Watching Cricket - What is it all about, really?

Somebody asked me what I have against cricket.

Actually I don't have anything against the game. It is just another sport, with its own set of (strange) rules. In fact, I really like playing cricket. I think its good fun, as long as I am not fielding. And especially if it is played with a piece of cardboard as the bat, and a crumpled-up newspaper as the ball.

I am digressing. What I want to say is that there is just one thing that I don't like about cricket, and that is, that it goes on for too long. Far too long. Ok, even that is fine. If the players really want to stay out all day and sweat under the sun, it is their choice. I can even understand spectators in the stadium watching the match with interest. It can be good fun, like I found out first hand. But what irks me is that millions of people sit around and actually spend(I dare not say "waste") hours and hours watching these endless matches on television.

In case you haven't noticed, the actual action in the entire match happens for probably just ten percent of the entire duration of the match.

How, you ask. Consider this.

A bowler measures his paces, does the run up, and bowls. The batsman hits the ball, the fielders scurry around, and the batsman takes a couple of runs. If you measure the time this entire bit of action takes, you will see that it measures up to just around 8-10 seconds. Most balls take even lesser time, but I will be generous, and take the average as 10 seconds.

A one-dayer has 50 overs, that is 300 balls are bowled.

Total time taken to bowl all the balls = 300 X 10 = 3000 seconds = 50 minutes.

Ok, let me consider other miscellaneous things, and conclude that the total time taken is 1 hour.

So the actual action in an 8-10 hour match happens for just 1 hour. Fancy that!

The rest of the time is spent in looking around, licking the ball, rubbing the ball against their clothes in unmentionable places, tapping the bat on the pitch, adjusting the helmet, adjusting the pad, doing half sit-ups, making gestures with arms, wiping sweat, and what have you.

And the entire nation sits glued to the television, watching men perform these ordinary actions for 9 hours, just for that 1 hour of actual action. And they spend at least half of those 9 hours again, watching the re-telecast.

And this is just the one-dayer. What about a test match? For five days, the nation thinks of nothing else. And at the end of it, many times, you don't even have a result to show for it.

There are very few cricket matches which I think are really exciting. In most of the matches, you get to know midway, which team is going to win. After that it is just a matter of waiting. And what a long wait! What pleasure do you get, really, in spending so much time watching a match, the conclusion of which is a foregone one?

And also, how many hours are wasted each year watching old matches between random countries, the results of which are already known!

It makes me restless. It makes me cringe. I dare not even start to think of what all these people might have been doing if they hadn't been watching this match. So many productive hours wasted! So many opportunities missed! So many beautiful moments overlooked!

I know I am in the minority, so I know I should be ready for a sound thrashing from all of you. But seriously, watching cricket makes no sense to me. What is it all about, really?

The naming ceremony.

This is for all the Anonymouses (Or is it Anonymice? Or Anonymi? Err..let's just make it Anons, shall we?) out there.

I am probably very lucky that I don't have many Anon trolls on my blog.(Touchwood) Most of you Anons contribute to the discussion in the comments section with very thoughtful comments. When you disagree, you do so without being rude, and I really appreciate that. So, when your contributions are all positive, why do you prefer to remain anonymous? I can understand if you are being abusive - you wouldn't want anybody to know who the bad-mouthing loser is. But in this case, why the anonymity?

Ok, I understand, you might have your own reasons for not letting me know who you are. I can think of a few -

1) You do not want anybody to catch you reading my blog. (Infradig, you know!)

2) You might be known to me, and you might not want me to associate you with the comments. Maybe you feel our offline relationship will be affected by your comments.

3) The thought that I am left guessing about your identity might give you kicks.

4) I can't think of anything else.

But I want to know who you are. I want to know who I am talking to. Or rather, I want to know which Anon I am talking to.

I have a picture of each commenter of mine. Many of you are excellent commenters. (I am a bad one - the maximum I can do is to say "Great post!" and "Heh heh, that's funny", and the like.). So when you, Anon, comment on two posts, I would like to know that the same person who said this on post A, said this on post B. Please don't ask me why this is important, but it is. More than anything, replying to a comment addressing "Anon at 12 30" is not much fun.

So now, I want to know your name, but you don't want me/others to know who you are. So what is the solution? Here is one -

Give yourself a name. Anything will do. Even something as unimaginative as "XYZ"(As long as nobody else gets the same bright idea). Or "Scooby Doo". Or "Brad Pitt". Or "Laloo Prasad Yadav". Whatever.

There is one commenter, who comments with an assumed name. I know who he is and why he does it - it suits me just fine! One calls himself "Same old Anon" in each comment. That makes it so much more easier! One even calls himself "The Anonymous Coward". But you don't have to be that honest, really!

So...could you please be considerate and name yourselves? And if its not asking for too much, you could even give me a hint, you know... whether you are somebody I know personally....*Crash* *Bang* *Shatter* Ok Ok Ok! Just name yourselves Ok? Just that! Please?

The Indian Ultrarunner - Arun Kumar Bharadwaj

Do you know what an UltraMarathon is? I confess that I did not know. Did you know that there is only one Indian Ultrarunner? I did not know.

But now I do. Arun Kumar Bharadwaj is the only known Indian ultrarunner.

But how did I get to know? Arun Kumar Bharadwaj read my post about the Times Bangalore Marathon in Metroblogging Bangalore, followed the link to my blog, and left this comment on this post in which I talked about Sreesanth, Kingfisher, and the TOI.

I will reproduce a part of his comment here:

Dear friends,
I am an ultramarathon runner and can understand it in a better way being in a state of my present situation. I think people writing here would like my little bio data.

It is :

How can we transcend ourselves if we do not challenge Our Capacities?

Name: Arun Kumar Bhardwaj
Email : a_runrunrun@yahoo.com
Cell Phone : 9213 964 901
Postal Address: Planning Commission, Parliament Street, New Delhi 110001.
DoB: 2 February 1969
Birth Place: Village Baoli, Distt. Baghpat. UP.
Education: B. Com. from Delhi University
Occupation: Govt. Service (Planning Commission, New Delhi) India
Height: 5 feet 8 inch, Weight: 68 kg
Family: Wife :Sangeeta, teacher in Central School. Daughters: Zola & Sofia (DoB 23.9.1998&12.1.2001), Son : Yiannis (12.7.2002).
Years running: On & off for 15 years. Ultras: 6 years

Personal Bests:
1. 180 km in 23.25 hours on 28-29 July 2000 (solo run from Haridwar to Baghpat, UP)
2. 270 km in 33.10 hr on 7-8 November 2001(solo run from Yojana Bhavan, New Delhi to National Ayurved Institute, Jorawar Singh Gate, Jaipur). Indian Record for the distance w.r.t. time taken.
3. 138.172 km in IAU Asia 24 hr Track Championships in Taiwan on 2-3 March 2002.(9th place). First Indian representative in any 24 hr Ultra Marathon.
4. 492 km in Australian 6-Day Race 17-23 Nov. 2002 & broke former Indian national record for 6 days race of 478 km made by Tirtha Kumar Phani in 1987. Thus, became first ever Indian to cross 300 miles in six days race (15th Place).
5. 516 km in Self-Transcendence 6-Days race, New York 27 April -3 May 2003 and became the first Indian to cross 500 km in a 6-Days race (7th Place).
6. 520 km in Copenhagen 6-Days challenge, Denmark 3 – 9 August 2003 (4TH place).
Became first Asian to complete three 6-Days races within one year, and every time with a new national record.
7. Finished IAU 100 Km World Cup 2003, Taiwan 16.11.2003. Became first ever Indian to participate and finish any 100 Km World Cup.
8. 501 km in International Six Days Running Championship, Mexico on 22-28 March 2004 (4th place in age category and 8th Place in general). First Indian representation in any Mexican ultramarathon championship.
10.532.8 km in German International 6-day race, 1-8 August 2004. Placed 15th. New Indian Record.
11. 550 km in 122.45 hr Delhi to Chandigarh and back. Appeared in Limca Book of Record 2005. 12. MIR Marathon, Moscow, finished in 3.56.45 in –4 Deg. Celsius and Rain.
13. 153 km in 24 hr Open Championship of Russia, 7-8 May 2005. Became the only Indian in the history of Russian Ultramarathon.
14. 556.45 km in 20th Australian Six Days Race, 20-26 Nov. 2005. New Indian & South Asian Record. (14th place out of 36 runners from 12 nations, after arriving only 20 hours before the start of the race and ran without any support crew).
15. 521 km Loutraki 7-Days International Race, Greece, 1-8 April 2006 (on a hilly course).

Typical training: It varies but normally 160 - 200 km/week. I sleep 4 hours only i.e. 12 mid night to 4 am and one night sleepless per week.

Injury history: None relating to running. Have undergone four major surgeries of Parotid Tumor between 14 and 17 years of age. I was very weak from my childhood, from the age of 6 to 19 yrs, I was a victim of malaria every year in rainy season. My body weight was only 26 kg when I was 14 years of age and 35 kg at 17 yrs. I, always, was the weakest boy of the class in my school time.

Favourite ultra foods: Totally vegetarian & teetotaler. Honey, fruit juice, banana and sugar cane.

Things I like most about ultra: Traveling, getting to make new friends. It gives opportunity to explore the unknown inner world and give spiritual ecstasy. I like my tears most during my ultras, I love them.

Things I hate most about ultras: Leaving my family waiting for me.

What got me started doing ultras: To produce myself as an example before my daughter that Everything is Possible for a willing heart..

Why I do ultras: I enjoy pushing myself to my limits. I am the only ultramarathon runner in India, a country of more than 1 billion people and that’s why I am facing very difficulty in continuing it. But I know that in future my story will become a great source of inspiration for coming generations and I would be satisfied by that reward. Also, the pure spirit I found in Ultra Marathoners is matchless, celestial and I want to be a part of them. When you run beyond the imagination, it gives a special sense of exceeding.

Ultra goals: 276+ in 24 hours. 400+ in 48 hours. 1000+ in 6 days. I aspire to finish and win every race of SCMT (upto 3100 miler). I also wish to run all state capitals of Indian states from New Delhi with a minimum recorded time.

Favourite ultra quotes: “Never Give Up”.
“If you have indomitable will-power then Impossibility-gate is not an obstruction.”
“When you believe then you can do it. Do you believe?”
I’ll want to quit, I’ll want to die. Let me die, don’t let me quit.”


Just look at those achievements! This man is an inspiration. He is an Indian. And sigh! We need an Australian to champion his cause. Thank you, Phil Essam!

If you want to contact him, here are his details again:
Name: Arun Kumar Bhardwaj
Email : a_runrunrun@yahoo.com
Cell Phone : 9213 964 901
Postal Address: Planning Commission, Parliament Street, New Delhi 110001.

All the best, Arun!

Chivalry and Courtesy

I was talking to somebody who said that he feels women are too easily impressed by chivalry. After screaming herself hoarse about the equality of men and women (he said), the same woman swoons over a chivalrous man. He accused women of double standards.

A bit of thinking led me to the conclusion, that yes, we do like chivalry. In fact, everybody does. But not in the sense of men holding doors open and offering their chairs to women. Everybody appreciates courtesy, good manners, and concern towards fellow human beings, regardless of the sex of the courteous person, or of the person at whom the concern is targeted.

Maybe I can explain better with examples.

Situation: A group of us are passing through a self-closing door.
I don't expect - Anybody to hold the door open for me.
I expect - The person who has already passed through, to pause and hold the door for that one second longer to prevent it from swinging back, so that it does not bang into my face, and I can pass through it elegantly and safely, and in turn, hold the door for that one second longer to facilitate the person behind me to pass through unhurt.

Situation: I enter a conference room for a meeting, and see that there is one chair short.
I don't expect: Anybody to get up and go out of the room, and get me a chair.
I expect: That when I go out and get a chair for myself, and am struggling to get the bulky swivel chair into the room through the self-closing door, my colleagues should not stare at me blankly, chewing their pen caps, but get up and hold the door open so that I can get my chair inside.

Situation: Getting on to the bus.
I don't expect: Anybody to stand aside and allow me to climb into the bus first.
I expect: That s/he should not shove me aside to get into the bus first.

Situation: Waiting (like at the doctor’s), where there are a number of chairs, all occupied.
I don't expect: Anybody to get up and offer their chair to me.
I expect: Somebody to get up and offer their chair to the pregnant lady/the lady carrying a baby/old people/the person with a crepe bandage around his ankle.

Actually these are very small things. It is common sense, and basic courtesy, which should be followed by everybody without a second thought. But an unbelievably small number actually practices it.

So naturally, when someone, be it male or female, displays such little gestures of thoughtfulness, it is very natural to be drawn to him/her. And the insensitive ones, who don't understand what is happening, accuse women of falling for chivalry. All I can say is, wake up, and smell the coffee.

Frustrated.

The Kingfisher flight is at 6 am. The passenger reaches check-in counter at 5:46 am. Authorities refuse to let him on the plane. The passenger throws a tantrum. The authorities do not budge. So the passenger goes to the media with this story, and TOI publishes the story - Sreesanth had a "harrowing" experience at Bangalore airport.

1) A passenger is a passenger is a passenger. Just because he is a cricketer, he cannot board a 6 00 am flight at 5 59 am. The Kingfisher authorities were right in refusing him entry.

2) Sreesanth has said something to the effect that it was a special day for him (Onam) and his entire family was waiting for him, and the flight authorities were not at all cooperative, and he reached 4 hours late. If the event was that important for him, couldn't he have woken up an hour earlier?

A budding cricketer, and already he thinks he is God.

No wonder. Cricket (don't get me started on this game), given undue importance, and the players placed on pedestals by adoring fans.

And the media makes it all worse. Hockey player Sandeep Singh was shot 'accidentally'. There was just one column about that in the newspaper. Sreesanth missed a plane to attend a personal event, due to his own stupidity. Two columns, along with a photo dedicated to him.

You wouldn't normally hear a hardcore optimist like me making statements like this, but I see no hope for our people.

The Meal on a Banana Leaf

..Or as we call it in Kannada, BaaLe Ele OoTa, has to be one of the best things in life. Any celebration in South India is incomplete without a sumptuous lunch served on a Banana Leaf. In fact, I admit shamelessly that there are a number of functions to which I go more for the lunch than for the event itself.

The importance of the food in such events, especially weddings, cannot be understated. Food is what the guest supposedly remembers even after he has forgotten the name of the bride and the groom, and how he is acquainted with them.

In fact, the caterer for my wedding had been decided three years before the groom was. Well, what I mean is that my mom and I had been to a friend's wedding, and the food was so wonderful, that my mom took the caterer's card, and when it was time for my wedding, it was this one that we contacted. And the food was fantastic!

A wedding feast is an event in itself. You are usually hungry and tired after talking to so many relatives/friends, whom you get to meet only at weddings. After all the smiling and talking, all you want to do is eat. So when you hear that lunch is ready, you run to the dining hall (unless you are unlucky enough to be closely associated with the couple getting married, in which case you get to eat only in the third pankti(batch) or so).

You sit at the table (it was cross-legged, on the floor, in the days when people were in good shape), in front of a fresh green banana leaf. You sprinkle some water on the leaf and clean it with your hands. Then you watch the food being served - in the preset order, in the preset positions on the leaf.

You wait desperately for the rice and ghee to be served, because only then are you supposed to start eating. Once it is served, you look around you to ensure that the older generation has started eating, and then you delve into the food.

You start off with the Payasa (Kheer), and then licking your lips, you eat the Thovve(simple, thick dal), which tastes fantastic despite how simple it is. Probably just your brain getting the pleasant signal that food is on its way. By that time, they arrive with the huLi (thick sambar with loads of vegetables), and you gobble it up in no time. Before the next item arrives, you have time to eat the mixed rice (Puliyogare, Bhaath or Chitranna), and sample the two different kinds of Kosambari(Mixed, garnished salad). You even taste the Gojju (A thick spicy preparation with a tamarind and jaggery base), and the Mosaru Bajji(Raita).

Just as you stretch out your hand towards the different kinds of Palya (Gravyless, vegetable curries), they arrive with more rice. Close on the heels of the rice comes the Saaru (A kind of Rasam), and you eat it with relish, mixing the Palya, and the HappaLa(Papad) with it.

Once you have savoured that, you sit back and crane your neck to see what the Bhakshya (sweet/s) is. Hurried exclamations to the person sitting next to you, expressing joy(usually) or disgust(extremely rarely) at the choice of sweets. Then you polish off the sweets with relish, and even as you eat them, along comes some kind of a fried savoury, like a Pakoda/Bonda, and you lose no time in eating that too.

In the middle of all this, some of the items make an appearance once again, and you have the choice to eat your favourite stuff all over again, if your stomach permits. Finally the Rice comes along again, followed by curds, which you mix and eat with salt and a little of the pickle.

Then you get up and wash your hands and leave the dining hall. A packet with a coconut and betel leaves is thrust into your hands. You look around for the nearest scapegoat on whom you can dump the coconut, and then do likewise.

Then you go back to the main wedding hall, where you can easily distinguish the guests who haven't eaten yet from those who have. The latter have this smug, satisfied look on their faces. And of course, a coconut in their hands.

Help! I am becoming like Wally!

Except that I don't eat ham sandwiches....

The tortoise

In our final year of college, three friends and I, enthused by the lovely Tanishq ads in the papers, decided to visit a Tanishq showroom and do some window-shopping. Shopping with money was out of the question at that stage of our poor lives, so window-shopping it was. One friend was slightly reluctant to go in and just look at everything and come out, so to make her feel comfortable, we concocted a story of our "colleague" getting married, and we going to buy a diamond pendant for her.

The story worked well, and varieties of pendants were being shown to us, while all we wanted to do was gawk at the gold and diamond necklaces, which were on display in the next room. We painfully enacted our drama, and then pretended we did not like any of them, and then casually set out to look at the other bigger stuff. I walked up to the diamond necklaces and spotted a particularly pretty one.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I pointed at the necklace, and asked the salesgirl casually, and with as much confidence as possible, "How much does that cost?"
The salesgirl looked at me quizzically. "Which one?" she asked.
"That one, third from left, with the number 5-8-0-0-0-0 written underneath it".
She smiled sweetly "That's the price ma'am".
My jaw hit the floor. I saw the salesgirl smiling at me ever so politely, but I saw the glint of amusement in her eyes. And then I wished I were a tortoise....

It was the annual day at school. I saw our Kannada teacher, dragging along a little girl. I went up to her with a couple of my classmates, vowing to spread a little of the butter.
"Oh... howww sweeeet", I gushed. She smiled nice and wide.
"Grand-daughter, ma'am?"
The smile froze. "No, daughter", she said.
The night suddenly became cold. I quickly recovered.
"Ohhhh!" I was suddenly all bubbly and effervescent. "Such a sweeet child! She looks jussssst like you!" And I took the little girl by the hand and played with her for ten minutes, and then delivered her back to her mom, smiling brightly. Yet, she looked daggers at me, and then I wished I were a tortoise.....

My classmate C once challenged me to jump down a flight of stairs. It was lunchtime. I stood on the top step, and eyed the landing. C was standing on the landing, watching me. I could hear steps behind me, and I spread out my hands, motioning for whoever was behind me, to stand still and wait until I jumped. I concentrated on the landing, and then took one look at C before I jumped. She was gesturing to me desperately, but it did not really register. I was already in the air. I landed safely on the landing (see, that's why its called a landing), and looked triumphantly at C, whose eyes were averted.

Suspicious, I looked behind me immediately, and there coming down the steps, with a smile in the corner of his lips, was our Sanskrit teacher, infamous for his quick temper. "Practicing for the Olympics?" he muttered, while he walked past. There was laughter all around and then I wished I were a tortoise.....

..So that I could just withdraw into my shell and pretend I were a rock.

Goodbye and thanks for all the bliss.

In a span of a few days - two giants have passed on. One made glorious music, and the other made fantastic movies.

When I heard about Ustad Bismillah Khan's death, I found a tear in my eye. Music does that to you. It touches your inner being, and naturally the musician who gave you that music becomes close to your heart. He stops being a photo on your CD, and becomes "Bismillah". You know - the old man next door. He was a loveable, toothless old man with the toothy grin (Figure that out!), who fondly lifted a Shehnai in his frail-looking hands, put it to his lips, and proceeded to create magic. With that image in mind, at his death, I found that I was feeling very sad. It was naturally made even worse by the plaintive notes of his Shehnai in the background when they were talking about him on television.

Though I cannot recall a particular Raag or piece of his which is my favourite, I can simply say that I loved his music. Sometimes melancholy, sometimes lively - it was always beautiful. Whether you were listening closely or absent-mindedly, it was anyway pleasing. And to think he said something like "Music is an ocean - I have just touched the surface". Humility, wit, and above all - his utter disregard for religion - it is people like him who have the ability to bring people of all religions together!

As for the fabulous Hrishikesh Mukherjee - if I make a top twenty favourite Hindi movie list, I am sure that 6-7 in that list will be his movies. That easily makes him my favourite film-maker. Even though the director is not really visible when you watch a movie, Hrishikesh Mukherjee was the kind whose touch you could feel in his the movies. You could watch a movie and say - that seems like a Hrishikesh Mukherjee movie - and you will be right.

And what movies!! Each one of them is a masterpiece. Anuradha, for example, is a favourite of all the elders in my family, and apparently, a certain member of our family was named after the protagonist in the movie. ;) Then Anupama - with Dharmendra looking drop-dead handsome, and Sharmila Tagore exquisite - the music, the settings - the movie.. wow! Anari was one of the first Raj Kapoor movies I watched - and just loved the simplicity and the sweetness of the story. Then there is Guddi - an extremely lovable movie with the young and innocent, starstruck Jaya Bhaduri - a movie that I can watch any number of times.

And then Bawarchi and Chupke Chupke - laugh riots, both of them. Mili and Khubsurat, which I rank a little lower than his other movies, are excellent nonetheless. As for Abhimaan - with the brooding Amitabh Bachchan jealous of his talented wife - a beautifully made movie. And his last one - Jhooth Bole Kauwa Kaate - I know that not many people liked it - but I wonder why - I thought it was great - with Anil Kapoor, Juhi Chawla and Amrish Puri at their funniest!

I keep the best for the last - Anand and Golmaal -- one tragic, the other comic - but both of them are right on top of my all-time favourite list, jostling each other for first place. Both of them are priceless, in their own way. No other movie in Bollywood can even come close to these two.

Since I seem to be at a total loss for words, I will just guide you to an excellent write-up on Hrishikesh Mukherjee's movies.

These two stalwarts have given us hours of happiness - and though they are gone, their work is still here. What else can I say to them? Just "Thank You".

The human tree.

I was fascinated by fairy tales as a kid and devoured them by the dozens.

But there was one thing I never did understand. Many of these stories had this innocent little kid who is lost in the forest, more often than not, by the evil designs of a wicked stepmother. When the child wanders around the forest, s/he comes across menacing-looking trees which (to the child) seem to have a life of their own, and which wave their arms and make eerie noises, and scare the child stiff. I found it funny that anybody could be scared by a tree. To take things further, the imaginative artists drew dark, frightening trees, which actually had eyes and a nose and a mouth. I scoffed at it all the time - please, there couldn't be trees like those in reality!

Until last month. On a weekend walk in Lalbagh, I came across this tree - and I could have sworn that it has eyes and a nose, and even a mouth with a grimace. If I had been a child and had seen it in twilight, I am sure I would have fled the scene. Mr Andersen, Messrs Grimm, and all you noble fairy tale writers, I apologize for having doubted you. You knew exactly what you were saying!

Thames and Zebras

My sis P and I are, as usual, occupied in pulling our little cousin V's leg. V, who has been in the UK for a year or so now, can now speak in a “prop-ah” British accent when he so chooses. He started off correcting our pronunciation for certain English names, but the last straw was when he told us that Zebra is not "Zee-bra", but "Zeh-bra".

So, like all big sisters do, we engaged ourselves in torturing the little fellow.

P - Akka, do you think there are any Zee-bras near the Thay-ms [1] in London?

V - It is not Thay-ms! It is "Tems"! And I already told you that it is Zeh-bra.

S - I don't really know - maybe there are lots of them in Ree-ding [2] and Nor-witch [3].

V - It is Red-ing! And Nor-ich! I already told you!

P - I am sure there are some in Lie-cester [4]. Or in Burk-shire [5].

V - Stop it! Stop it!! It is Lester!! And Bark-shire!

S - Aww, come on, V! If the British could come over and call Srirangapatnam "Seringapatam", and Chitradurga "Chitldrug", then we most definitely have the right to call Edinburgh "Edin-burg". At least we are true to the spelling.

V - *Claps his hands over his ears* It is Edin-bra!! Amma! Amma! Look at these two girls! They don't know anything!

V's mom - Oh, that's ok, V - they are just teasing you. Naughty, aren't they? We'll teach them a lesson. Let's just chuck them into the Thay-ms.

V - Aaaaargghhhhhh!!!!

And it continues ........

NOTES:
[1] Thames
[2] Reading
[3] Norwich
[4] Leicester
[5] Berkshire

Papeeha - The first whiff of romance.

I grew up in a township with dozens of other kids - and not one day was dull. But as we turned into teenagers, I saw to my horror that my friends, with whom I had always been on the same wavelength, were turning into movie-buffs. They spoke incessantly about movies and songs and Anil Kapoor's moustache and Madhuri Dixit's smile. I could speak volumes about Mark Twain and the Mahabharatha, but my friends would have nothing to do with a girl who thought that "Chandni ribbons" looked like mosquito nets.

It got worse. Childish giggles turned into dreamy sighs as I saw my once-sane friends walking around looking moonstruck and claiming that romance had entered their lives. A bunch of them claimed that the love in QSQT was the purest of them all, while two others were in love with the love in Maine Pyar Kiya. Some of them swore by Roja. And on top of all that, they asked me, ME, which movie introduced romance to me. I offered a tentative "Errr... The Sound of Music?"... and it sealed my fate further as the girl who doesn't know anything about Bollywood.

I have never been much of a movie-goer, but there were some movies I loved. Some brought laughter, some brought tears, but "Romance"? What was that?

And then, one night, Doordarshan screened Papeeha. And Romance, with a capital R, tiptoed into my life.

Papeeha is a wonderful, little-known, movie, made by that fabulous film-maker Sai Paranjpye. Winnie Paranjpye plays an anthropologist who goes to the forests to study tribals. There she meets the dashing Milind Gunaji, who plays a forest officer. In the course of the movie, they fall in love, and after a brief misunderstanding, they get together again. A simple, sweet, love story.

But the movie totally swept me off my feet. It was a strong, heady feeling, and it made me feel that I was the heroine and it was I who met the hero and fell in love with him. I saw myself in the dainty shoes of the very charming Winnie Paranjpye, she of the sparkling eyes and impish smile. I went with her to the forest, and was overwhelmed by the presence of the brooding, serious and handsome Milind Gunaji. I was a part of their witty conversations, recognized their love before either of them acknowledged it, agonized over their misunderstandings, and exulted at their reunion.

I don't know what did it. It might have been the unlikely location for the story - a forest, a village. It could have been the absence of complications - no villains, no strict parents, no interfering relatives, no slapstick comedy, no atrocious makeup, no grandiose settings. It could have been the stark contrast between the energetic, loveable and sweet heroine and the arrogant, egoistic, carelessly stylish hero. Oh, it could have even been that both the hero and the heroine were not at all glamourous in the conventional sense, and that made them so real, so attractive. It could have even been the fact that both of them had definite, unambiguous occupations. It could have been the underlying theme - of saving the forests, the life of the tribals.

Or more likely, it could even have been the simple fact that I was at a silly, sentimental, vulnerable age. Or it could just be the magic of Sai Paranjpye at work.

But whatever it was, it became one of my favourite movies. And it still is, even after I have watched hundreds of movies ever since. I haven't watched this movie again, nor have I even heard of it being spoken of, and I haven't even met anybody who has watched the movie. [Even now, in the age of Google and internet, I wasn't able to find any info on the movie - except for a few lines on the subject of the movie]. What a gigantic pity.

And oh, when the movie was screened, Milind Gunaji was an unknown actor. I had missed his name in the titles, and agonized over the name of the actor for a very long time. So, it was a pleasant surprise when I saw him in the trailer of Fareb. I lost no time in finding out who he is, and then finally, I put the name on the face.

So at last, I had something to tell my friends. "Papeeha" brought romance into my life, I said. But it didn't really make any difference. Nobody had heard of the movie, and the actors were nobodies. I was still the boring girl, until we all grew up and knew better ;).

Anyway, Papeeha is a beautiful movie! I would love to watch it again [and find out what effect it will have on me now, after more than ten years!]

Celebration

Anil makes a call to celebrate the anniversaries of two momentous occasions.

This year is the 75th anniversary of the martyrdom of Bhagat Singh and his comrades. It has passed almost unnoticed. No official functions to mark the occasion. No commemorative postage stamp, no portrait or statue to honour them and remember with gratitude the ‘supreme sacrifice’ of a band of young men committed to the cause of freedom.

Another occasion is close at hand and plans don’t seem to be afoot to celebrate that either. Next year is the 150th anniversary of the First War of Indian Independence. We were taught about it in the terms in which the British colonial historians referred to it – the Sepoy Mutiny. (sipaayi dange in Kannada, the language in which I had my school education). The name itself tried to trivialise the great uprising that resulted from a spontaneous upsurge of nationalist and anti colonial feelings. Since it had its origins in the colonial army, it was easy for them to refer to it as a mutiny, a mere a matter of discipline and quell it.

Wonder why this neglect of these historic occasions and their anniversaries? Is the revolutionary spirit passé? Is the idea of people thinking and who might be inspired by these events and stand up to authority too subversive for the people who hold power and who they hold it for?

He makes a request:

We the people shall celebrate the anniversaries of these momentous events. What the government seems to be ignoring, we shall celebrate in our own way.

Please copy the image above and put it in your own blog, along with this request.

Thank you!

If you also feel as strongly about this, then please spread the word around!

Update: Emma has a very interesting post where she points out that, this year, in fact, is the 200th anniversary of the "real" First War of Independence, otherwise known as the Vellore Mutiny, which happened in 1806. And this hasn't even found a place in our history books (at least not in ours). Do check out the post.

Reading is an abominable hobby.

*Waits for the furor to die down, and then continues*

You must know by now, that I love books. Give me a book and a corner to curl up in, and you can easily forget my existence [except at mealtimes, when you will be painfully reminded of it.] If someone tells me, "Go ahead and read for the rest of your life, all your needs will be taken care of", I will do just that. Go ahead and proceed to read. And read. And read.

So now, why is reading abominable? That's because when it's as passionate as a hobby as it is for me, you wouldn't prefer to do anything else other than read.

I love to sing, I love to sketch, I like to go out for walks. I love to meet people, I like to keep my house clean, but the problem is that I'd rather read than do any of these things. I have a truckload of dresses I cannot wear, because they don't have matching dupattas/accessories, coz I'd rather read then go out and look for them.

In fact, I didn't take up writing as a hobby for very long, because I felt I would prefer to read instead. [So, it is quite a wonder that this is my 100th post on this blog, not a mean achievement for someone who refused to start a blog coz "she didn't have anything to write about."]

My problem is that I read everything that can be read. I read signboards when I am on the road. I read idiotic ad posters while waiting my turn in a queue. I even read stuff like articles on how well Hum Aapke Hain Koun is doing, in a 1995 India Today while waiting at the doctor's! For heavens' sake, I even read the stuff on the paper covers made of magazine pages, in which they wrap bananas or medicines!

Sometimes it gets very irritating. It is as if there is a demon inside me which has to be sated. When I lived in TamilNadu for a while, I went crazy for a while coz I couldn't read Tamil signboards when I travelled. So I went ahead and learnt how to read and write Tamil, and the demon inside was happy.

When my sister needs to talk to me, she first clears the place of all reading material (and food), and only then talks to me. Coz it is only then that she gets my complete attention. Poor kid.

Sometimes, I have to confess, it is an escapist technique too. Something bothering me? Something unpleasant happening? Drown myself in a book.

As much pleasure as reading gives me, sometimes I wish I had never been introduced to books. I would have had so much time to do other things! An uncle once told me about his friend who doesn't read, his reasoning being that he would rather go out and experience life, rather than experience others' lives. I had scoffed at it at that time, but now I think he did have a point.

Oh I know, I know, all that I need to do is strike the right balance. Give the demon as much reading as it wishes, but wake up and give as much importance to the other things in life. Oh, I do have my priorities in order. I don't neglect important things, blah blah. But when something can be avoided, I most certainly do.

But, as they say, a problem recognized, is half-solved. I intend to cut down on reading drastically, and start smelling the flowers. I've even taken a few first steps. I have bought drawing sheets and pencils. I am going to leave my Tanpura/Tamboori at the music shop tonight, to get it repaired, and will resume singing once it is ready. I intend to even find a tailor and get all my dresses and gift sarees in order (most disgusting of tasks, but yet). Wish me the best, please.

What I want from Google

I don't have enough words to describe what Google means to me. I can't think how I went through life before Google. Or for that matter, before the Internet. Or to think of it - before the computer. Or, before the.... Ok... I can go on till I get to The Wheel, so I'll stop right now.

Anyway, what I want to say is that Google is an integral part of my life. I find myself depending upon Google for everything - to the extent that Google has made me lazy. Anyway, I don't expect that I am saying anything new.

But. There is a lot that Google cannot do yet. And I am waiting for the day when a search engine comes along with capabilities that I am about to enumerate.

1) There is a creepy-crawly that lives in our bathroom. I have no idea what it is. I want to take a picture of it, post the image in the search bar of the search engine, and hit enter, and I want Google to tell me what that insect is.

2) I have been humming a tune for some days now. I can't, for the life of me, remember where I heard it, and whether I will hear it again. Meanwhile, it is driving me crazy. So I want to record myself hum that tune, post the wave file onto the search bar, and click on Enter. And I want the search result to contain the name of the song, the singer, and everything related to it.

3) I am trying desperately to remember a poem that we had, back in primary school about "Trust". I don't remember the name of the poem, nor the name of the poet, nor any line in the poem. But I know the meaning - the poet says that there is nothing great in trusting a person you know. What is amazing, is that we go through life trusting people totally unknown to us. We trust the cook at a restaurant not to poison us, we put our lives willingly into the hands of an unseen pilot on an aircraft, we trust an unknown doctor to cure us, etc. The latter kind of trust is greater than the former.
I want to paste this gist of the poem in the search bar, and click enter, and I want the poem retrieved for me.

Oh, I know it is not impossible to find out even now. I mean, there are poetry forums and insect-lovers' sites where I can get the info that I need - with a little effort, and some patience. But that's precisely the point. I want it done without lifting a finger. Or rather, lifting a finger just once (to click).

And I have complete faith that the day will come when I will read this post and laugh.

A tag in which I reveal my innermost secrets.

So, I have been tagged yet again, by the irrepressible and talented Ano [Check out her bloap (blog soap)]. So here goes!

I’m thinking about:
Food. Nothing new.

I said:
"I'm the greatest", but nobody believed me.

I want to:
Go around the world.

I wish:
I could just wave my hand, and set everything right in the world. Well, almost everything, otherwise, life would be boring, huh?

I hear:
Voices in my head.

I wonder:
What it is that makes people intolerant of people who are not like them.

I regret:
Nothing. No use wasting time thinking about the past.

I am:
Eternally hungry.

I dance:
With joy. But only with all doors and windows shut.

I sing:
Well. Ok, I can sing well, but I don't sing much nowadays. Pssst...I have taken the first step towards setting that right.

I cry:
Buckets when I’m emotional - too happy, too sad, too angry, too helpless....

I’m not always:
Patient.

I make with my hands:
The most delectable, soft, perfect, fully-blown Phulkas. Or so they say. [Modesty takes over.]

I write:
Coz I love to. Coz I cannot not write.

I confuse:
People ;)

I need:
Lots of love, lots of food, lots of music, lots of books, lots of friends, and lots of solitude.

And finally:
I tag, mmm... let me see... hmmm.. a different set this time - Anu, Bhargav, Srikanth, Bellur, Shastri.

Oh, and about the "innermost secrets" in the heading? That was just to get you to read this post! ;)

Four brief book reviews.

I just had to tell you about a couple of books that I read. My aunt gave them to me as a gift.

One was "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" by Alexander McCall-Smith. This is a charming novel about Precious Ramotswe, a "traditionally built" single woman who lives in Botswana, and is the only lady detective in the whole country.

The book is fully of small mysteries, that she solves singlehandedly, using just logic and a perceptive knowledge of human nature. In the background of all the simple little problems of life, lies a sinister mystery waiting to be solved, and she does this too, with her usual elan. Comparisons to Agatha Christie's Miss Marple are rife in reviews about this book, but where Miss Marple is a sweet, old, mildmannered armchair detective, Mma Ramotswe is a firm, opinionated, independent, strong-willed, compassionate, Red Bush Tea-drinking individual on the threshold of middle-age.

You will love the protagonist, as will you love the other characters, the most prominent of them being Mr. JLB Matekoni, the expert mechanic who hopes to marry Mma Ramotswe. The book paints a beautiful picture of the little-known land of Botswana, for which Mma Ramotswe nurses a fierce love and pride.

I can assure you that you will not come away from this book without feelings of adoration, amusement, and warmth. I highly recommend it! And of course, now it has me thirsting for the other books in the series!

The second book is "I don't know how she does it" by Allison Pearson. It is the story of a working mother. It is funny, sad, and incredibly chaotic. Kate Reddy, the protagonist is highly likeable but at the same time insufferable. Her story is probably one of every working mother. Kate is torn between love for her job and the desire to be with her kids. Add to this, a feeling of profound guilt, and a long-suffering husband, and there, you have the story.

The book is a very good read. In many ways it was a revelation . It was like the answer to the endless discussions I had with friends during college days, about whether we would work when we have children - and then finally say - ok, let us cross that bridge when we come to it. This book has the answers. Oh no, this book doesn't preach working motherhood, nor the opposite, it just tells a story, it just gives you the facts. It is up to you to pick what you want from it. It was slightly disturbing, I must say. But it is very interestingly written. Full of laugh-out-loud similes, and spot-on behavioral observations.

Actually, while I am at it, I must tell you about a couple of other books. One is "Moulin Rouge" by Pierre La Mure, yes, the same book on which the movies (one old, one new) are based. I haven't watched either movie, but from the reviews, I gathered that the movies deal with just a small part of the book. The book is about the brilliant painter Henri Toulouse-Lautrec. Crippled, and a dwarf, his entire life is spent in the pursuit of love and acceptance. Meanwhile, he paints. Paints outrageous pictures, which shock society. While he pursues love, fame and success pursue him. But all that he wants is love. It is a heart-rending story - another must read.

Then there is the story "The Blind Assassin" by Margaret Atwood. This is a magnificent book. The basic story is about two sisters, Iris and Laura Chase. Laura dies under questionable circumstances, and Iris is now an octogenarian. She is writing a journal about her life, for her estranged granddaughter, whom she hopes to meet some day. So, parts of her story is revealed to us through this story. Then in parallel, there are extracts from the novel written by Laura Chase. The name of this novel is "The Blind Assassin", and it is a kind of a diary maintained by a young girl while waiting for her lover. And the story - The Blind Assassin? It is narrated to her by her lover. Then there are bits and pieces of the story revealed by newspaper clippings. The novel keeps going back and forth in time - and looks like a hotchpotch of excerpts from a journal, a novel, and a newspaper, but it all comes together superbly at the end.

Confusing? That is why I never attempted a review. It is too difficult. Anyway, the way Margaret Atwood has woven all the stories together is amazing. As for the writing - it is fantastic. By the way, this book won the Booker Prize in 2000.

So there you have it - Four books - one charming, one thought-provoking, one heart-rending, and one awe-inspiring. Take your pick. Happy reading.

I wrote a story in my dream but I don't remember it.

Last night, in my dream, I wrote a story. It had a surprise ending. Even in my dream, I knew it was a dream, like it happens so many times. I also knew that I would not remember the story when I woke up. So I considered waking up right then and jotting the story down. But even as I was thinking that, the salient points of the story began to blur. So I did what I thought was the next best thing. I tried to engrave some key points of the story in my head, so that I would remember it when I woke up.

I don't know if I did it, or if the darkness of sleep overcame the momentary clarity. But when I woke up, I did not even remember about the story. But a few minutes back, it came back to me that there was a story in my dream. I tried as hard as I could to remember what it was, but all that I remember is that the surprise ending consisted of one line, and that one line had a longish word, starting with "S". Surpassed? Stupendous? Stargazing? Is there any use?

I am insanely jealous of all those scientists who got solutions to their problems in their dreams. Take for example the scientist Kekule. He racked his brains for years, trying to find out the structure of Benzene. Then, once, in his dream, he saw six snakes slithering about. Suddenly they all got together, with each snake holding the tail of the next in its mouth, thus forming a circle. Bells rang in his head, and he probably woke up shouting the German version of "Eureka" and gave us the structure of the Benzene ring. (Which, by the way, is the only structure I could remember for Chemistry tests).

Then there are writers who say that they get their literary ideas from their dreams.. Robert Louis Stevenson says that he got the idea for "Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" in a dream.

Now, my question is this. How did Kekule and Stevenson wake up and remember their dreams? If I were Kekule, the moment I started dreaming about snakes, I would have woken up screaming. And then I would have forgotten why I woke up screaming. Sigh. That's what makes Kekule, Kekule and me, me.

Don't dreams just drive you wild? With their can't-understand-them characteristics? You spend a whole day thinking of the Himalayas, and two minutes thinking of Dracula, and when you sleep, what do you dream of? Dracula of course.

And then there are those dreams where you know that it is a dream, but you cannot get out of it. It is like thrashing about in a web that you are caught in. If it is a nice dream, you don't really mind, you can even ask the person trying to wake you up, to hold on for five minutes while you finish your dream. But really wild are those dreams where you say, "I hope this is a dream. It sure feels like a dream". But it is never-ending, and bad things keep happening, and you can't control it, and at the point where you feel, "No, this is not a dream, it is really happening", the tears start flowing, and then you wake up, my cheeks wet with tears. And what a relief that is!

Then there are times when you wake up, and know that you have been dreaming, but don't remember the dream. Then the next time you go to bed, the dream automatically comes back, and you can easily continue it. Strange indeed.

Then there are dreams where a certain person makes an appearance, but you have forgotten it. And the next day, when you meet that person, you blurt out, "Hey I dreamt of you last night!" and then you have to listen to the sniggers all around. Sigh.

Anyway, the whole grouchy point of this post is that I have forgotten the wonderful, prize-winning material, Roald Dahl-ish story that I wrote in my dream.

Tea

I love tea.

My idea of bliss, is to curl up with family/friends, and have a nice long chat over a hot cup of tea.

When I say I want to drink tea, it is very rarely for just the tea itself. It is for the entire ritual - taking a break, preparing the tea, sitting comfortably and drinking it with somebody, enjoying their company. In fact, when I am alone, I have tea only when it is absolutely necessary -- just to get rid of a mild headache, or just to drive away the vestiges of sleepiness.

I like my tea with just a teaspoonful of milk, and just a touch of sugar. Honey and jaggery are interesting substitutes too! For a change, I love ginger tea, especially when I have a cold or a sore throat.

The Sundays of my childhood was full of lemon tea, made oh-so-perfectly by my father. Just that little lemony tang, and the fragrance of tea, and sugar enough to please a child's palate. Papa, why don't you make lemon tea any more?

In fact, it was my dad who taught me to prepare tea. I followed his instructions to the T(ea). And it always was fantastic!

As I grew older, my tastes called for lesser milk and lesser sugar. But the process still remained the same. Then my aunts taught me a tasty new alternative - brewing tea - just like the oh-so-propah English. Just add those tea leaves into hot water, wait, and drink. Wowie! And this tastes best without sugar or milk.

The best tea I have had out of home are at Darjeeling, right inside a tea garden, and at Kemmannugundi, though this one was very milky and sugary. (I have no doubt that the places had a lot to do with it, though!)

When I am slightly hungry, I love dipping a biscuit into the tea and eating the soft, squidgy result. This is an art in itself; you hold the biscuit in the tea for just that right amount of time - to make it soft, but not long enough such that it lands into the teacup and forms a gooey residue.

I love trying out varieties of tea. Darjeeling, Assam, Earl Grey, Lemon, and that yummy Chocolatey Sikkim tea that my uncle brewed for us the other day - wow!

So, imagine the effect that a tea bar would have on me! That's my latest post on Metroblogging Bangalore - hop over and have a look. In fact, if you browse a bit at MB, you will discover some fab eating joints for you to try out. Bon appetit!

The angel in white.

A few years back, Isha Yoga Foundation conducted Sahaja Sthiti Yoga classes at our college. Finding that we would be taught breathing exercises, and being aware of the benefits of Pranayama, I enrolled for the course. It went on for two weeks, and I quite enjoyed it, especially the 15-minute Shoonya meditation, which I find very effective.

[For a time, I did the entire exercise cycle regularly, and was surprised by people asking me why I was glowing with health. But in spite of knowing that it is good for me, I don't do the exercises, nor the meditation, and I have no excuses for that.]

Anyway, back to the course. On the last day, it was arranged that we would visit the Isha Yoga Foundation at Coimbatore. I was persuaded to go with the promise that it is in a very picturesque setting. So off we went, in a bus from college.

Arriving early in the cold winter morning, I found that the place indeed is beautiful. It is in a kind of valley, with low, green hills all around. It has pristine green lawns and beautiful trees, and pretty buildings - in all, a very peaceful environment.

After a painful, but refreshing bath with freezing water, and a sumptuous breakfast, we were taken around the grounds by a couple of volunteers. It was cloudy, and there was a slight drizzle. Beautiful weather for a beautiful place.

As we roamed around, it started raining. We ran, enmasse, across the green lawns, towards the main building, for shelter. As I reached the building, I kind of lost my bearings, and wondered aloud, "This way or that?" A soft voice behind me said, "To your left". I turned to thank the source of the voice. And the picture I saw took my breath away.

In the background, emerald green hills, grey clouds, green lawns, with the rain coming down. And framed in this setting, stood a vision, swathed in spotless white. The pure white in stark contrast to the bright green lawns, freshly washed with rain.

She was pleasantly plump. Her round face was crowned with short black curly hair. She was smiling very sweetly. Her expression was one of serenity and joy all at once.

She must have thought I did not hear her, coz she repeated, "To your left", and she pointed with one finger. And she smiled again. "Thank you!" I said, and ran in to get shelter from the rain. I caught up with a friend R, who saw that I was looking bewildered, and raised her eyebrows questioningly. "I just saw an angel", I said, at the risk of sounding corny, but I meant it. R looked at me funnily, and we went in.

The angel also came in, and walked over to our group. She introduced herself as Tina, and said that she was our guide for the day. Another pleasant lady, Angela, joined her. They were resident volunteers at the foundation.

They took us around, and patiently answered all our questions. The day was good. We ate, played games, did the breathing exercises, meditated, went around the place, and relaxed.

I saw with amusement that I was not the only one upon whom Tina had had that extraordinary effect. R agreed with me about her being like an angel. As for the guys, they were following her around like puppies. ;)

When we got some time to sit down, we chatted with Tina. She was funny, friendly, enthusiastic, but more than anything, she seemed at ease with herself and the world. Always smiling that tranquil smile.

She said she was from Lebanon, and was staying at the Foundation for a while. We did not press for more information, nor did she say anything else.

After a round of photographs, we said goodbye and left. In retrospect, it might be that I followed the exercise regimen so strictly in the hope that I would also turn out as happy, calm and graceful as Tina. ;)

Tina, I have no idea where you are now, but I hope you are safe.