi-god status, when those with the 'swishiest' blades (made that word up, but i think it conveys the meaning) will endorse their team owners' products? With test cricket relegated to those times of the year when the IPL can't be played (like monsoon season on the subcontinent), practising the long hit will make much more economic sense than getting in line and playing on length. Those knocking on the doors of the U-19 teams of their respective states will prefer adding part-time slow-medium bowler to their resume in addition to big-hitter than refine that non-essential skill of a backfoot defensive. The simple reason being the prospect of a bidding war that will pit his wares against his peers and that additional skill might tilt the balance. Sure, fielding skills will be significantly elevated in the manner of a season or two (amazing how much less grass burns hurt when they fetch you the additional $200K), but the younger generation of batsmen will look like mass-produced assembly line products, ugly ones, that move their front foot towards mid-on and rapidly bring their shoulders around to take almightly heaves at the ball, irrespective of line or length. The shortened boundaries and the ever-improving bats will ensure that any contact upwards of feathered edges will send the ball ballooning over the ropes and the crowds rapturous. Combine a continuously declining standard of bowling for no reason other than neglect and you only accelerate the decline in the standard of the game.

Post-IPL school kid: Wakes up later (coz of the IPL game last night), dons his multi-coloureds, snaps on the franchise headband of the Ahmedabad Kiteflyers, remembers the roar of the crowds as he attempts to launch each delivery out of the ground while complaining about the tinge of grass left behind by the groundsman, dreams of franchise cap/helmet/paraphernalia...

The doomsday scenario about the cricket has been overdone to highlight one thing, the (hopefully) short-term impact of the IPL will be to narrow the gap between the great and merely competent, between the sublime and the almost ridiculous. The impact on the next generation of cricketers might be enormous and far-reaching. Everyone has to have heroes, important that they be the right kind.

The Ring-Ring

It starts innocently enough. A deferential query from a remote acquaintance, in continuation with an interaction you initiated. One that you have known long enough to converse with at ease. The polite tone, suitably apologetic, when its queries are answered in the negative. Your eyebrows, only slightly raised, when, in a few days, an acquaintance of the acquaintance apparently, poses similar but different queries on your mobile device. This time, the negative response questioned. You reckon the cause to be confusion caused by your inability to have made your response clear, and move on. After all, through the history of civilization haven't miscommunications been the cause of a great deal of strife.

But then, soon after, you hear the same query, this time, from someone you know for sure you don't know. You think maybe they erred in the initiation of making contact, that maybe they were seeking one of their own. But then you hear the sound of your name. And even you, in your naivete, can not think this to be a mis-placed digit connecting to your mobile device. But it gets worse. Even before you've dusted yourself off, you hear the same chimes. You take no action, except to turn down the chimes, so the connection is never made, and things can go back to normal. But then it repeats itself. Over and over. Till you recognize the misshapen set of digits,  as they flash, with an urgency that seems to tell you that the sooner you deal with it the better. That, while they are seeking to make contact, others, you need to communicate with are being turned away disappointed. They are natural predators. Hunting in packs. When one set of digits gets familiar, another one joins the hunt. Constantly keeping you guessing, off balance.

You now constantly live in fear, in the middle of work, during lunch, in meetings, everytime your hear it. Is it them? But man is nothing if not resilient. It takes time, but it happens. You prepare yourself, you dig deep, you deal with each of them, matching them, for patience, for tenacity, for sheer gall. Noting the set of digits, making copious notes. You realise you can't slay the beast, but at least you can cage it.

But you under-estimated them, their abilities, nay, their powers. As you instinctively react to the completely different harmless chimes of your desk apparatus. Expecting input on the document you're working on, prepared for anything but..."Sir, I'm XXXXX from XXXX bank. We want to offer you a credit card....". You freeze. You can run....but you can not hide....from telemarketers.

Technorati Tags: blah, life, rant

The 10,000 club

It has been a remarkable study in concentration and hardwork in hostile conditions. Continuing from the overnight score, the landmark was reached early in the day with a quick dash past a green light and it was done. Quick raising of the beam, two short blasts of the horn and my ride joined the 10,000 kms club.

Excerpts from an interview later in the day:

About the achievement itself..."Its a good feeling, especially since it came on an important trip (while going to work). A few gridlocks and the broken mirror from a disagreement with a pepsi truck made me wonder about whether it was worth it but I hung in there and I'm glad. I'm thankful for the support I got, especially from the service center"

What about pressure?..."The challenge was to concentrate amidst the honking and the annoying beeping of 2-wheelers cutting across making assumptions about my brakes. But I was able to focus and I'm really happy with the result."

Significance of the milestone?..."I never rode for records, they happen when they happen. The important thing is to keep contributing with as much distance as you can"

Any thoughts on future milestones?..."I'll just keep doing what I have so far and hopefully I can resist the urge to rear-end put-putting autos that decide to use the fast lane doing all of 30kph on the highway."

Breaking News...

If you're a red-blooded inhabitant of a capitalist-with-the-odd-but-inconvenient-attempt- at-being-a-socialist state, the television or the idiot box as it is popularly mis-referred to holds pride of place in your life (i mean, a match-box is not called that because all the matches are on the outside staring at it, is it?). Whether it is an oversized cube of glass and plastic with one of those guns that fire beams of electrons at blinding speed or one of those thin slivers of liquefied gases barely thicker than a...you guessed it...matchbox, this gets your attention most of your waking hours at home.

You thrust the helpful end of the electric toothbrush and push the button to get ever closer to being classified as a vegetable, while padding over to the living room couch to reach for that the other brilliant piece of technology, the remote control to comfortingly drown out the...if you're lucky...sounds of the chirps of birds with the odd muffled airhorn of a truck...if you're not...the noises of your neighbour yelling down at the watchman asking why the water in her bathroom taps is brown while another two are engaged in a yell-athon to resolve a dispute over a contentious parking space.

Your window to the world lights up with the flashing 'LIVE' at the top left corner. The screen vertically split to show a sequence of rivetting interest on the left and a suitably sombre-faced official on the right. The bottom fourth of the screen shows two ticker tapes, the bigger, slower moving strip shows 'LIVE'..just in case you have an affliction that prevents you from looking at the top-left of your screen..the smaller, faster-moving strip shows the all the gripping happenings of the world while you were snuggled up in bed, dribbling over your pillow. Considering, the screen looked suspiciously similar when you flicked it off the night before, except with a completely different list of gripping happenings, haven't you ever wondered how do they do it?

Contrary to popular belief, the average news-channel manager (ncm) does not get by with 4 hours of sleep every night. He or she (here's a time when not being sexist pays off) is usually selected before birth (by despot Media Moghuls) when their pregnant mothers' wombs are injected with a potent mix consisting in 1:16 parts caffeine. This means they only take a break once every fortnight, for 15 minutes, to get rid of red film before their eyes. A typical day-in-the-life of an ncm then goes something like:

6.00am: final news byte of previous day done, checks calendar for pre-announced happenings for today. grunts with satisfaction as he sees 3 promising entries; filmstar to be released from jail for the 89th time, the new guy on indian cricket team will be calling a retired cricketer for a 7 min conversation for valuable advice, the finance minister will be announcing the new fiscal policy. its a no-brainer. calls his camera teams to cover the first two. people can read about the deficit in the newspapers. calls his sports reporter to discuss list of ex-cricketers and current club rejects to call for expert opinions on the nature of conversation. Decides to add the channel's technology segment anchor to discuss the cricketer's choice of cell phone.

7.15am: checks email for updates from various political party media representatives. Two emails. One party will be asking for a ban on the internet citing its culpability in corrupting the youth of the nation and also leading to closure of two local video-stores specializing in porn. As a peaceful mark of protest, they would be burning a dozen routers, ethernet cables and destroying keyboards. The second email is about another party protesting against the protest. They would do the usual bus-burning, windshield-smashing and pelting of stones. ncm grins...this was going to be an easy one. commissions a team for live coverage, reminds them to take a few crates of bottled water lest the protestors flag in the heat.

12.00pm: Calls his newspaper readers (not newsreaders) for an update. They've read every daily newspaper and tabloid from cover and cover and identified 52 potential inflammatory statements made by public figures ranging from the ex-ambassador from newfoundland to the child actor from the latest movie. He decides on the foreign author who makes a reference to brown bread as being a part of his diet in his interview to 'Culinary Delights'. Calls his most vocal reporter and packs off a team to camp outside his hotel to ask him why he called for the economic ruin of all white-bread makers in the nation.

3.15pm: the protest stories are losing steam. calls his bank to arrange a wire-transfer to a remote village in a far corner where the recipient walks to the playground to surreptitiously nudge a 7 year old girl (to be named princess) down a drain-hole. The nearby elite army troops swing into action in the 'Save the Princess' campaign. ncm's camera team is already there.

5.10pm: on being questioned the author retorted that "white bread is unhealthy". hallelujah! mob goes on a rampage, trashing the lobby of the hotel. emails flood in from several political parties that they will demand a retraction of the statement or the city will burn to protest the exploitation of white bread-makers. Another party rep email states the concept of bread is against our culture and plans protests to protect the interests of roti-makers. ncm sighs with relief...

6.05pm: princess starts climbing out of the drain. the camera man quietly nudges her back in. Still 2 hours to go for primetime...

Technorati Tags: blah, news, television channels

Maximizing productivity

What is it about cafeterias that invokes the worst in every human discipline? Assuming of course that the only human disciplines are planning and designing. Flimsy albeit that assumption may be, its worthwhile to consider the aspects of that area meant to satisfy one of the basic needs of humanity. The purpose of this post is not to petition for work areas to allow for satisfaction of other, more primal needs.

A look at the plan for any office building would clearly show that the design of an office cafeteria has to be a separate subject in itself, called something like 'Working Drone Nutrition Area Design', a hybrid science combining the science of architecture with psychology. This must involve complex algorithms to ensure that the area is at 125% utilization irrespective of your attempt to delay your lunch hour till the point your bodily functions start to recede into something resembling a comatose cabbage. It turns out that the excess 25% are usually people who have entered a zombie-like state while waiting for tables to become available. No one has seen what happens to them but it wouldn't be impossible to believe that the cafeteria staff moonlight as suppliers of crash test dummies.

It'd be too easy if all it took to get a table was for the planets to line up to spell 'BURP'. It would take more like a political party that does not rely on divisive groupism to make itself heard. Heck, nothing's that impossible. Having sufficiently exulted over the capture of your very own slab of formica-topped plywood, one surveys the options.

Nowhere is the disparity between the 'haves' and the 'have-nots' as prominent as on the cafeteria table. The haves = 'Has stay-at-home-wife-who-wakes-up-to-cook-for-me' shamelessly parades his assorted array that boasts nutrition, taste and the odd dollop of love. The have-nots = 'Have-no-chance-of-living-past-35-coz-of-the-cafeteria-food' meanwhile look through the menu that has all of 4 options (counting 'extra ketchup') and know by rote anyway before picking what they do everyday.

The effect is that the average lunch thus lasts about 11 minutes, 8 of which the haves spend screwing the lids on their stay-warm tiffins and the have-nots spending suspiciously poking at their food to check for unwarranted movement and looking at when they can back to their microsoft office document. Productivity soars! If that's not brilliant use of psychology, I don't know what is.

Technorati Tags: blah, work

The WACA - Conquered!

"Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war!" - William Shakespeare

My limited exposure to classical literature as opposed to  mainstream fiction means the phrase "Dogs of War" conjures up images of a grizzled bunch of mercenaries sponsored by an American industrialist laying siege to the rudimentary military of an obscure African nation. The intent of the siege, to replace the despot leader with another who would sign over the mining rights to the mineral-rich expanse of the country. The magic of Forsyth's writing is his ability to go into the nuts-and-bolts details of every operation that his characters undertake and so, the first half of the book is a 'dummies guide to procurement for mercenaries' with everything from combat jackets to rocket propelled grenade launchers.

The significance of 'the Home advantage' in sport has been such that many an encounter has been marketed with the classic setting showing the 'Away' team's attempt at storming the citadel. So it was with Lambeau Field and the Green Bay Packers (until their near-perfect home record was vapourized over the last couple of seasons). So it is with teams going to Australia. A record of 22 wins out of 25 played over five years highlights the massive gulf between the world champions and the rest. It is for this reason that one can't help but visualize the fourth day of the third test as an army launching an enthusiastic assault on the impregnable fortress that is the WACA.

Past campaigns by other teams saw half-hearted charges at the ramparts only to be either cut down by sharp-shooting snipers like Mcgrath and Lee. The first charge dismantled by the likes of Hayden and Ponting followed by Symonds and Gilchrist who line up opposition bowlers in the sights of their Howitzers before blowing them to smithereens. Jan 19 saw a spirited charge by a team that was light on heavy artillery that had, for three days dodged and weaved the pounding from the four heavy guns that were expected to anhialate the Indian ranks. Inspite of the additional ammo of a 413 run lead and 2 wickets, none expected it to be easy. It took sustained accuracy from Ishant Sharma to take out one of the big guns before some lucky ricochets got rid of Hussey and Symonds. Even then, the Aussies blazed away, going after a victory that every other team would not even consider. Clarke manned the guns supremely well, raking the Indian charge, putting doubts in their minds. Even with 5 wickets down, the writing was not on the wall, and it was only when Sehwag's revolver shot that took out Gilchrist and Kumble took out Clarke, the defences were breached. With the Indians into the stronghold, Johnson and Clark put up some vicious hand-to-hand fighting that pushed the attackers back one more time temporarily causing confusion before being finally overwhelmed by the invaders. The WACA...conquered!

My ode to the stereotypical war movie sated, its worth considering that the margin of 72 runs after having been dominated for almost every session of play over four days shows how gritty an opponent, the world champions are, and you wonder the difference a certain healthy hamstring would have made, in the form of the massive Mathew Hayden. Another difference between champion teams and others might be evident in how they probably won't be raking the umpires over the coals for two decisions that had their own telling impact on the day. In Melbourne, Roger Federer almost looked human in his five set marathon against J. Tipsarevic. Funny thing, sport.

Technorati Tags: Test Cricket, Cricket, WACA, Australia, India

In search of excellence

It could be considered a waste of nine days of letting my systems power down for about four hours a day. It could even be considered that it was a bad deal if I had to resort to injecting myself with copious amounts of caffeine to fight the temptation to catch some shuteye in meeting rooms and to up the volume on the car stereo to avoid testing a driverless car without the self-drive capabilities. To watch the inevitable unfold, just as it has so many times on overseas tours and to wonder if there is any point to it as a loud ad irritates your senses for the 140th time as you hear the sound of the newspaper landing at your door.

Who would enjoy watching the team they support being trampled over and at the same time invite the ire of family for looking like a zombie through that period? For over a decade I have had my reasons. None of them were to do with watching the Indian cricket team perform. What was it about then?

It was about watching cricket in its natural habitat. Technically, the home of the sport lies in a bunch of old, at times rickety stadiums built around tradition-steeped grounds in Western Europe where one finds geriatric 'members' drooling onto their ties as they sleep in the middle of enthralling sessions of cricket. But for me its soul resides in the set of grounds that have bred pitches that have always been decisive in their nature - hard and bouncy or crumbling and turning, rarely indifferent and slow. Surfaces that support batsmen with decisive footwork and bowlers who can bend their backs.

It was about sporting crowds. Capacity crowds for test matches. The facilities such that spectators come to relax and take in good cricket. Raucous support for the home team, but genuine appreciation for the opposition. Even some cheers when the visiting team shows some spirit to stage a comeback. Standing ovations for truly great performances, irrespective of team. These are the hallmarks of the crowds in a country where sports are very much a part of daily life and not just a means to a borrowed sense of achievement.

It was about the DNA of playing the sport. It is a human trait to withdraw into yourself at the appearance of a threat. While most line-ups 'consolidated' after the fall of quick wickets, these blokes attacked. While most fielding sides looked rudderless when faced with high-quality batsmen on song, they regrouped and set attacking fields.

And it was about the rare individual performance. The odd hour or even session maybe where the Indian team would match the Aussies, punch for punch. Be it a Tendulkar rearguard (of that there are many) or a fine spell of quick bowling from an Indian new ball bowler. The genuine applause reminding you that sport is as much about temperament as much about skill. The 03-04 series does not count as much because, and I've said this in a previous post, it was more an extended farewell party for Steve Waugh.

Not any more. In the last five days at the SCG, the Indians matched the Aussies in every way possible. Instead of frittering away advantages by playing circumspect and diffident cricket, they wrested initiatives and made things happen when none looked like happening. In spite of obvious shortcomings on bowling and fielding, they went toe to toe with Ponting's team and scrapped. The men around the bat even when the batsmen were well past their fifties, the radical fields (all off-side for Hayden) that stifled the flow of runs for a significant period. India's game-plans all but thwarted the Aussie plan to pile on the runs and declare with time to bowl India out. With some luck with umpiring, there would have been a much larger first innings lead and a much smaller 4th innings chase. Luck can not detract from a lion-hearted effort by the entire team. Now that's a performance.

Now, it is also about watching the Indian team perform...

Technorati Tags: cricket, India, Australia, SCG

Veisalgia

I don't know what it is about a hangover that makes me want to blog. Must be the sadomasochistic side of me that makes me screw my eyes to eliminate the double-vision, peer into the thin screen of liquid crystal and drum up crap to post. Of course, sense prevails and I give up the endeavour in about 45 seconds and go back to groaning and clutching my head in periodic intervals. So, the festive season aka 'alcohol poisoning season' is just about past us. Combine that with the odd late night at work and 4.30 am risings to watch our cricket team being given lessons in, you guessed it, cricket, and you have the world's longest hangover.

Before: Driving while drunk is not something I figure deserves a merit badge and so my solution usually has been to forsake my ride for a black-and-yellow. But that means travelling in a creaking tin cupboard on wheels whose drivers maneuver with the fervent belief that they are immune to every law of physics. But given the lack of options, we’d just hang on and hunch our shoulders so the top of our heads didn’t break through the top of the rattletrap at the next backbreaker ..errr..speedbreaker.

Enter, the Mumbai Traffic Police and their edict to make it ‘uneconomical’ to drive while under the influence.
Now: Enter – Party Hard Drivers. While the name might mistakenly invoke images of piss drunk party-goers arriving at your door to offer rides, the idea is simple. You call a number to arrange for a driver at your doorstep for the specific purpose of driving your sloshed ass back home. For a flat rate between 10pm and 3am with Rs 50 per additional hour, you have the convenience of your own car driven by, as I found out, a reasonably professional driver who did not casually add a 100% premium to his fee grunting “night-time charge”. You have to wonder why the 'spirit barons' didn't think of this on their own. Free limo-rides to and from all the watering holes in the city!

sheesh...all this talk of booze...quite ashamed of myself...so now to chalk out my resolutions to get into mountaineering shape, earn my first million and attain nirvana..in that order

p.s: the title means "uneasiness after debauchery" or in common parlance...a hangover

Technorati Tags: blah, life, veisalgia