Wednesday, June 21

Last of my kind

(This post hasn't come out as well as I wanted. But I'm still pissed off, so.)
 
Why do we have heroes? What is it about someone that triggers a decision to nail our colours to their mast? I don't have a neat answer so what you read from here on is both an explanation and an exploration. In a post-modern world driven by counter-points, certainty is a luxury.

I missed the boat when it came to India's ODI cricket madness. We moved abroad in the late 80s. When I left, my friends and I wanted to be Kapil, Kris or Sunil. When I returned, god was getting comfortable on his heavenly couch and all was right with a world I did not recognise. I had missed Sachin's opening batsman debut against New Zealand, the hullabaloo of the Hero Cup and other notable moments. So, I was interested in cricket, not any particular sportsman. Not even during the '96 World Cup. When India muffed it against Sri Lanka, I hurt for the team, not for a player.

Then came Dravid. And, personally, with him came Kumble. I had found my idols. And the inkwell of my idolatry is endless.

Why them? Why not Tendulkar? Here's the thing. Realise that Sachin is in a rarefied pantheon that cannot be touched. Even if the sun did not shine, no wings would allow any man to touch him. At the most, Sachin triggers a sense of awe. Sachin is salvation. He gave us hope but it would be foolish to hope to be him.

The stories of Dravid and Kumble are human ones. They stand for something simple - work hard, be sincere and stay disciplined. And be ready for the chips to fall in one's favour. Of course this 'simple' is very difficult to emulate. You look at their lives, their examples and understand that two choices exist. Either be defeated by the sheer power of what they stand for OR aspire to what they stand for. Because any human can. You cannot be Dravid but work at your batting long enough and you can hone your technique to a point where you bat like him. You cannot be Kumble but you can forge your inner fire into a bowling technique that will get you wickets.

Dravid and Kumble have gifted people something far more valuable than their feats. Their gift is the QED that talent, fortified by relentless passion, focus, patience and performance can win you a moment in the sun. How long that moment lasts depends on external factors too. But you can become an irresistible force and wait for the immovable object to blink first.

That's what they became you know... Dravid the Immovable fucking Object and Kumble the Irresistible fucking Force.

Think I'm exaggerating? Watch old clips of them batting or bowling. Watch the waltz of physics which, if there were any magic in this world, would scorch the turf as the ball kissed and caressed its way to the ropes. Watch the ball spit, dart and venomously arrow in on middle-and-leg and either york the poor fool in the way or thud into his pads.

Wipe the drool off your face. It's not dignified.

Then look into their eyes. Trace the outline of their set jaws. And take comfort in the fact that Dravid and Kumble played for India in your lifetime. They were great sportsmen. But they were and are inherently Decent men. In India, in the world, you can't put a price on something like that. If controversy is currency, Dravid and Kumble would be paupers. When they retired, I took it personally. When Kumble was forced to give up his NCA post over some wishywashy bullshit, I took it personally. When that m*****f****r Guha cast sneaky aspersions on Dravid's character over a conflict of interest, I took it personally. When the conflict between Kumble and Captain prima donna came to light, I took it personally. So, yea, Kumble being made to quit... you bet it's personal.

Dravid and Kumble's decency angers me. Their stoic dignity and modesty angers me. Their unwillingness to play games as well as they played the game angers me. Sachin was a god on the cricket ground. Dravid and Kumble are gods off it. And it's too much to bear.   

Cricketers of my generation would say they'd do their best. And we believed them. Today, an Indian cricketer says he'll get things done and we believe him. But first, he'll take a selfie. Pah! 

Song for the moment: Cuts like a knife - Bryan Adams

Do read the Puneri's take on this shit-show.  

Saturday, June 17

Wednesday, June 14

Achin' all the time

To live in a city is to exist on a purely man-made plane.
Sure, you can go ahead and say you're still in touch with Mama Nature by visiting the neighbourhood park.
But even you know that's a lie.
Let's face it... as far as the average city-dweller is concerned, "going back to my roots" really means adding more potato, ginger, carrot and maybe a turnip or two to your diet.

To live in a city is to hear it constantly.
Especially in a city like Mumbai, where a lonely wolf-like howl at night is only the local kulfi seller, yodelling his wares like his life depends on it.
Maybe it does too.

Mumbai is an orchestra of human sounds.
Being deftly conducted by an invisible Cacophonix.
Trains. Planes. Cars. Autos.
Hawkers. Pedlars. Hopers. Desperadoes.
People.
And Gujaratis.

The night has no pity to dispense.
In the quietest lanes live the noisiest dishwashers, the sound of clashing steel suggesting a battle is being fought with pots, pans and plates.
Or against them.

You hear children crying.
And do nothing.
You hear adults cussing and arguing.
And wonder if your own domestic disagreements can be heard just as clearly.

Pity the sounds of Love are on mute.

Sometime and somewhere, between the honking, blaring, shouting and murmuring, you go under.
Try to submerge yourself in your inner sea.
Only to discover, it is nothing more than a bathtub.
That is steadily letting your equanimity drain away.
Imagine that sucking sound.

The only revenge or respite you receive is when it rains.
Not the drizzle.
The all-silencing, roaring torrent of a Mumbai Monsoon.
When the sea becomes sky.
Which is as much a promise as it is a threat.

When you live a rat's life, there's always a chance you'll drown like one.

Song for the moment: Please - Ray Lamontagne