After a few hours of exile
to the land of intoxication
I was forced to come back.
It was just too terrible to bear,
the silly and rude aspects of reality.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Nostalgia Nauseating
Once again it is that time of the year when full-throated cries of nostalgia looms in the air like reeking clouds of cigarette smoke. Cigarette smoke, for all you need to end up as a passive smoker is to exist. There is no escape. Mourners of the past, of halcyon days, more precisely of Onam are there. Just about everywhere. On television, radio, in magazines, newspapers. And the bunch comprises Intellectuals, Litterateurs, Academicians, Artists, Tom, Dick and Harry.
Every year these people come along with Onam reminding one of what E.V.Lucas described as the buttonhole type of bore in his essay, Bores. No matter how hard you try to get rid of them, they will simply stick to you. Paradoxically a very mention of ‘Onam’ will make them frown initially and it will be preceded by verbal diarrhoea; “Onam? What Onam? Those were the days when we kids gathered together at the ‘Tharavadu’ to celebrate Onam. We used to go out to pluck flowers. Then we would make floral patterns early morning while mom, aunt and grandma prepared Onam delicacies in the kitchen”. Then it will be followed by a long list usually begin with ‘Banana chips’ and ends with ‘Payasam’. Most often the abuse will end up with the reciting of either “Maveli nadu vaneedum kalam manusharaellarumonnu pole….” or “poove poli poove poli…” in a pathetically shrill voice. (The first one makes sense but what the hell the other is all about, no idea though I have been listening to it since I was a kid). And if it is a woman she would even shed a few drops of tears as she was taken back, by the embarrassed interviewer, from her ‘journey down memory lane’.
And if you are living outside Kerala, Oh God, Onam celebrations are just obscene. Middle aged women weigh around a ton, who hardly left a single stone unturned in their effort to look younger will be there all around, reminding one of caparisoned elephants.
Then their 555-smoking mahouts and offspring. It is just utter chaos. Clad in traditional Kerala Saree, Silk mundu & jubba with sandalwood paste on their forehead, these ‘uprooted malayalees’ will list umpteen reasons to celebrate Onam. Then they will lament the loss of culture, of the good old days and the so called bullshit like parrots. Even the nouveaux riches among them would claim of having Kudiyaans (Tenant is a rough translation) who brought ‘Vazhakkulas’ for them during Onam. Each and every ‘uncle’ would tell the story of Mahabali in his butler English to kids with a cut-glass accent and will eventually get frowned upon. Actually this chap, the pot bellied demon king with a handle bar moustache must be considering himself fortunate for being booted to the abyss for he has been spared of all these ‘blah-blahs’. But wasn’t it he who began it all and should be aptly dubbed as the unforgivable? He was so naïve to trust the dwarf and later obliged and succumbed to him. He should have denied that he made any promise. Far far smarter are our rulers.
Another ‘to-your-face-crap’ is the interview of film stars telecast on channels on Onam. Often these would be shot at their sprawling bungalows. Needless to say they too would be clad in ethnic wear with all the necessary paraphernalia around. Worst would be the scene if it were actresses, especially new ones who ‘set the screen ablaze.’ Donned in ‘pattu pavada’ usually yellow in colour, they would share their onanubhavangall with octogenarian viewers. Sure there would be a ‘sweet grandmother’, most often died recently, and whom our actress misses terribly especially during Onam. You know why? Because it was this grandmother who used to prepare her favourite pickle. And all of a sudden she is no more. What a pity!
The most tragic of them all are the ‘Onam special’ telefilms. It comes to your drawing room and take you for a ride (nothing figurative, take it literally) as the camera zooms into a big home, ‘Tharavadu’. The only residents are the aged couple. The husband is bald and stout dressed in mundu and vest where as the wife is lean and wears a cotton saree. A salt streak on hair adds dignity to her appearance. The opening scene would show the wife busy at kitchen. She is Unni’s mother. Oh let me introduce Unni. He is their only son works with Microsoft, second in hierarchy to the Chief Mr. Bill Gates. And beloved Unni promised that he would come home for Onam and Mom is just busy. After all it has been years since he came home and it’s Onam. As the camera pans we would see her cleaning the family photo in which Unni seems smiling as a five year old flanked by his parents. Suddenly the camera would even zoom into her eyes; yup it has been moistened and glistened with affection. At last the preparations are over; the husband is seen coming with plantain leaves. Both of them are now sitting on the verandha waiting for Unni and suddenly rang the phone. Mom picked it up. Her face darkens. She put the receiver on the cradle ( the speed in with her hand goes down is 1 km per day). She seems so melancholic and with welled up eyes conveyed the message to hubby darling that Unni wouldn’t come as he has to attend an important meeting. (Perhaps Bill Gates might’ve gone out of station, may be to space to set up an office there). As it ends the couple would be shown sitting on the verandha with their eyes glued to the gate. (All the characters may be fictional without any resemblance to people living or dead, but the dialect must be typically Valluvanadan)
God, once again please get me through this terrible period without getting hurt. God please help me. Please, please..
Every year these people come along with Onam reminding one of what E.V.Lucas described as the buttonhole type of bore in his essay, Bores. No matter how hard you try to get rid of them, they will simply stick to you. Paradoxically a very mention of ‘Onam’ will make them frown initially and it will be preceded by verbal diarrhoea; “Onam? What Onam? Those were the days when we kids gathered together at the ‘Tharavadu’ to celebrate Onam. We used to go out to pluck flowers. Then we would make floral patterns early morning while mom, aunt and grandma prepared Onam delicacies in the kitchen”. Then it will be followed by a long list usually begin with ‘Banana chips’ and ends with ‘Payasam’. Most often the abuse will end up with the reciting of either “Maveli nadu vaneedum kalam manusharaellarumonnu pole….” or “poove poli poove poli…” in a pathetically shrill voice. (The first one makes sense but what the hell the other is all about, no idea though I have been listening to it since I was a kid). And if it is a woman she would even shed a few drops of tears as she was taken back, by the embarrassed interviewer, from her ‘journey down memory lane’.
And if you are living outside Kerala, Oh God, Onam celebrations are just obscene. Middle aged women weigh around a ton, who hardly left a single stone unturned in their effort to look younger will be there all around, reminding one of caparisoned elephants.
Then their 555-smoking mahouts and offspring. It is just utter chaos. Clad in traditional Kerala Saree, Silk mundu & jubba with sandalwood paste on their forehead, these ‘uprooted malayalees’ will list umpteen reasons to celebrate Onam. Then they will lament the loss of culture, of the good old days and the so called bullshit like parrots. Even the nouveaux riches among them would claim of having Kudiyaans (Tenant is a rough translation) who brought ‘Vazhakkulas’ for them during Onam. Each and every ‘uncle’ would tell the story of Mahabali in his butler English to kids with a cut-glass accent and will eventually get frowned upon. Actually this chap, the pot bellied demon king with a handle bar moustache must be considering himself fortunate for being booted to the abyss for he has been spared of all these ‘blah-blahs’. But wasn’t it he who began it all and should be aptly dubbed as the unforgivable? He was so naïve to trust the dwarf and later obliged and succumbed to him. He should have denied that he made any promise. Far far smarter are our rulers.
Another ‘to-your-face-crap’ is the interview of film stars telecast on channels on Onam. Often these would be shot at their sprawling bungalows. Needless to say they too would be clad in ethnic wear with all the necessary paraphernalia around. Worst would be the scene if it were actresses, especially new ones who ‘set the screen ablaze.’ Donned in ‘pattu pavada’ usually yellow in colour, they would share their onanubhavangall with octogenarian viewers. Sure there would be a ‘sweet grandmother’, most often died recently, and whom our actress misses terribly especially during Onam. You know why? Because it was this grandmother who used to prepare her favourite pickle. And all of a sudden she is no more. What a pity!
The most tragic of them all are the ‘Onam special’ telefilms. It comes to your drawing room and take you for a ride (nothing figurative, take it literally) as the camera zooms into a big home, ‘Tharavadu’. The only residents are the aged couple. The husband is bald and stout dressed in mundu and vest where as the wife is lean and wears a cotton saree. A salt streak on hair adds dignity to her appearance. The opening scene would show the wife busy at kitchen. She is Unni’s mother. Oh let me introduce Unni. He is their only son works with Microsoft, second in hierarchy to the Chief Mr. Bill Gates. And beloved Unni promised that he would come home for Onam and Mom is just busy. After all it has been years since he came home and it’s Onam. As the camera pans we would see her cleaning the family photo in which Unni seems smiling as a five year old flanked by his parents. Suddenly the camera would even zoom into her eyes; yup it has been moistened and glistened with affection. At last the preparations are over; the husband is seen coming with plantain leaves. Both of them are now sitting on the verandha waiting for Unni and suddenly rang the phone. Mom picked it up. Her face darkens. She put the receiver on the cradle ( the speed in with her hand goes down is 1 km per day). She seems so melancholic and with welled up eyes conveyed the message to hubby darling that Unni wouldn’t come as he has to attend an important meeting. (Perhaps Bill Gates might’ve gone out of station, may be to space to set up an office there). As it ends the couple would be shown sitting on the verandha with their eyes glued to the gate. (All the characters may be fictional without any resemblance to people living or dead, but the dialect must be typically Valluvanadan)
God, once again please get me through this terrible period without getting hurt. God please help me. Please, please..
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
THE JOY OF DRINKING
“I took more out of alcohol than alcohol had taken out of me”
_ Winston Churchill
Unambiguous, crystal clear, the title leaves no space for speculation. ‘The Joy of Drinking’ is the latest work of Barbara Holland. I’ve never read Barbara Holland. In fact it is the first time I came to know that there’s an author as such. It all began with the reading of a review of ‘The Joy of Drinking’ in a magazine. And now I just can’t wait anymore to lay my hands on ‘The Joy of Drinking’ for it’s too tempting not to do so. If the reviewer is to be believed, Barbara Holland digs deep to unearth the historical/social/financial aspects of drinking. She even goes on saying something similar like this: “alcohol is the glue that holds humanity and society together”. Since I’m yet to get a copy of ‘The Joy of Drinking’ (The hunt is on) I’m not the one to say how effectively Ms. Holland corroborates her point. All I know is that I’ve immense gratitude for her to write a book on drinking and giving it the alluring title.
I love alcohol. In fact I believe alcohol is one of the greatest inventions of humanity. Of course, I know to proclaim such a statement could be blasphemous. Even the opening sentence of this paragraph may invite wrath that knows no bounds. And even I personally knew a few people who bade adieu to life prematurely because of their ‘passionate relationship’ with alcohol or a few others who were born into the lap of luxury and eventually lost everything to ‘drinks’. But is it the fault of alcohol? I think there are various reasons for this. Even a penchant for self destruction can be attributed to such falls. The tendency to use and abuse lies in oneself. If you still doubt, think about manipulated scientific formulae for destructive purposes.
Let me go down memory lane to find out the starting point of the bacchanalian urge in me. Unless affected with amnesia or Alzheimer’s, chances are rare for one to forget such ‘beginnings’. For example, it’s with immense clarity I remember the day when I first smoked. It was a beedi. I was in eighth standard. The last of the annual exams was over. We, ‘the gang’ were standing under a tamarind tree planning of some ‘adventure’. Then one among us asked, ‘anyone dare to smoke’? No one came forward. I was the smallest kid. Even the big guys were hesitant. What a chance to be ‘big’? I nodded in approval and within seconds there came one. I thought of the countless heroes and villains I saw in movies with dangling cigarettes on their lips. What a beginning it was. Since then there was no going back. I still remain a smoker trying to quit, cut down on numbers, searching alternatives…All remind me of what Mark Twain famously said of it: “to quit smoking is very easy; I’ve done it a thousand times”. I too sir, and for the umpteenth time, I’m trying it at the moment. So far so good.
To trace out when my bonhomie with intoxicating drinks started is, however, not that simple. I remember the day I hit the bottle officially. It was not just any intoxicating drink. It was brandy. Before coming to that let me go to the intoxicating drink I first got introduced to. It was toddy, the popular drink of Kerala tapped out of coconut trees. There were certain occasions when we kids were allowed to taste it, though in small quantity. Days when the deceased in the family tree were supposed to come to have a variety of delicacies along with toddy and tender coconut water. Since days like these fell only a couple of times in a year, we couldn’t solely depend upon them to taste the white fermented drink. But there was a way. At home we used to prepare ‘appam’. Though fermented coconut water can be used to prepare it, it never could match the great taste of ‘appams’ prepared with toddy, or so believed my aunt.
And we, me and my cousin, were the ones assigned for the task. Hence we embarked on the journeys to the toddy shop equipped with an empty bottle of ‘Anikspary’, the most popular ‘skimmed milk powder’ of the time which boasts of ‘podi poalumilla kandupidikkan’(not even a trace to find out). The man at the cash counter would be immaculately dressed. Actually he seemed pretty odd to the surroundings. His polyester dhothi, silk shirt, golden chain, rings and gold plated watch made sharp contrast with dingy interiors parted with thin plywood sheets saturated with graffiti. I found him years later, not in the street, but in the pages of a novel. The ‘Orange drink Lemon drink man’ at Abhilash Talkies reminded me of him. However, the resemblance was just confined to the attire. Our toddy shop owner was no paedophile. As soon as we placed the bottle on his table, he would summon a supplier. And within seconds would turn up the supplier with the filled bottle.
It is on these journeys back to home with toddy we tasted it. If the bottle was tightly capped toddy would leak through the top with a ‘shhh’ sound. Since most often I carried the bottle I would lick my fingers where it was wet with toddy. As we enter the narrow path my cousin, elder, bigger and stronger would snatch the bottle and take a gulp. Soon I too would follow suit. (Though I fantasized very hard that I got inebriated by taking that gulp, it never worked.) But this was possible only when we purchased in considerably good measure, otherwise we had to do with the tempting aroma of toddy. There were occasions when Anikspray bottle got replaced with transparent glass bottles. We were cautioned of an ‘explosion’ if the cap was airtight. On such occasions I carried it as if I were carrying Molotov cocktail and loosened the cap at regular intervals. Never did we get the ‘traditional high’ by quaffing toddy on these journeys. But the clandestine nature of it gave us enough ‘highs’ to cherish it later.
Now it’s time to disclose my ‘official hitting of the bottle’ ceremony. It was during a summer vacation I got a taste of IMFL. I was awaiting SSLC results. It was a cousin of my cousin who poured me the drinks. I really struggled to down the first two pegs. (No ‘peg’ was a later day revelation; two glasses. Remember Sreenivasan ordering ‘oru (one) glass brandy’ in a film) and wondered what would be the reason people drinking it for. I understood the reason very soon. I started to empty the glasses in a hurry and when I just couldn’t do it anymore I hit the sack. When I woke up sometime during midnight, I found myself drenched, even the bed sheets were soaked and wet, and there was an unbearable odour. I felt tightening in the skin of my head. And when I scratched my scalp I could feel the coming down of flakes. I switched on the light. Ooh! It was a terrible mess. I did puke all over and then I got rolled into it. The stench was piercing. A wonderful experience culminated in disaster. I remained wake up till the first rays of sun peeped into my room. Then I went to the adjacent room, woke up the one who served me the drinks. As he stepped in with his nose tightly covered with his palm he understood the matter. He removed the sheets and together we dumped it in the pit on the compound which was sort of a dump yard, since it was irrevocably stinking. He then sprayed all his perfumes in the room. No ‘even the whole perfumes of Arabia wouldn’t be enough’. I took a bath and left without listening to my aunt’s constant pleas to have breakfast.
I was shell shocked for a few days and I almost vowed that I wouldn’t touch it anymore. Only to be broken, proved time. Then during the next Onam, I entered in to an arrack shop along with a friend (it was yet to be banned in Kerala) and purchased a bottle. It was night. We walked along the road and it was almost empty. When we entered into a pocket road, he extended the bottle to me. I asked him whether he had it and he nodded ‘yes’. When I enquired him whether water needed to be added, he said ‘not necessary’. I removed the cap and took a gulp; ooh liquid fire went down my throat. I was able to tell where it reached exactly as it streamed down to my stomach. As I frowned with the taste I heard him giggle. The son of a bitch didn’t have it, oops. Since it was impossible to finish it dry we decided to get some water. There was his classmate’s home nearby. He made me wait there on the road and get some water; he told them that ‘his friend’ got bruised as he tripped down since it was pitched dark. He poured some arrack out of the bottle to ‘accommodate’ it with enough water to dilute the liquid fire properly. Then we started to wade through, sipping the drink till midnight. (This incident came to mind when me and a friend went to Kudajadri last year. We returned from the hill by foot. We almost walked some 25 kilometres and by 7 in the evening reached a small town. We were told that we could catch a bus from there to Mookambika. We had coffee and there was still more than one hour for the bust to arrive. It was the first of January and it was chilling. I had nothing to protect myself from the piercing winter except a dhothi. With that I covered my head and face, but still I felt damn cold. And when I saw people briskly pacing to a particular direction next to where I seated, I lifted my head. There it’s, that typical black and white board with a red zero watt bulb on top of it. Since it was chilly and my joints pained like hell the temptation was a bit high. But somehow I did over come it and headed to my direction as the bus arrived at last.)
As time passed the journey became more exciting. Beer, wine, whiskey, brandy, gin, vodka, rum…Beer is a quisling. Beware; he may deceive you, especially if your mother is one who shows the same temperament and spirit Sherlock Holmes displayed to unravel a plot, to find whether you are boozed. Vodka is a safe bet in this regard, especially ‘Smirnoff’. You can have it and just go about anywhere without the fear of being ‘caught’. Until I decided to study journalism and started to live in hostel, I was not a ‘distinguished’ boozer. I treated ‘all’ equally. At hostel I started to ‘distinguish’. In fact I was influenced by a fellow who drank nothing but rum. He went on chronicling the virtues of the ‘regular use medicine’. Though I had found it tough to drink rum - old monk, old cask, old port and celebrations rum were the most popular brands - gradually I got acquainted to the taste of it and remain a loyal follower till date. Indeed, it doesn’t mean that I don’t drink anything else. I drink whiskey, brandy or vodka, but all for company sake. Otherwise, when I’m alone or when I’m with friends who maintain a rapport with rum, I drink rum. After all who wants to get a two-day hangover just because one had a few ‘drinks’?
I drank with a lot of people. Yet I prefer drinking alone. Friends and acquaintances often warn me for they say it’s the first sign of being alcoholic. But drinking alone has its own advantages. First and most importantly, one doesn’t need to lend an ear to the blabbering of the fellow boozer. Alcohol plays such wonders for it can turn a calm and reserved guy to boisterous and hyper-active. A reason why my friend made a discovery about me. At a drinking session he opined; “dude, there’s a gap between you and this world, a gap of three pegs”. Hence, whenever I feel the gap is widening, I maintain it. For me, one of the greatest pleasures in the world is to sit in a quiet dim-lit corner of a bar sipping rum, or listening to Metallica after downing a couple of pegs, indeed rum. It’s a fine combination, and later I found Chetan Bhagat’s hero Ryan enjoying vodka along with Pinkfloyd.
How many bars I’d been to so far? No, I can’t be regarded as a drunkard. I don’t drink regularly. I don’t drink in every week. But I do drink when I feel to. I had been to the tiniest of spaces with a board on which the three letters BAR painted on and I’d been to the sprawling dim-lit rooms where they play soft music to sooth you. I vividly remember the day I first drank with my ‘own money’. It was the day I drew my first salary as a Proofreader in Macmillan India Ltd., Bangalore. We, me, Fajar Rehman and Prince Ninan Thmapi headed for the bar a few metres away from our office. The atmosphere inside the bar was somewhat okay. Once we have had enough, we went to the hip and happening Brigade Road. It was the month of August. Though winter is still a few months away, the evening breeze gave us Goosebumps. We strolled along ‘Brigade’ singing ‘buffalo soldiers’. Soon I left Macmillan and joined a publication group. My cousin with whom I visited the toddy shop years ago informed me about a bar off Brigade road. Technically it was on Residency road, opposite to the war memorial. ‘Chinglings’ or so, it was sonorous, named the bar. As he assured me I found it cheap and best. The locale was good and the crowd too. I spent my first six months in Bangalore at Jalahally. Then I shifted to Krishnaraja Puram. I visitd almost all the bars there. They were all cheap, congested and sometimes served me with substandard rum. (In Chennai you only get substandard rum even if you buy it from government run outlets. It’s a horrible place to be as far as an alcohol lover is concerned) Most of the customers were daily wagers or lowly labourers. I used to see an old woman downing ‘Raja Whiskey’, one of the cheapest brands available, in the counter itself. There I met and talked with people. Language was a problem only on the surface and often it could be surpassed with ease. Once I met a labourer. He talked in Kannada. I made an attempt to express myself in English, Hindi, Kannada and even Tamil. No I’m no polyglot. I was just trying to communicate. First he wanted to know whether I was married. When I nodded in negative, his face brightened. Never do, he said. I could see an ever-complaining wife and a couple of yelling kids in his eyes. Was it Aristotle who said; ‘if you get a goodwife you will become a good husband, if you get a bad one you’ll become a Philosopher’? Did he seem to miss anything? I offered him a cigarette. Though reluctantly, he received it. No, he was no smoker, the way he smoked it said it. After sometime he went out, only to comeback in a hurry. He extended his palm to me. Cigarettes. He was returning the favour. Though I said I had enough with me, he was so adamant I should take one. So I did. Again it was at a bar I got acquainted with my neighbour. Though we shared the same block, he on first floor and me on second, we never exchanged any words. Then one evening I met him at a bar. He graciously welcomed me and offered me a seat next to him. His name was Narasimha, a telugite. And you know how he took alcohol while he was in college? He ‘used to take it rrraaa’. He meant dry, and the word he chose was raw and the way he pronounced it, his typical accent, made it sound something else. He told me he rarely visited there since his wife would become furious if she came to know that he was drunk. And he was just doing it in her absence, she had gone home. I found this ‘rare visitor’ whenever I entered into that particular bar and we exchanged ‘oom-I-already-knew’ smile. On another occasion at the same bar I got acquainted with a group of law college students from Tamilnadu. We talked and exchanged email ids. There was correspondence between us for a while. Then, gradually, it ceased. All these conversations and acquaintances were purely built on alcohol. Otherwise I would never have befriended people, not because I’m arrogant; I’m just uncomfortable to do so. “The other is hell” said Sartre.
Though most often I drank in cheap bars, once I had been to a 5star bar where they price Rs.175+tax for an omelette, Rs.150 for a bottle of water and Rs. 400 for 60 ml ‘celebrations rum’. Ridiculous, huh? Yes , I won’t consider myself normal if I pay such huge bills. But then I hadn’t to. It was a friend who was working there, took me there. Plush interiors. Soft music. Foreigners. I felt like an alien. Then arrived the waiter with drinks. Ice cubes. Soda. Peppered ground nuts. The drink was poured from a glass bottle, the kind used in labs. He put a couple of ice cubes and then a plastic stick with a widened end into the drinks. Stirrer. I heard of it but never thought to have used it one day. When I started to sip the stirrer touched my cheek and made me uncomfortable. Since everything was arranged so neatly, if I took the stirrer out it would sure noticed as a misplaced object, so thought me. Even after 4 pegs my inhibitions refused to flee. So I fled out of the filthy rich, ridiculously expensive place.
Though there still remains a lot to zero in on, I’m too lazy a writer to do it all. Moreover, I’m not sure how readable it is or whether a reader will be even interested at all. An unpardonable omission is the various toddy shops I visited growing up, enjoying the unique delicacies exclusively available there. I think this is the longest post I ever published. For the good old ‘toddy’ I may have to dedicate a separate section. I reserve my gratitude to Ms. Barbara Holland. Jut because I read a review, I wrote this much. How much I would once I finished ‘The Joy of Drinking’?
Alcohol lovers of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your consciousness.
(Though pathetically transitory)
_ Winston Churchill
Unambiguous, crystal clear, the title leaves no space for speculation. ‘The Joy of Drinking’ is the latest work of Barbara Holland. I’ve never read Barbara Holland. In fact it is the first time I came to know that there’s an author as such. It all began with the reading of a review of ‘The Joy of Drinking’ in a magazine. And now I just can’t wait anymore to lay my hands on ‘The Joy of Drinking’ for it’s too tempting not to do so. If the reviewer is to be believed, Barbara Holland digs deep to unearth the historical/social/financial aspects of drinking. She even goes on saying something similar like this: “alcohol is the glue that holds humanity and society together”. Since I’m yet to get a copy of ‘The Joy of Drinking’ (The hunt is on) I’m not the one to say how effectively Ms. Holland corroborates her point. All I know is that I’ve immense gratitude for her to write a book on drinking and giving it the alluring title.
I love alcohol. In fact I believe alcohol is one of the greatest inventions of humanity. Of course, I know to proclaim such a statement could be blasphemous. Even the opening sentence of this paragraph may invite wrath that knows no bounds. And even I personally knew a few people who bade adieu to life prematurely because of their ‘passionate relationship’ with alcohol or a few others who were born into the lap of luxury and eventually lost everything to ‘drinks’. But is it the fault of alcohol? I think there are various reasons for this. Even a penchant for self destruction can be attributed to such falls. The tendency to use and abuse lies in oneself. If you still doubt, think about manipulated scientific formulae for destructive purposes.
Let me go down memory lane to find out the starting point of the bacchanalian urge in me. Unless affected with amnesia or Alzheimer’s, chances are rare for one to forget such ‘beginnings’. For example, it’s with immense clarity I remember the day when I first smoked. It was a beedi. I was in eighth standard. The last of the annual exams was over. We, ‘the gang’ were standing under a tamarind tree planning of some ‘adventure’. Then one among us asked, ‘anyone dare to smoke’? No one came forward. I was the smallest kid. Even the big guys were hesitant. What a chance to be ‘big’? I nodded in approval and within seconds there came one. I thought of the countless heroes and villains I saw in movies with dangling cigarettes on their lips. What a beginning it was. Since then there was no going back. I still remain a smoker trying to quit, cut down on numbers, searching alternatives…All remind me of what Mark Twain famously said of it: “to quit smoking is very easy; I’ve done it a thousand times”. I too sir, and for the umpteenth time, I’m trying it at the moment. So far so good.
To trace out when my bonhomie with intoxicating drinks started is, however, not that simple. I remember the day I hit the bottle officially. It was not just any intoxicating drink. It was brandy. Before coming to that let me go to the intoxicating drink I first got introduced to. It was toddy, the popular drink of Kerala tapped out of coconut trees. There were certain occasions when we kids were allowed to taste it, though in small quantity. Days when the deceased in the family tree were supposed to come to have a variety of delicacies along with toddy and tender coconut water. Since days like these fell only a couple of times in a year, we couldn’t solely depend upon them to taste the white fermented drink. But there was a way. At home we used to prepare ‘appam’. Though fermented coconut water can be used to prepare it, it never could match the great taste of ‘appams’ prepared with toddy, or so believed my aunt.
And we, me and my cousin, were the ones assigned for the task. Hence we embarked on the journeys to the toddy shop equipped with an empty bottle of ‘Anikspary’, the most popular ‘skimmed milk powder’ of the time which boasts of ‘podi poalumilla kandupidikkan’(not even a trace to find out). The man at the cash counter would be immaculately dressed. Actually he seemed pretty odd to the surroundings. His polyester dhothi, silk shirt, golden chain, rings and gold plated watch made sharp contrast with dingy interiors parted with thin plywood sheets saturated with graffiti. I found him years later, not in the street, but in the pages of a novel. The ‘Orange drink Lemon drink man’ at Abhilash Talkies reminded me of him. However, the resemblance was just confined to the attire. Our toddy shop owner was no paedophile. As soon as we placed the bottle on his table, he would summon a supplier. And within seconds would turn up the supplier with the filled bottle.
It is on these journeys back to home with toddy we tasted it. If the bottle was tightly capped toddy would leak through the top with a ‘shhh’ sound. Since most often I carried the bottle I would lick my fingers where it was wet with toddy. As we enter the narrow path my cousin, elder, bigger and stronger would snatch the bottle and take a gulp. Soon I too would follow suit. (Though I fantasized very hard that I got inebriated by taking that gulp, it never worked.) But this was possible only when we purchased in considerably good measure, otherwise we had to do with the tempting aroma of toddy. There were occasions when Anikspray bottle got replaced with transparent glass bottles. We were cautioned of an ‘explosion’ if the cap was airtight. On such occasions I carried it as if I were carrying Molotov cocktail and loosened the cap at regular intervals. Never did we get the ‘traditional high’ by quaffing toddy on these journeys. But the clandestine nature of it gave us enough ‘highs’ to cherish it later.
Now it’s time to disclose my ‘official hitting of the bottle’ ceremony. It was during a summer vacation I got a taste of IMFL. I was awaiting SSLC results. It was a cousin of my cousin who poured me the drinks. I really struggled to down the first two pegs. (No ‘peg’ was a later day revelation; two glasses. Remember Sreenivasan ordering ‘oru (one) glass brandy’ in a film) and wondered what would be the reason people drinking it for. I understood the reason very soon. I started to empty the glasses in a hurry and when I just couldn’t do it anymore I hit the sack. When I woke up sometime during midnight, I found myself drenched, even the bed sheets were soaked and wet, and there was an unbearable odour. I felt tightening in the skin of my head. And when I scratched my scalp I could feel the coming down of flakes. I switched on the light. Ooh! It was a terrible mess. I did puke all over and then I got rolled into it. The stench was piercing. A wonderful experience culminated in disaster. I remained wake up till the first rays of sun peeped into my room. Then I went to the adjacent room, woke up the one who served me the drinks. As he stepped in with his nose tightly covered with his palm he understood the matter. He removed the sheets and together we dumped it in the pit on the compound which was sort of a dump yard, since it was irrevocably stinking. He then sprayed all his perfumes in the room. No ‘even the whole perfumes of Arabia wouldn’t be enough’. I took a bath and left without listening to my aunt’s constant pleas to have breakfast.
I was shell shocked for a few days and I almost vowed that I wouldn’t touch it anymore. Only to be broken, proved time. Then during the next Onam, I entered in to an arrack shop along with a friend (it was yet to be banned in Kerala) and purchased a bottle. It was night. We walked along the road and it was almost empty. When we entered into a pocket road, he extended the bottle to me. I asked him whether he had it and he nodded ‘yes’. When I enquired him whether water needed to be added, he said ‘not necessary’. I removed the cap and took a gulp; ooh liquid fire went down my throat. I was able to tell where it reached exactly as it streamed down to my stomach. As I frowned with the taste I heard him giggle. The son of a bitch didn’t have it, oops. Since it was impossible to finish it dry we decided to get some water. There was his classmate’s home nearby. He made me wait there on the road and get some water; he told them that ‘his friend’ got bruised as he tripped down since it was pitched dark. He poured some arrack out of the bottle to ‘accommodate’ it with enough water to dilute the liquid fire properly. Then we started to wade through, sipping the drink till midnight. (This incident came to mind when me and a friend went to Kudajadri last year. We returned from the hill by foot. We almost walked some 25 kilometres and by 7 in the evening reached a small town. We were told that we could catch a bus from there to Mookambika. We had coffee and there was still more than one hour for the bust to arrive. It was the first of January and it was chilling. I had nothing to protect myself from the piercing winter except a dhothi. With that I covered my head and face, but still I felt damn cold. And when I saw people briskly pacing to a particular direction next to where I seated, I lifted my head. There it’s, that typical black and white board with a red zero watt bulb on top of it. Since it was chilly and my joints pained like hell the temptation was a bit high. But somehow I did over come it and headed to my direction as the bus arrived at last.)
As time passed the journey became more exciting. Beer, wine, whiskey, brandy, gin, vodka, rum…Beer is a quisling. Beware; he may deceive you, especially if your mother is one who shows the same temperament and spirit Sherlock Holmes displayed to unravel a plot, to find whether you are boozed. Vodka is a safe bet in this regard, especially ‘Smirnoff’. You can have it and just go about anywhere without the fear of being ‘caught’. Until I decided to study journalism and started to live in hostel, I was not a ‘distinguished’ boozer. I treated ‘all’ equally. At hostel I started to ‘distinguish’. In fact I was influenced by a fellow who drank nothing but rum. He went on chronicling the virtues of the ‘regular use medicine’. Though I had found it tough to drink rum - old monk, old cask, old port and celebrations rum were the most popular brands - gradually I got acquainted to the taste of it and remain a loyal follower till date. Indeed, it doesn’t mean that I don’t drink anything else. I drink whiskey, brandy or vodka, but all for company sake. Otherwise, when I’m alone or when I’m with friends who maintain a rapport with rum, I drink rum. After all who wants to get a two-day hangover just because one had a few ‘drinks’?
I drank with a lot of people. Yet I prefer drinking alone. Friends and acquaintances often warn me for they say it’s the first sign of being alcoholic. But drinking alone has its own advantages. First and most importantly, one doesn’t need to lend an ear to the blabbering of the fellow boozer. Alcohol plays such wonders for it can turn a calm and reserved guy to boisterous and hyper-active. A reason why my friend made a discovery about me. At a drinking session he opined; “dude, there’s a gap between you and this world, a gap of three pegs”. Hence, whenever I feel the gap is widening, I maintain it. For me, one of the greatest pleasures in the world is to sit in a quiet dim-lit corner of a bar sipping rum, or listening to Metallica after downing a couple of pegs, indeed rum. It’s a fine combination, and later I found Chetan Bhagat’s hero Ryan enjoying vodka along with Pinkfloyd.
How many bars I’d been to so far? No, I can’t be regarded as a drunkard. I don’t drink regularly. I don’t drink in every week. But I do drink when I feel to. I had been to the tiniest of spaces with a board on which the three letters BAR painted on and I’d been to the sprawling dim-lit rooms where they play soft music to sooth you. I vividly remember the day I first drank with my ‘own money’. It was the day I drew my first salary as a Proofreader in Macmillan India Ltd., Bangalore. We, me, Fajar Rehman and Prince Ninan Thmapi headed for the bar a few metres away from our office. The atmosphere inside the bar was somewhat okay. Once we have had enough, we went to the hip and happening Brigade Road. It was the month of August. Though winter is still a few months away, the evening breeze gave us Goosebumps. We strolled along ‘Brigade’ singing ‘buffalo soldiers’. Soon I left Macmillan and joined a publication group. My cousin with whom I visited the toddy shop years ago informed me about a bar off Brigade road. Technically it was on Residency road, opposite to the war memorial. ‘Chinglings’ or so, it was sonorous, named the bar. As he assured me I found it cheap and best. The locale was good and the crowd too. I spent my first six months in Bangalore at Jalahally. Then I shifted to Krishnaraja Puram. I visitd almost all the bars there. They were all cheap, congested and sometimes served me with substandard rum. (In Chennai you only get substandard rum even if you buy it from government run outlets. It’s a horrible place to be as far as an alcohol lover is concerned) Most of the customers were daily wagers or lowly labourers. I used to see an old woman downing ‘Raja Whiskey’, one of the cheapest brands available, in the counter itself. There I met and talked with people. Language was a problem only on the surface and often it could be surpassed with ease. Once I met a labourer. He talked in Kannada. I made an attempt to express myself in English, Hindi, Kannada and even Tamil. No I’m no polyglot. I was just trying to communicate. First he wanted to know whether I was married. When I nodded in negative, his face brightened. Never do, he said. I could see an ever-complaining wife and a couple of yelling kids in his eyes. Was it Aristotle who said; ‘if you get a goodwife you will become a good husband, if you get a bad one you’ll become a Philosopher’? Did he seem to miss anything? I offered him a cigarette. Though reluctantly, he received it. No, he was no smoker, the way he smoked it said it. After sometime he went out, only to comeback in a hurry. He extended his palm to me. Cigarettes. He was returning the favour. Though I said I had enough with me, he was so adamant I should take one. So I did. Again it was at a bar I got acquainted with my neighbour. Though we shared the same block, he on first floor and me on second, we never exchanged any words. Then one evening I met him at a bar. He graciously welcomed me and offered me a seat next to him. His name was Narasimha, a telugite. And you know how he took alcohol while he was in college? He ‘used to take it rrraaa’. He meant dry, and the word he chose was raw and the way he pronounced it, his typical accent, made it sound something else. He told me he rarely visited there since his wife would become furious if she came to know that he was drunk. And he was just doing it in her absence, she had gone home. I found this ‘rare visitor’ whenever I entered into that particular bar and we exchanged ‘oom-I-already-knew’ smile. On another occasion at the same bar I got acquainted with a group of law college students from Tamilnadu. We talked and exchanged email ids. There was correspondence between us for a while. Then, gradually, it ceased. All these conversations and acquaintances were purely built on alcohol. Otherwise I would never have befriended people, not because I’m arrogant; I’m just uncomfortable to do so. “The other is hell” said Sartre.
Though most often I drank in cheap bars, once I had been to a 5star bar where they price Rs.175+tax for an omelette, Rs.150 for a bottle of water and Rs. 400 for 60 ml ‘celebrations rum’. Ridiculous, huh? Yes , I won’t consider myself normal if I pay such huge bills. But then I hadn’t to. It was a friend who was working there, took me there. Plush interiors. Soft music. Foreigners. I felt like an alien. Then arrived the waiter with drinks. Ice cubes. Soda. Peppered ground nuts. The drink was poured from a glass bottle, the kind used in labs. He put a couple of ice cubes and then a plastic stick with a widened end into the drinks. Stirrer. I heard of it but never thought to have used it one day. When I started to sip the stirrer touched my cheek and made me uncomfortable. Since everything was arranged so neatly, if I took the stirrer out it would sure noticed as a misplaced object, so thought me. Even after 4 pegs my inhibitions refused to flee. So I fled out of the filthy rich, ridiculously expensive place.
Though there still remains a lot to zero in on, I’m too lazy a writer to do it all. Moreover, I’m not sure how readable it is or whether a reader will be even interested at all. An unpardonable omission is the various toddy shops I visited growing up, enjoying the unique delicacies exclusively available there. I think this is the longest post I ever published. For the good old ‘toddy’ I may have to dedicate a separate section. I reserve my gratitude to Ms. Barbara Holland. Jut because I read a review, I wrote this much. How much I would once I finished ‘The Joy of Drinking’?
Alcohol lovers of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your consciousness.
(Though pathetically transitory)
Saturday, June 16, 2007
How can...?
How can...
how can I...
how can I have you slut?
Nope, no embellishments,
no euphemisms,
it's stark.
Blazing fire of the groin
that I want to extinguish,
and no kindling of the hearty flame.
how can I...
how can I have you slut?
Nope, no embellishments,
no euphemisms,
it's stark.
Blazing fire of the groin
that I want to extinguish,
and no kindling of the hearty flame.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
An elopement and some questions
What’s right? What’s wrong? What’s moral? What’s immoral? Philosophers have been racking their brains for centuries to reach a conclusion for these enigmas. Cutting across the realms of Physics and Philosophy these questions sure have answers, though not unanimous. Thus we have: “It’s all relative”, “there’s no absolute truth” and the much mundane “morality is the lack of opportunity” and so on. Feminists often make much hue and cry over the double standards in morality. In an interview in ‘Star Dust’ Gul Panag breathes fire against this discrimination (Who is Gul Panag? Your guess is as good as mine. However she seems adequately sane). According to her, “if a man had to flaunt his conquests he’s a stud, and if a woman were to do that she’s a slut obviously”. One of my friend, an absolute play boy, who is all set to go to UK to do his MBA and make some ‘foreign collaboration’, always wanted to marry a girl from his village. The reason: He wants his wife to be chaste with her hymen in tact. (Yet another supposition that 100% girls from villages and semi-urban areas remain virgins since there is no ‘pub-going, party-going and boozing’ [sic]).
Pre-marital and extra-marital affairs exist in our society, if to say it mildly and politely. But a mere mention of these topics is enough to invite the wrath of moral brigade. When a bachelor maintains a physical relationship with a married woman, and though a narrow section of the society, mainly his friends, are aware of it, it never goes beyond listening to the usual graphic description of the lusty details. But when the same guy elopes with the woman, it all changes. He even stops to be a friend for some.
Recently a friend of mine did it with a married woman with whom he has been ‘in touch’ for quite some time. Though some of us were aware of it, his ‘beginning-a-new-life-with-a-married-woman’ (it’s her third marriage) startled all of us without a single exception. It seemed a Gordian knot. Since shock was the prevailing mood, hardly spoke anyone on day 1. But within 24 hours the mood changed drastically. For me it still remains an enigma that the collective response was almost same though we all come from different backgrounds. We lampooned and ridiculed him. We sympathized towards his family, especially his mother. We wondered how he would make a living.
As per the complaint from the woman’s family both of them were taken to the Police Station. Reportedly, everyone present, including the policemen, forced him to ‘get out of the trap he’s in’. But the ‘fool’ remained adamant. His version (of course reportedly): ‘If I wash my hands out of this she will have to go to the streets’. (Oom chivalric he is).
Now, the question I’ve been asking myself is which is wrong? His secret affair or his public acceptance of it culminated in their living together. (Here I can’t help leaving the woman aside. Why she did it? How stable she could be when it comes to a relationship? Is it worth trusting such a woman? These are not my concern since I hardly know anything about her. And to speak purely of the morality of her gesture, I’m afraid it will be a never ending exercise).
A majority has the opinion that he ‘shouldn’t have gone this far’. In other words he remained an adorable stud until he made the blunder of going public over the relationship.
Must we be all filthy hypocrites to maintain such double standards of morality in life? Is there public and private morality? How much one needs to care about one’s family and friends before taking important decisions? I don’t have an answer for any of these. My head is flooded with angry voices from friends and acquaintances. But I don’t have any plans to judge him. It’s not because there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. It’s because of the feeling, ‘who am I to judge’?
How many of us are capable of taking decisions only after pondering over or taking into consideration of everything/everyone around us? How many of us think of Jean Paul Sartre and his doctrine of ‘being responsible’ while in the heat of the moment? Though we have been ‘taught’ to act wisely, or familiar with philosophical preaching, at moments of passion don’t a majority get derailed? Is it enough to prove that man take decisions- or is it correct to say, ‘reach to decisions’- not on the basis of his acquired knowledge rather ‘wisdom’, but on the basis of ‘idiotic’ impulses?
There are soothsayers who predict nothing less than doom for the couple. I could only wish them to be wrong. But leaving aside all the big questions and approach it on a personal front I don’t find much to cheer about. For this friend of mine is too lazy to do anything. He prefers reading, churning out poems, drinking, smoking, pan chewing…But still I keep my hope, though against hope, that he would change with this incident, a better change. For I’ve read, heard and seen changes the female of the species can brings in. Long live the duo.
Pre-marital and extra-marital affairs exist in our society, if to say it mildly and politely. But a mere mention of these topics is enough to invite the wrath of moral brigade. When a bachelor maintains a physical relationship with a married woman, and though a narrow section of the society, mainly his friends, are aware of it, it never goes beyond listening to the usual graphic description of the lusty details. But when the same guy elopes with the woman, it all changes. He even stops to be a friend for some.
Recently a friend of mine did it with a married woman with whom he has been ‘in touch’ for quite some time. Though some of us were aware of it, his ‘beginning-a-new-life-with-a-married-woman’ (it’s her third marriage) startled all of us without a single exception. It seemed a Gordian knot. Since shock was the prevailing mood, hardly spoke anyone on day 1. But within 24 hours the mood changed drastically. For me it still remains an enigma that the collective response was almost same though we all come from different backgrounds. We lampooned and ridiculed him. We sympathized towards his family, especially his mother. We wondered how he would make a living.
As per the complaint from the woman’s family both of them were taken to the Police Station. Reportedly, everyone present, including the policemen, forced him to ‘get out of the trap he’s in’. But the ‘fool’ remained adamant. His version (of course reportedly): ‘If I wash my hands out of this she will have to go to the streets’. (Oom chivalric he is).
Now, the question I’ve been asking myself is which is wrong? His secret affair or his public acceptance of it culminated in their living together. (Here I can’t help leaving the woman aside. Why she did it? How stable she could be when it comes to a relationship? Is it worth trusting such a woman? These are not my concern since I hardly know anything about her. And to speak purely of the morality of her gesture, I’m afraid it will be a never ending exercise).
A majority has the opinion that he ‘shouldn’t have gone this far’. In other words he remained an adorable stud until he made the blunder of going public over the relationship.
Must we be all filthy hypocrites to maintain such double standards of morality in life? Is there public and private morality? How much one needs to care about one’s family and friends before taking important decisions? I don’t have an answer for any of these. My head is flooded with angry voices from friends and acquaintances. But I don’t have any plans to judge him. It’s not because there’s no point in crying over spilt milk. It’s because of the feeling, ‘who am I to judge’?
How many of us are capable of taking decisions only after pondering over or taking into consideration of everything/everyone around us? How many of us think of Jean Paul Sartre and his doctrine of ‘being responsible’ while in the heat of the moment? Though we have been ‘taught’ to act wisely, or familiar with philosophical preaching, at moments of passion don’t a majority get derailed? Is it enough to prove that man take decisions- or is it correct to say, ‘reach to decisions’- not on the basis of his acquired knowledge rather ‘wisdom’, but on the basis of ‘idiotic’ impulses?
There are soothsayers who predict nothing less than doom for the couple. I could only wish them to be wrong. But leaving aside all the big questions and approach it on a personal front I don’t find much to cheer about. For this friend of mine is too lazy to do anything. He prefers reading, churning out poems, drinking, smoking, pan chewing…But still I keep my hope, though against hope, that he would change with this incident, a better change. For I’ve read, heard and seen changes the female of the species can brings in. Long live the duo.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Of Neutral Zones
‘The New Indian Express’ dated on 17-05-07 carries a news item which I found interesting enough to write about. Appears under the title ‘Driver asks passengers to push train’, it narrates an incident in Bihar. The driver of a passenger train asked the passengers to ‘get out and push’. And the hapless passengers did it and it took half an hour to move the train 4 metres. The reason: one among the passengers pulled the emergency chain and the train halted in a ‘neutral zone’ ie ‘a short length of track where there is no power in the over head wires’.
As I read the news a flurry of thoughts flashed in my mind. But the first thing the news evoked in me was a hearty smile. Yes, though I enjoy all the comfort technology brings in, whenever I see technology ‘overpowered’ by ‘raw humanism’ I get amused. This is the reason why I smile when I see a mile long trail of vehicles including BMWs, Benzes, Hondas and the like, led by a bullock cart at traffic signals on the busy roads of Bangalore. And just see where the train caught in ‘neutral zone’, in Bihar, the land of Lalu Prasad Yadav, Railway Minister of mythical status.
Once the train, passengers and the driver who asked them to ‘push’ are deleted from the scene, one element still amuses me. And that’s ‘neutral zone’. Have you ever been stopped in ‘neutral zones’? If yes, how could you manage to get on ‘track under live wire’? For us humans the criterion that decides a ‘neutral zone’ is not unanimous. One person’s ‘neutral zone’, where he fumbles and tripped over may not be the same for another. But most of us found ourselves in ‘neutral zones’ one time or another in life. And then there are those who bid adieu for ever ‘to get out of neutral zones’.
I’m no modern age Guru of positive thinking to find a way out of ‘neutral zones’. In fact I loathe them. But ‘neutral zones’ and the possibility of getting trapped in ‘neutral zones’ is no matter of dispute. My effort to get out of ‘neutral zone’ reminds me of a greased pole ( usually an areca nut tree) which I used to see at carnivals when I was a kid. Usually something valuable would be attached on the top of the pole. Whoever climbs to the top can take it and will be declared as the winner. The best part of it, like any other sport, is not to see some one winning, but to see the countless attempts to reach there. As one climbs up a feet, he will be slipped down two, thanks to the generous use of grease. This tedious process of ‘achieving progress’ lasts for hours. At times contestants would raise the game to thrilling heights by keeping us on our toes making us believe that he would snatch it at any moment. And when finally someone emerges as the winner, he will be cheered and even carried and paraded all over the ground.
Once the dust is settled, we would sit and talk about the winner and how he succeeded in ‘reaching over there against all odds’. ‘Authentic findings ‘would be aired. Arguments would be raised. But in the end there would be just one conclusion, “it’s all knack yaar”.
Yes, to get out of ‘neutral zone’ is a knack. But shouldn’t it be accompanied with a constant will and an undaunted spirit?
As I read the news a flurry of thoughts flashed in my mind. But the first thing the news evoked in me was a hearty smile. Yes, though I enjoy all the comfort technology brings in, whenever I see technology ‘overpowered’ by ‘raw humanism’ I get amused. This is the reason why I smile when I see a mile long trail of vehicles including BMWs, Benzes, Hondas and the like, led by a bullock cart at traffic signals on the busy roads of Bangalore. And just see where the train caught in ‘neutral zone’, in Bihar, the land of Lalu Prasad Yadav, Railway Minister of mythical status.
Once the train, passengers and the driver who asked them to ‘push’ are deleted from the scene, one element still amuses me. And that’s ‘neutral zone’. Have you ever been stopped in ‘neutral zones’? If yes, how could you manage to get on ‘track under live wire’? For us humans the criterion that decides a ‘neutral zone’ is not unanimous. One person’s ‘neutral zone’, where he fumbles and tripped over may not be the same for another. But most of us found ourselves in ‘neutral zones’ one time or another in life. And then there are those who bid adieu for ever ‘to get out of neutral zones’.
I’m no modern age Guru of positive thinking to find a way out of ‘neutral zones’. In fact I loathe them. But ‘neutral zones’ and the possibility of getting trapped in ‘neutral zones’ is no matter of dispute. My effort to get out of ‘neutral zone’ reminds me of a greased pole ( usually an areca nut tree) which I used to see at carnivals when I was a kid. Usually something valuable would be attached on the top of the pole. Whoever climbs to the top can take it and will be declared as the winner. The best part of it, like any other sport, is not to see some one winning, but to see the countless attempts to reach there. As one climbs up a feet, he will be slipped down two, thanks to the generous use of grease. This tedious process of ‘achieving progress’ lasts for hours. At times contestants would raise the game to thrilling heights by keeping us on our toes making us believe that he would snatch it at any moment. And when finally someone emerges as the winner, he will be cheered and even carried and paraded all over the ground.
Once the dust is settled, we would sit and talk about the winner and how he succeeded in ‘reaching over there against all odds’. ‘Authentic findings ‘would be aired. Arguments would be raised. But in the end there would be just one conclusion, “it’s all knack yaar”.
Yes, to get out of ‘neutral zone’ is a knack. But shouldn’t it be accompanied with a constant will and an undaunted spirit?
Monday, May 28, 2007
“Sorry I don’t have…”
“Sorry I don’t have one”, “sorry I don’t carry one”. How often I utter these are anybody’s guess. O.K. I’ll tell you what I’m talking about for it is no whodunit to build up any suspense. But before that let me make an effort in listing the countless expressions on people’s faces as they listen to me in utter disbelief: arching eyebrows, shrinking brow, gape, widening eyes, efforts to conceal shock…an endless list of course.
It all generated from a single query and my answer to it; “what’s your mobile number”? Yup, I’m yet to go mobile. Nope, I don’t have any plans to go mobile unless it becomes a matter of life and death. But people just won’t buy it normally. They just start to stare at me as if I have said something unparliamentarily. Am I a nerd or a bohemian? Nay, at least I don’t think so. Of course I always have problems to adapt myself to the changing times, especially in technical matters. Though reluctantly I made myself familiar with computers. Years back I created a hotmail account for me. Then indiatimes. Then I hopped into yahoo messenger, gmail, gtalk, orkut and here stands me the blogger. I used to spend my midnights wading through the likes of Nikos Kazantsakis, Franz Kafka, Immanuel Kant or Anand, but nowadays I glide through cyberspace, like the kid who has a magical carpet. It’s an enormous trip from trivial jokes to mind-boggling puzzles. From Philosophy to Fantasy. From Antarctica to Erotica. Old friends often turn up in orkut with those customary greetings of the halcyon days; “aliayaaaa...”, “machooo…”, or just “daaa…” or “koooooy”. I’m not the one to say whether bonds are getting stronger or not. But the sudden surfacing of ‘long-lost’ friends and the tide of emotions it brings in, Oh what surprises life have for you. By the pace friends anchor in orkut it may even possible to locate one’s ‘girlfriend’ of yore, possibly settled in some exotic land with a couple of kids and the money minting machine of a husband. Oops, I just forgot what I was talking about.
So it’s become a matter of concern, not for me, but for the people around. Acquaint with some one or visit an old friend. Once pleasantries are exchanged, he would take his ‘cell’ and without even looking at me he would ask for my ‘number’. The moment I reveal it, all hell broke lose, “what?”, “you said you don’t have a mobile”. The next thing I would be forced to bear is a detailed description of different ‘plans’ and a torrent of jargons: ‘talk time’, ‘free incoming’, ‘lifelong subscription’, ‘postpaid’ ‘pre-paid’. “Hey man ---------- offers 6oo minutes of free talk time yaar?” So what? “Am I supposed to call the vegetable vendor and asks his opinion on the fluctuation in vegetable prices during the Cauvery crisis? A recent report says that Kerala pays more than 2000 crores annually to telecom companies for going mobile. How much amount of these might’ve generated from matters of ‘serious’ concern?
Is ‘cell’ an ‘unavoidable’ accessory? I know people who show uncontrollable symptoms of panic if they have to part with their cell phones for a few hours, let alone days. The matter here is a sense of ‘losing connectivity’ a ‘born-loner’ like me never understands. Then there’s the young generation who flash their latest version mobile phones at just about everywhere. Let me confess, even I enjoy ‘Ghulam Ali’ or ‘Enigma’ flowing out of cell phones while hustling, bustling and elbowing each other on a packed train. But it’s no music to ears when “‘aabhi jaa aabhi jaa…” being belted out when you are at a place where people lament the loss of a near / dear one.
No one denies that cell phone helps you connect with friends, family etc. But does it help to enhance bonds is a bone of contention. Watch a cell phone user from the moment onwards when they get a call. All of a sudden they became engaged and being led to certain directions. This ‘being led’ is a unique feature of cell phone users, even if it’s a crowded or narrow place most of them can be seen to make spaces of their own and pacing up and down. People who fell to death from rooftops with out parapets while talking in cell phones made news though rarely. Besides the ‘mobility’ element what makes people ‘shun’ their surroundings and move to an exclusive territory as soon as they get a call? I think the nature of relation ship has a key role here. No more a boyfriend needs to worry the baritone of ‘her-dad-the-retired-major’ at the other end since she has a mobile and he has direct access to her. Mobile’s sure pave for new relationships ie new age relationships. It’s very hard to find people who do not use mobile phones either at one stage or the other in life. At my office I alone fall to this category. And the reasons I cite for not going mobile vary from ‘radiation’ to ‘can’t-learn-using-it-yaar’.
If findings of a survey is to be believed more than 50% of mobile numbers appear among toilet graffiti on trains are correct. That’s numbers addressed to ‘pleasure-seekers’ are provided by gangs indulge in prostitution. When clips of school children making out or actresses taking bath spread through mobiles, queries were being raised about our very own existence as a people. ‘Do Indians are matured enough to use these gadgets?’ Fortunately, so far this query is raised by Indians only.
I don’t use a mobile phone because I don’t feel the urge to be connected always and not because I’m an antisocial. But there are more specific reasons to list.
1 I hate to be startled by the ‘treem-treem’ of a mobile while strolling alone on a Sunday evening. (I consider myself fortunate for not killing an ex-colleague for he suggested ‘instead of ‘treem-treem’ keep one song as your ring tone yaar’).
2 It’s unimaginable to get a call from home when I’m high on rum and is in the midst of ‘tinkling sound of glasses at the bar’.
3 I’m afraid my workaholic boss will trace me and wake me up at unearthly hours.
4 For the sheer pleasure of not being traced.
5 Finally, as technology advances new methods will be implemented in all spheres of life and death. Yes, death. Yama may send you a summons via internet or may call you on your mobile. In the fist case one can choose not to open the mail unless he wishes to die. But what if you get a text/vocal message on your mobile ordering an immediate summons. So folks think about that too before wielding your latest gadget in your effort to be techno-savvy.
PS: Though I have always ruled out the possibility of me using a mobile, I keep one song to use as my ring tone. I think it’s time to disclose it; ‘hello’ by Lionel Richie.
“Hello is it me you’re looking for?
Tell me how win your heart
for I haven’t got the clue
but let me start by saying I love you…”
So folks, hopeless romantics what ye think about that?
It all generated from a single query and my answer to it; “what’s your mobile number”? Yup, I’m yet to go mobile. Nope, I don’t have any plans to go mobile unless it becomes a matter of life and death. But people just won’t buy it normally. They just start to stare at me as if I have said something unparliamentarily. Am I a nerd or a bohemian? Nay, at least I don’t think so. Of course I always have problems to adapt myself to the changing times, especially in technical matters. Though reluctantly I made myself familiar with computers. Years back I created a hotmail account for me. Then indiatimes. Then I hopped into yahoo messenger, gmail, gtalk, orkut and here stands me the blogger. I used to spend my midnights wading through the likes of Nikos Kazantsakis, Franz Kafka, Immanuel Kant or Anand, but nowadays I glide through cyberspace, like the kid who has a magical carpet. It’s an enormous trip from trivial jokes to mind-boggling puzzles. From Philosophy to Fantasy. From Antarctica to Erotica. Old friends often turn up in orkut with those customary greetings of the halcyon days; “aliayaaaa...”, “machooo…”, or just “daaa…” or “koooooy”. I’m not the one to say whether bonds are getting stronger or not. But the sudden surfacing of ‘long-lost’ friends and the tide of emotions it brings in, Oh what surprises life have for you. By the pace friends anchor in orkut it may even possible to locate one’s ‘girlfriend’ of yore, possibly settled in some exotic land with a couple of kids and the money minting machine of a husband. Oops, I just forgot what I was talking about.
So it’s become a matter of concern, not for me, but for the people around. Acquaint with some one or visit an old friend. Once pleasantries are exchanged, he would take his ‘cell’ and without even looking at me he would ask for my ‘number’. The moment I reveal it, all hell broke lose, “what?”, “you said you don’t have a mobile”. The next thing I would be forced to bear is a detailed description of different ‘plans’ and a torrent of jargons: ‘talk time’, ‘free incoming’, ‘lifelong subscription’, ‘postpaid’ ‘pre-paid’. “Hey man ---------- offers 6oo minutes of free talk time yaar?” So what? “Am I supposed to call the vegetable vendor and asks his opinion on the fluctuation in vegetable prices during the Cauvery crisis? A recent report says that Kerala pays more than 2000 crores annually to telecom companies for going mobile. How much amount of these might’ve generated from matters of ‘serious’ concern?
Is ‘cell’ an ‘unavoidable’ accessory? I know people who show uncontrollable symptoms of panic if they have to part with their cell phones for a few hours, let alone days. The matter here is a sense of ‘losing connectivity’ a ‘born-loner’ like me never understands. Then there’s the young generation who flash their latest version mobile phones at just about everywhere. Let me confess, even I enjoy ‘Ghulam Ali’ or ‘Enigma’ flowing out of cell phones while hustling, bustling and elbowing each other on a packed train. But it’s no music to ears when “‘aabhi jaa aabhi jaa…” being belted out when you are at a place where people lament the loss of a near / dear one.
No one denies that cell phone helps you connect with friends, family etc. But does it help to enhance bonds is a bone of contention. Watch a cell phone user from the moment onwards when they get a call. All of a sudden they became engaged and being led to certain directions. This ‘being led’ is a unique feature of cell phone users, even if it’s a crowded or narrow place most of them can be seen to make spaces of their own and pacing up and down. People who fell to death from rooftops with out parapets while talking in cell phones made news though rarely. Besides the ‘mobility’ element what makes people ‘shun’ their surroundings and move to an exclusive territory as soon as they get a call? I think the nature of relation ship has a key role here. No more a boyfriend needs to worry the baritone of ‘her-dad-the-retired-major’ at the other end since she has a mobile and he has direct access to her. Mobile’s sure pave for new relationships ie new age relationships. It’s very hard to find people who do not use mobile phones either at one stage or the other in life. At my office I alone fall to this category. And the reasons I cite for not going mobile vary from ‘radiation’ to ‘can’t-learn-using-it-yaar’.
If findings of a survey is to be believed more than 50% of mobile numbers appear among toilet graffiti on trains are correct. That’s numbers addressed to ‘pleasure-seekers’ are provided by gangs indulge in prostitution. When clips of school children making out or actresses taking bath spread through mobiles, queries were being raised about our very own existence as a people. ‘Do Indians are matured enough to use these gadgets?’ Fortunately, so far this query is raised by Indians only.
I don’t use a mobile phone because I don’t feel the urge to be connected always and not because I’m an antisocial. But there are more specific reasons to list.
1 I hate to be startled by the ‘treem-treem’ of a mobile while strolling alone on a Sunday evening. (I consider myself fortunate for not killing an ex-colleague for he suggested ‘instead of ‘treem-treem’ keep one song as your ring tone yaar’).
2 It’s unimaginable to get a call from home when I’m high on rum and is in the midst of ‘tinkling sound of glasses at the bar’.
3 I’m afraid my workaholic boss will trace me and wake me up at unearthly hours.
4 For the sheer pleasure of not being traced.
5 Finally, as technology advances new methods will be implemented in all spheres of life and death. Yes, death. Yama may send you a summons via internet or may call you on your mobile. In the fist case one can choose not to open the mail unless he wishes to die. But what if you get a text/vocal message on your mobile ordering an immediate summons. So folks think about that too before wielding your latest gadget in your effort to be techno-savvy.
PS: Though I have always ruled out the possibility of me using a mobile, I keep one song to use as my ring tone. I think it’s time to disclose it; ‘hello’ by Lionel Richie.
“Hello is it me you’re looking for?
Tell me how win your heart
for I haven’t got the clue
but let me start by saying I love you…”
So folks, hopeless romantics what ye think about that?
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Alas! curtains have come down for a scintillating entertainer
Cricket will never be the same again. For it has lost one of its most revered sons, one of the most gifted players ever set foot in the crease. Brian Charles Lara bid adieu to the game. He will be sure missed by the millions who adore his ‘God’s-like’ armoury of shots.
I am no cricket pundit to rate a genious like Lara. And I’ve almost stopped watching the game for the last couple of years. No, it has nothing to do with match fixing and the subsequent scandals. I just lost my interest. And what I’ve learned from the experience is that there’s nothing in this world that’s everlastingly enchanting.
But there was a time I watched each game ball by ball. It never mattered whether India was playing or not. It never mattered whether it was the longer version or the shorter one. My eyes always glued to the television whenever there was a match. Exams were viewed with contempt. “Study, study”, parental yell seemed like eternal curse. During the 1996 World cup I was doing my graduation. We had ‘Antony & Cleopatra’ for General English. One day, just before the Miss’s arrival, I scribbled on the board, “who cares Antony & Cleopatra when there’s Wills World cup?” (Wills was the official sponsor of the world cup). Now when I glance back I can see how unpardonable an act it was. But the kind-hearted lady was too friendly and jovial to make a fuss over it.
I started to watch the game of cricket when legends like Sir Vivian Richards, Sunil Gavaskar and Imran Khan were in the twilight of their career. I don’t have much in my mind about the heroics they spectacularly exhibited. But memories of the next generation are still afresh. Though most often Batsmen steel the show I’ve an unabashed admiration for the fast bowlers. I loved watching the Rolls Royce run-up of Wasim Akram or the stallion-like one of Waquar. I loved the way Craig Mc Dermott applied zinc cream on his face and eyed the batsmen in utter contempt. He seemed to be the most hostile fast bowler. His eyes were fiery and he seemed as if he was stepped out of ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’, Ubermensch. The two Ws, Wasim and Waquar, terrorized the batsmen around the globe. They had toe-crushing Yorkers and nipping bouncers to offer. Then there was the West Indian pace battery; Courtney Walsh, Curtly Ambrose, Ian Bishop, Winston & Kenneth Benjamin. Courtney epitomized gentleness on and off the field, but he often spearheaded the pace attack to bloody culminations. Curtly’s beaming smile was like a rose placed in the barrel of an AK47. Though injuries marred the career of Bishop he too made a mark with his ‘hunting skills’. The Benjamins too breathed fire given a chance. The West Indian’s never seemed to have any hesitation to spill blood. They did it at will. Remember the Mohali Test of 1994? The century maker in the first innings Manoj Prabhakar left the crease with a bleeding nose in the second innings. He just widened the grill on his helmet after the first innings and Walsh sent the ball through with ease. The result; they managed to level the series 1-1. Steve Waugh, the gutsy Australian who proclaimed with his career, character is more important than talent, received countless blows on his body when he led the Australians to a series win in West Indies, the first ever of its kind in 38 years.
Notwithstanding the heroic performance of the fast bowlers, batsmen too hogged the limelight. With their gritty performances they too brought laurels to their team. A certain Mr. Houghton of Zimbabwe courageously fought a battle against the menacing Wasim and Waquar. His toe crushed, his finger bones shattered, still, like a true hero he managed to score a double. Steve Waugh did it against Curtly & co. Mike Artherton did it so as a number of gutsy batsmen across the continents. I watched the hero cup matches. I watched the day-night match India played against Australia at ‘Chinnaswamy’ with bated breath. When Srinath and Kumble led India to victory an elated cry came out of my throat. Vow, who could forget the expression on their mothers’ faces who were on the stands watching the game. Can anyone ever forget the India-Pak encounter in the 1996 (or 1999?) World Cup again at ‘Chinnaswamy’ under lights? Aamir Sohails’s gesture when he hit a boundary and the fitting reply to it by Venkatesh Prasad in the very next ball made the pacer an instant hero. Then there was the Dhaka cup, chasing 314, boundary by Hrishikesh Kanitkar. Sachin’s heroics at Sharjah. Lakshman’s fine combination of technique and aesthetics against Pakistan at Eden Gardens. Dravid, the wall’s stunning performances. Oh boy, as Brian Adams crooned, “those were the best days of my life”.
What makes a batsman great? His ability to shoulder responsibility? The range of shots he plays? His ability to score under pressure? His combination of style and technique? Perhaps all these and more. And when it comes to southpaws they are a treat to watch. Think of Sourav Ganguly and the next thing that comes to your mind will be his cover drive. With that he often made us believe that it’s the easiest shot to play. For him it may be. And think of short-pitched deliveries. If Sourav plays the cover drive like an emperor, against bouncers he is a poor beggar (One who doesn’t have options rather than receiving body blows). What he is against short-pitched stuff is aptly summed up by Geoffrey Boycott; “a cat on the hot tin roof”. Almost all left-handers play the game with characteristic ease that is unique to them. But when it comes to Brian Lara he was not just way ahead, he was aeons ahead of his contemporaries if not predecessors for I’m not sure how Alwyn Kaleecharan or Sir Garry Sobers might’ve played.
Ours is an era in which everything comes in the form of capsules. We remix and shorten everything. And the reason often heard is “life is moving at a terrific pace, no one has the time”. But do we really need to rush to our graves? Naturally this ‘lack of time’ has affected one day cricket too. Though it’s already a shortened version, it’s going to be more compact. So the new version, 20:20, has already begun. When cricket gets shorter, a batsman is supposed to send the ball to the fence each time he faces one. And the crowd cheers for and with every boundary. But for a true connoisseur of the game it’s nauseating to watch batsmen playing straight drive with a horizontal bat. (Rather than calling it a ‘drive’, isn’t it better to call it a ‘straight pull’?) A true connoisseur knows that it requires extra ordinary talent to stay in the crease on bouncy tracks. There the batsman is a loner surrounded by hawk-like fieldsmen and facing merciless fast bowlers. Here stands Brian Lara like a monument of oozing talent and confidence. I did watch him batting in tests as well as in one day matches. I’m sure I can watch him for days even if he is playing it defensively, for he made even defenses spectacular. The rapid movement of the feet, eye-hand coordination and the unique back-lift, can’t help using the aged and worn-out cliché, ‘he was sheer poetry tin the crease’. And when he untied his uncanny ability to play shots he did it like God. Fired up in all cylinders, Brian Lara played the best bowlers across the globe with élan. He was talent personified. When he was on full swing it never mattered who was the bowler. From Shane Warne to Muthiah Muraleedharan and Wasim Akram to Glen Mc Grath faced the sheer brilliance of Lara. He pulled them, hooked them, cut them, drove them…all in copybook style. There was an aura of charm around his movements in the crease and there was a lazy arrogance around him; characteristics of a genious. I had fond memories of a rare gesture by him in a World Cup match. Was it against the Kenyans or the Banglas? I’m not sure about that. As soon as he faced the first ball he picked a sunglass from his hip and wore it. Only a man who has immense faith in himself and an unabashed attitude can display such a gesture.
As I mentioned earlier ours is a time in which everyone complains of ‘lack of time’. So we have to listen to the remix and super-paced version of “neele neele ambar par…” by Nithin Bali, an assault on the original by the mellifluous Kishore Kumar. It’s the same in cricket too. The leg glances or silken drives of an Azharuddin or Lakshman have been replaced by ‘unorthodox shots’ by Afridis and the like. The fine art of batting perfected by players like Lara is on the verge of extinction. Who is to blame to?
Long back I happened to go through a piece written about the batting skills of Gavaskar.
India was playing against Pakistan in Lahore. Imran Khan and Sarfraz Nawas, the pace duo who terrified even the best of batsmen with reverse swing, w ere at their best. When Imran bowled a super quick delivery, Mohinder Amaranth, who was Gavaskar’s partner defended it and the ball rolled to Imran. In the next delivery he snatched a single. When Imran delivered a similar one to Gavaskar he defended it to his own toe, that was the technique he possessed. But unlike Gavaskar, Lara was good at both defense and offense. He could be a blazing marauder or a pacified dancer at will irrespective of pitches and bowlers. On the field, he often reminded one of a Russian ballet artist. That famous back-lift that came down at lightning speed as the ball reached him would no more enthrall the millions. But Brian Charles Lara will sure illuminate their memories.
It’s often told that statistics don’t do justice when it comes to gauge the real talent of a batsman. It may be true of an old era when players got fewer chances to display their talent. But in our times statistics matter as they play more and more games. Look at Brian Lara’s statistics and others’, among whom some of them are rated along with him. Simply he stands apart. 1 quadruple century, 1 triple century, 8 double centuries, the 153 not out which was hailed by ‘wisden’ as the second best ever test innings. When Mathew Hayden surpassed his 375, I felt some sort of an injustice in it. Of course Hayden plays well, but there’s a mechanical element in his batting whereas Lara’s batting was as natural as the blooming of a flower. And to my relief, like a true emperor, Lara regained his throne in style.
As the Caribbean legend stepped down in a way quite uncharacteristic of a champion, receiving more brickbats than bouquets, one thing is sure, Brian Charles Lara ultimately
was an entertainer to the core. And the connoisseurs of cricket will miss him forever because players like Lara bless the game once in centuries.
I am no cricket pundit to rate a genious like Lara. And I’ve almost stopped watching the game for the last couple of years. No, it has nothing to do with match fixing and the subsequent scandals. I just lost my interest. And what I’ve learned from the experience is that there’s nothing in this world that’s everlastingly enchanting.
But there was a time I watched each game ball by ball. It never mattered whether India was playing or not. It never mattered whether it was the longer version or the shorter one. My eyes always glued to the television whenever there was a match. Exams were viewed with contempt. “Study, study”, parental yell seemed like eternal curse. During the 1996 World cup I was doing my graduation. We had ‘Antony & Cleopatra’ for General English. One day, just before the Miss’s arrival, I scribbled on the board, “who cares Antony & Cleopatra when there’s Wills World cup?” (Wills was the official sponsor of the world cup). Now when I glance back I can see how unpardonable an act it was. But the kind-hearted lady was too friendly and jovial to make a fuss over it.
I started to watch the game of cricket when legends like Sir Vivian Richards, Sunil Gavaskar and Imran Khan were in the twilight of their career. I don’t have much in my mind about the heroics they spectacularly exhibited. But memories of the next generation are still afresh. Though most often Batsmen steel the show I’ve an unabashed admiration for the fast bowlers. I loved watching the Rolls Royce run-up of Wasim Akram or the stallion-like one of Waquar. I loved the way Craig Mc Dermott applied zinc cream on his face and eyed the batsmen in utter contempt. He seemed to be the most hostile fast bowler. His eyes were fiery and he seemed as if he was stepped out of ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’, Ubermensch. The two Ws, Wasim and Waquar, terrorized the batsmen around the globe. They had toe-crushing Yorkers and nipping bouncers to offer. Then there was the West Indian pace battery; Courtney Walsh, Curtly Ambrose, Ian Bishop, Winston & Kenneth Benjamin. Courtney epitomized gentleness on and off the field, but he often spearheaded the pace attack to bloody culminations. Curtly’s beaming smile was like a rose placed in the barrel of an AK47. Though injuries marred the career of Bishop he too made a mark with his ‘hunting skills’. The Benjamins too breathed fire given a chance. The West Indian’s never seemed to have any hesitation to spill blood. They did it at will. Remember the Mohali Test of 1994? The century maker in the first innings Manoj Prabhakar left the crease with a bleeding nose in the second innings. He just widened the grill on his helmet after the first innings and Walsh sent the ball through with ease. The result; they managed to level the series 1-1. Steve Waugh, the gutsy Australian who proclaimed with his career, character is more important than talent, received countless blows on his body when he led the Australians to a series win in West Indies, the first ever of its kind in 38 years.
Notwithstanding the heroic performance of the fast bowlers, batsmen too hogged the limelight. With their gritty performances they too brought laurels to their team. A certain Mr. Houghton of Zimbabwe courageously fought a battle against the menacing Wasim and Waquar. His toe crushed, his finger bones shattered, still, like a true hero he managed to score a double. Steve Waugh did it against Curtly & co. Mike Artherton did it so as a number of gutsy batsmen across the continents. I watched the hero cup matches. I watched the day-night match India played against Australia at ‘Chinnaswamy’ with bated breath. When Srinath and Kumble led India to victory an elated cry came out of my throat. Vow, who could forget the expression on their mothers’ faces who were on the stands watching the game. Can anyone ever forget the India-Pak encounter in the 1996 (or 1999?) World Cup again at ‘Chinnaswamy’ under lights? Aamir Sohails’s gesture when he hit a boundary and the fitting reply to it by Venkatesh Prasad in the very next ball made the pacer an instant hero. Then there was the Dhaka cup, chasing 314, boundary by Hrishikesh Kanitkar. Sachin’s heroics at Sharjah. Lakshman’s fine combination of technique and aesthetics against Pakistan at Eden Gardens. Dravid, the wall’s stunning performances. Oh boy, as Brian Adams crooned, “those were the best days of my life”.
What makes a batsman great? His ability to shoulder responsibility? The range of shots he plays? His ability to score under pressure? His combination of style and technique? Perhaps all these and more. And when it comes to southpaws they are a treat to watch. Think of Sourav Ganguly and the next thing that comes to your mind will be his cover drive. With that he often made us believe that it’s the easiest shot to play. For him it may be. And think of short-pitched deliveries. If Sourav plays the cover drive like an emperor, against bouncers he is a poor beggar (One who doesn’t have options rather than receiving body blows). What he is against short-pitched stuff is aptly summed up by Geoffrey Boycott; “a cat on the hot tin roof”. Almost all left-handers play the game with characteristic ease that is unique to them. But when it comes to Brian Lara he was not just way ahead, he was aeons ahead of his contemporaries if not predecessors for I’m not sure how Alwyn Kaleecharan or Sir Garry Sobers might’ve played.
Ours is an era in which everything comes in the form of capsules. We remix and shorten everything. And the reason often heard is “life is moving at a terrific pace, no one has the time”. But do we really need to rush to our graves? Naturally this ‘lack of time’ has affected one day cricket too. Though it’s already a shortened version, it’s going to be more compact. So the new version, 20:20, has already begun. When cricket gets shorter, a batsman is supposed to send the ball to the fence each time he faces one. And the crowd cheers for and with every boundary. But for a true connoisseur of the game it’s nauseating to watch batsmen playing straight drive with a horizontal bat. (Rather than calling it a ‘drive’, isn’t it better to call it a ‘straight pull’?) A true connoisseur knows that it requires extra ordinary talent to stay in the crease on bouncy tracks. There the batsman is a loner surrounded by hawk-like fieldsmen and facing merciless fast bowlers. Here stands Brian Lara like a monument of oozing talent and confidence. I did watch him batting in tests as well as in one day matches. I’m sure I can watch him for days even if he is playing it defensively, for he made even defenses spectacular. The rapid movement of the feet, eye-hand coordination and the unique back-lift, can’t help using the aged and worn-out cliché, ‘he was sheer poetry tin the crease’. And when he untied his uncanny ability to play shots he did it like God. Fired up in all cylinders, Brian Lara played the best bowlers across the globe with élan. He was talent personified. When he was on full swing it never mattered who was the bowler. From Shane Warne to Muthiah Muraleedharan and Wasim Akram to Glen Mc Grath faced the sheer brilliance of Lara. He pulled them, hooked them, cut them, drove them…all in copybook style. There was an aura of charm around his movements in the crease and there was a lazy arrogance around him; characteristics of a genious. I had fond memories of a rare gesture by him in a World Cup match. Was it against the Kenyans or the Banglas? I’m not sure about that. As soon as he faced the first ball he picked a sunglass from his hip and wore it. Only a man who has immense faith in himself and an unabashed attitude can display such a gesture.
As I mentioned earlier ours is a time in which everyone complains of ‘lack of time’. So we have to listen to the remix and super-paced version of “neele neele ambar par…” by Nithin Bali, an assault on the original by the mellifluous Kishore Kumar. It’s the same in cricket too. The leg glances or silken drives of an Azharuddin or Lakshman have been replaced by ‘unorthodox shots’ by Afridis and the like. The fine art of batting perfected by players like Lara is on the verge of extinction. Who is to blame to?
Long back I happened to go through a piece written about the batting skills of Gavaskar.
India was playing against Pakistan in Lahore. Imran Khan and Sarfraz Nawas, the pace duo who terrified even the best of batsmen with reverse swing, w ere at their best. When Imran bowled a super quick delivery, Mohinder Amaranth, who was Gavaskar’s partner defended it and the ball rolled to Imran. In the next delivery he snatched a single. When Imran delivered a similar one to Gavaskar he defended it to his own toe, that was the technique he possessed. But unlike Gavaskar, Lara was good at both defense and offense. He could be a blazing marauder or a pacified dancer at will irrespective of pitches and bowlers. On the field, he often reminded one of a Russian ballet artist. That famous back-lift that came down at lightning speed as the ball reached him would no more enthrall the millions. But Brian Charles Lara will sure illuminate their memories.
It’s often told that statistics don’t do justice when it comes to gauge the real talent of a batsman. It may be true of an old era when players got fewer chances to display their talent. But in our times statistics matter as they play more and more games. Look at Brian Lara’s statistics and others’, among whom some of them are rated along with him. Simply he stands apart. 1 quadruple century, 1 triple century, 8 double centuries, the 153 not out which was hailed by ‘wisden’ as the second best ever test innings. When Mathew Hayden surpassed his 375, I felt some sort of an injustice in it. Of course Hayden plays well, but there’s a mechanical element in his batting whereas Lara’s batting was as natural as the blooming of a flower. And to my relief, like a true emperor, Lara regained his throne in style.
As the Caribbean legend stepped down in a way quite uncharacteristic of a champion, receiving more brickbats than bouquets, one thing is sure, Brian Charles Lara ultimately
was an entertainer to the core. And the connoisseurs of cricket will miss him forever because players like Lara bless the game once in centuries.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Guilt
Yes I did it;
the unforgivable.
But then, at times,
I make myself believe,
it's no big deal.
But it doesn't help.
Piranhas of guilt
gnaw me from within.
And here stands
on the barren land,
my skeleton.
Waiting for the breeze
for a crumbling submission.
the unforgivable.
But then, at times,
I make myself believe,
it's no big deal.
But it doesn't help.
Piranhas of guilt
gnaw me from within.
And here stands
on the barren land,
my skeleton.
Waiting for the breeze
for a crumbling submission.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
As close to heaven as it gets?
Does heaven stink? If goes by the countless scenes where it has been depicted one gets the answer in a jiffy. Well-kept gardens where exotic flowers bloom. Well-lit ballrooms where gorgeous dancers perform classical dance in front of metrosexuals donned in silk, gold and flowers. The perennial emergence of smoke (Though one may not get a chance to see the source of it). Yes, one can almost feel the pleasant fragrance of heaven from all these. So heaven, sure, doesn't.
But in their attempt to allure tourists, Department of Tourism, Kerala, doesn't seem to have any such qualms. It asserts emphatically on each sign board, under the much-hyped 'God's Own Country' 'as close to heaven as it gets'. When you come as close to Kerala onething you'll sure get is the unbearable stench. Am I exaggerating? Well, get yourself an opportunity to commute by road through the breadth and length of Kerala. From Kasaragod to Trivandrum, roads, especially highways, stink. Polythene bags stuffed with garbage can be visible on either side of the roads. If you can bear the rotten smell piercing your nostrills, keep watching. As it goes you'll sure find a bag or two with its belly cut. Garbage , strewn all over, comprises of voraciously gnawed chicken bones to used sanitary napkins can be seen.
We Malayalees are extremely conscious of personal hygiene. We also keep our homes and its premises super clean. So we pack, whether it's leftovers from the kitchen or things used for personal hygiene, and clandestinely throw it to the neighbourhood or to the roads.
If you ever found yourself in a comparitively empty area on a highway on early morning or by night you can witness to a scene that's so uniquely Kerala. A speeding car slows down a bit, the window glass comes down, a hand with a stuffed-like- a-pillow polythene bag comes out of the window, "thud". Once it's thrown the hand pulls back itself slowly,( Here I have a persoanl tragic experience to narrate. This particular scene, the gradual withdrawal of the hand, has a tragic effect on my poetic sensibility. Kalpetta Narayanan concludes one of his poems with these lines; "Kramena avyakthamaya aa kaikallude neeyippozhevideyannu?" can be roughly translated as "Where are you of the hands that vanished gradually?" I understood this line as an intense longing. But nowadays, I can't think of the gradually vanished hand without making my nostrills flared up in anticipation for a foul smell.) the window glass escalates, the car gains speed and within seconds zoom out of your focus. It's not our lack of civic sense that makes our state stinking, it's our obsession with cleanliness that causes the stench. A recent newspaper report indicates the widespread skin diseases among labourers indulging in sand mining. Though doctors rule out the possibility of 'anything serious', the message is clear. We are writing the epitaph for our rivers. Leftovers from slaughter houses are being dumped to our rivers. And the once crystal clear waters have become polluted to a point from there is no return. Whoever steps into these rivers is in danger of getting infected with some sort of a skin disease. Water sources, the lifeline of humanity, is on the verge of an untimely demise. Where are we heading towards?
Kerala stinks. It's soil, water and air; all polluted. It's not at all heavenly as it gets closer. But, then the slogan doesn't say it is heaven. It says 'as close to...'. That's relative. Isn't it? Then why should I blame the tourism department. O.K leave it and consider this. Even if they say 'it's heaven', am i supposed to buy it at once? Has anyone on his right mind ever believed what is said or written without making a judgement. We have been taught to read between the lines, see the real face behind the mask. Then why should I make such a fuss over the issue?
In fact being naive is a crime. And I have been being a criminal by being naive and for elaborating such a silly matter. Excuse me please.
But in their attempt to allure tourists, Department of Tourism, Kerala, doesn't seem to have any such qualms. It asserts emphatically on each sign board, under the much-hyped 'God's Own Country' 'as close to heaven as it gets'. When you come as close to Kerala onething you'll sure get is the unbearable stench. Am I exaggerating? Well, get yourself an opportunity to commute by road through the breadth and length of Kerala. From Kasaragod to Trivandrum, roads, especially highways, stink. Polythene bags stuffed with garbage can be visible on either side of the roads. If you can bear the rotten smell piercing your nostrills, keep watching. As it goes you'll sure find a bag or two with its belly cut. Garbage , strewn all over, comprises of voraciously gnawed chicken bones to used sanitary napkins can be seen.
We Malayalees are extremely conscious of personal hygiene. We also keep our homes and its premises super clean. So we pack, whether it's leftovers from the kitchen or things used for personal hygiene, and clandestinely throw it to the neighbourhood or to the roads.
If you ever found yourself in a comparitively empty area on a highway on early morning or by night you can witness to a scene that's so uniquely Kerala. A speeding car slows down a bit, the window glass comes down, a hand with a stuffed-like- a-pillow polythene bag comes out of the window, "thud". Once it's thrown the hand pulls back itself slowly,( Here I have a persoanl tragic experience to narrate. This particular scene, the gradual withdrawal of the hand, has a tragic effect on my poetic sensibility. Kalpetta Narayanan concludes one of his poems with these lines; "Kramena avyakthamaya aa kaikallude neeyippozhevideyannu?" can be roughly translated as "Where are you of the hands that vanished gradually?" I understood this line as an intense longing. But nowadays, I can't think of the gradually vanished hand without making my nostrills flared up in anticipation for a foul smell.) the window glass escalates, the car gains speed and within seconds zoom out of your focus. It's not our lack of civic sense that makes our state stinking, it's our obsession with cleanliness that causes the stench. A recent newspaper report indicates the widespread skin diseases among labourers indulging in sand mining. Though doctors rule out the possibility of 'anything serious', the message is clear. We are writing the epitaph for our rivers. Leftovers from slaughter houses are being dumped to our rivers. And the once crystal clear waters have become polluted to a point from there is no return. Whoever steps into these rivers is in danger of getting infected with some sort of a skin disease. Water sources, the lifeline of humanity, is on the verge of an untimely demise. Where are we heading towards?
Kerala stinks. It's soil, water and air; all polluted. It's not at all heavenly as it gets closer. But, then the slogan doesn't say it is heaven. It says 'as close to...'. That's relative. Isn't it? Then why should I blame the tourism department. O.K leave it and consider this. Even if they say 'it's heaven', am i supposed to buy it at once? Has anyone on his right mind ever believed what is said or written without making a judgement. We have been taught to read between the lines, see the real face behind the mask. Then why should I make such a fuss over the issue?
In fact being naive is a crime. And I have been being a criminal by being naive and for elaborating such a silly matter. Excuse me please.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Lesson
How evil a person is characterised not by his/her deeds, but by his/her attempt to distance oneself by pretending what he/she is not in real. In short, gap deleberately kept within is evil. The more deleberate the gap, the deadliest the evil.
I thought it was alright
to complain for her, of thorns,
for she seemed a rose.
But after a while I came to know,
she was complaining of her own folks.
And that was a lesson worth learning.
I thought it was alright
to complain for her, of thorns,
for she seemed a rose.
But after a while I came to know,
she was complaining of her own folks.
And that was a lesson worth learning.
Why it is dark alley?
I love darkness. I love to be in the dark for hours. Darkness creates a perfect background for my mindset, for I am too lazy to make myself uncomfortable with rays of light exploding, natural or man-made, in the quietude of my den. Moreover, I may not have anything to offer that is pleasant, a feeling often seemed to be synonymous with light. Hence it is dark alley.
Here you may find me contradicting what I say today in the future. I don't have any justifications to offer. Just excuse me. Criticism of all kind, destructive or constructive, will be highly appreciated.
Here you may find me contradicting what I say today in the future. I don't have any justifications to offer. Just excuse me. Criticism of all kind, destructive or constructive, will be highly appreciated.
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