Every Indian worth his salt knows the Ramayana. Or he knows at least the point that Lord Ram's army consisted of monkeys. Well, yeah, they are mythological creatures; so they are "holy monkeys", but monkeys nevertheless. The less divine monkeys that we are familiar with are known to be nosey characters who love to pluck a shiny object out of your hand, love to screech and make faces at passers-by, and generally make themselves a nuisance. The more advanced form of monkeys (we call them apes, I hear) make ugly faces at you and thump their chests while issuing a bellow.
At the cost of being grossly misunderstood and misquoted, I say that we have a brand new army consisting of completely non-divine and non-blessed monkeys. And guess what, they are also known as Ram's army! Some vital differences exist, though. For instance, the old Ram's army took pains to cross an ocean and rescue a damsel in distress. The present one takes pains to put damsels in distress. Second, the mythical army had outstanding leaders like Hanuman and Sugriv, each boasting of an impeccable code of ethics and honour. The present army has dodgy politicians in charge, whose only claim to infame is that they never married; so they don't see what joy women can bring (oh Lord!).
And in the middle of the whole hullabaloo, two points are to note. Some young women, not dissimilar to many friends I have and am fond of, got roughed up and had their honour violated by this gang of monkeys and still cower in fear of the society which has labelled them as women of loose character for absolutely no fault of theirs. Secondly, despite all the hoopla, Valentine's Day did not create any demand and Bangalore's shopkeepers continue to face the heat of the recession.
It seems like Harbhajan Singh must now look not in Melbourne but in Mangalore for his next monkey. Although the official version of what he called that burly, curly Aussie would sound better if used against this modern monkey army.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
No Smoking? Really?
We have a particularly activist, or should I say blindly optimistic, Minister up in Delhi who thinks that by banning smoking in "public places", the average health of Indians is going to improve. Harrumph! In election year, the Ministers reduce taxes, reduce train fares, increase reservation, lay roads, carry out sustained media campaigns of their shining achievements and distribute free liquor to the teeming millions. So where does the smoking ban fit in?
A heavy-smoking friend of mine said he STILL smokes more than a pack a day. The sutta-seller near college says he STILL sells the same number of cigarettes and bidis a day. Large restaurants STILL allow smoking, by a simple process of continuing their existing system of demarcating a smoking zone. Little sutta-shops STILL do thriving business just outside the gates of the many IT companies that dot this city.
What do you say, Mr. Minister?
Therefore, only two categories of people have been affected negatively by the smoking ban - smaller eating joints and non-smokers. Yes, non-smokers. Earlier, office campuses (and buildings, for that matter) used to have smoking zones, where all of 'em got together and kept their stench to themselves. Now, they light up just outside the main gate, which means everyone who wishes to get in or out of office has become a passive smoker. The streets (which, curiously, are NOT "public places") are one place where everyone who wishes to smoke can - meaning more burden on us non-smokers. Talk about law not achieving its stated purpose...
Before I conclude, someone's apparently forgotten to tell the Bongs that there's a smoking ban in place. Or is it that the Minister thought he might get the Tata treatment in Kolkata if he went there to enforce his orders? In any case, the Bongs continue to puff away happily - on the streets, in houses, inside office buildings, in public toilets, in (shared) autorickshaws, in football stadiums, in restaurants, anywhere. Hell, there was this guy leaning against a lamppost which had the "no smoking" sign and blissfully blowing blue-grey smoke to the heavens.
It seems the Minister's plans are up in smoke. As are his chances of being re-elected.
A heavy-smoking friend of mine said he STILL smokes more than a pack a day. The sutta-seller near college says he STILL sells the same number of cigarettes and bidis a day. Large restaurants STILL allow smoking, by a simple process of continuing their existing system of demarcating a smoking zone. Little sutta-shops STILL do thriving business just outside the gates of the many IT companies that dot this city.
What do you say, Mr. Minister?
Therefore, only two categories of people have been affected negatively by the smoking ban - smaller eating joints and non-smokers. Yes, non-smokers. Earlier, office campuses (and buildings, for that matter) used to have smoking zones, where all of 'em got together and kept their stench to themselves. Now, they light up just outside the main gate, which means everyone who wishes to get in or out of office has become a passive smoker. The streets (which, curiously, are NOT "public places") are one place where everyone who wishes to smoke can - meaning more burden on us non-smokers. Talk about law not achieving its stated purpose...
Before I conclude, someone's apparently forgotten to tell the Bongs that there's a smoking ban in place. Or is it that the Minister thought he might get the Tata treatment in Kolkata if he went there to enforce his orders? In any case, the Bongs continue to puff away happily - on the streets, in houses, inside office buildings, in public toilets, in (shared) autorickshaws, in football stadiums, in restaurants, anywhere. Hell, there was this guy leaning against a lamppost which had the "no smoking" sign and blissfully blowing blue-grey smoke to the heavens.
It seems the Minister's plans are up in smoke. As are his chances of being re-elected.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Viva la Mohun Bagan
I have always wanted to watch a match sitting in the Kop at Anfield (and still want to). To be a part of the chants, the cursing, the passion. The Salt Lake Stdium in Kolkata is no Anfield and Mohun Bagan is no Liverpool FC - not by a country mile. Yet for singing, swearing and fanatic passion, I really don't have to travel all the way to the cold and rainy north-west of England. A giant stadium in the east of India is more than sufficient. This last Sunday, I got to watch my first live match - Mohun Bagan versus JCT Mills, Phagwara in the Indian National Football League - at the gigantic Salt Lake Stadium, and I have not only survived the idiosyncacies of Kolkatan football, but also emerged a huge fan of the same.
I accompanied Anubhav's dad (whose family have been Mohun Bagan fans for generations) and two of his friends (who he met and befriended while watching games at the stadium) for the match. The half-hour drive to the stadium was marked by a full education on Mohun Bagan's history and current squad. "Oh you are from Bangalore! Our centre-half, Manju - watch out for jersey number 3 - is from Karnataka!" "Mohun Bagan defeated Manchester United, played against Pele and gave a testimonial to Oliver Kahn. Which other Asian club can boast of all that?" The pride and the passion in their voices imparted a warm feeling. "You are not going to watch a football match - you are going to watch Mohun Bagan win."
A little aside here. I have heard plenty of fantastic stories about matches at the Salt Lake Stadium. Hotly contested local derbies, especially those against "the refugee team" (East Bengal), have been known to produce plenty of slipper-flinging, face-punching, shirt-tearing episodes of madness. So I was approaching this game with a slight bit of nervousness.
Back to the game. There was NO security at the stadium to speak of, except at the grandstand where the coaches and the VIPs sat. We drove the car through the stadium entrance and right up to the gate laeding into the stands. My companions took a miute off to take a leak on the stadium walls. Then we just walked up the ramp and into the stands - no tickets, no frisking, no fuss. The match had begun and was in its third or so minute. There were around 40,000 fans in the stadium, and it STILL looked mostly empty. "There were 215,000 who squeezed themselves in for Kahn's farewell game".
As we wound our way through the crowd to find a good spot, the home side had their first chance. A massive African (who I later learned was a Nigerian called Odafe) robbed the opposition midfielder and fed the Brazilian striker and fans' favourite Jose Barreto, who played a neat first-time through ball to Mohun Bagan and India captain Baichung Bhutia. Unfortunately, the former JCT and East Bengal star took the shot on his weaker foot and the keeper was able to get down and smother the ball. The crowd was roused and we found a great spot to sit.
A few things were noticeable immediately. The players clearly lacked the pace and the physique of the European stars we are all used to watching every weekend. For some reason, the Premiership players seem to cover 50-60 yards in a dozen or so strides, but these guys seemed to be making a huge effort to make twenty yards. Also missing was off-the-ball running. Except for the strikers and one or two others, no one seemed to be moving around to make space and time to receive the ball. Thirdly, perhaps partially as a result of a not-too-smooth playing surface, most passes were neither along the ground nor long aerial balls - they were being played around three feet above the ground with plenty of (uneven) bounces in between. Fourth, technique in terms of first touch and body position while receiving or striking the ball were far inferior to what I have seen on TV.
Having said that, the match did not fail to entertain. JCT started off by playing delightful one-touch football and enjoyed the lion's share of possession, while Bagan's dimunitive wide players weren't finding time on the ball as they would have liked. One superb move from JCT, a rare pass-and-run, along their left flank released the striker, who held the pace edge over the lumbering Odafe. The Nigerian dived in from behind and upended his opponent half a yard outside the box. I felt he was lucky to receive only a yellow card, but I didn's dare to say so aloud. The resulting freekick was way over the bar, but JCT were winning the opening exchanges.
Then, against the run of play, Mohun Bagan scored. Ishfaq was slowly finding his feet on the Bagan left wing and suddenly found himself on the end of a horror back-header from the JCT centre-half. The bounce nearly beat the 5'6" wide man, but he somehow lobbed his weak header over the advancing keeper. The ball took a couple of bounces and trickled into the empty net. The stadium erupted. The chap sitting behind me nearly burned my ear with his cigarette as he flung his arms up to celebrate. A few firecrackers were flung from the upper tier and most exploded in mid-air. The ones that didn't gave some fans in the lower tier burnt bums.
The goal took the stuffing out of JCT and gave Bagan some steel. Both teams were making horrible fouls and were being unnecessarily physical, possibly as a result of frustration and a lack of skill to beat their man, but only the away side were enjoying the referee's protection. To be fair, though, Odafe was flinging himself around with gay abandon and the ref was showing unduly immense patience with him. Bengali and Hindi profanities flowed from the crowd. One chap some fifteen feet from me took off his slipper and threatened to fling it a hundred yards. Then Mohun Bagan won a dodgy penalty.
Bhutia and a JCT defender at least a foot taller than the home skipper went up for a ball which had been lumped skyward from midfield. Bhutia fell like a matchstick in the breeze and the Mallu ref pointed to the spot. All eleven JCT players surrounded the ref and for a while it looked like a fatal Chakravyuha for Mr. Nair. In the end, two JCT men saw yellow cards and Barreto stepped up to calmly stroke the ball to the keeper's left. Apparently, the Indian FA is still wondering whether to allow the Brazilian to play for India - trust the bureaucrats to twiddle their thumbs over the one man of class playing in this country.
After that, the match meandered along without much incident. Some comical defending from the home side allowed a JCT shot to bobble around in the box before finally striking a post. Odafe committed one sin too many and slunk away down the tunnel for an early bath. The Bagan and India goalkeeper impressed with his assurance at catching hopeful punts from anywhere on the pitch. Bhutia received a standing ovation for having aimlessly wandered around the park and maintaining an impressive 100% record at passing the ball straight back to the opposition. Barreto charged with the ball from the half line like a poor man's Steven Gerrard and finally passed the ball into the gleeful keeper's hands. Ishfaq tormented the JCT right-back with some stepovers and delighted some in the crowd by tripping over the ball during some attempted stunt.
In the end, 2-0 was a deserving scoreline. JCT deserved to lose and Bagan didn't play well enough to score more. The Odafe red card and the 14 offside decisions given against the home side were the major talking points after the game. But the main thing was not the football. No one expects Mohun Bagan and JCT Mills to produce a spectacle to savour for the ages. The phenomenal passion with which Kolkatans follow the game, even if they know it is nowhere near world class, is massively touching. Most importantly, the experience of being amongst completely partisan supporters and getting lost in the ocean of curses flying around should be a very important lesson on the Road to Anfield...
I accompanied Anubhav's dad (whose family have been Mohun Bagan fans for generations) and two of his friends (who he met and befriended while watching games at the stadium) for the match. The half-hour drive to the stadium was marked by a full education on Mohun Bagan's history and current squad. "Oh you are from Bangalore! Our centre-half, Manju - watch out for jersey number 3 - is from Karnataka!" "Mohun Bagan defeated Manchester United, played against Pele and gave a testimonial to Oliver Kahn. Which other Asian club can boast of all that?" The pride and the passion in their voices imparted a warm feeling. "You are not going to watch a football match - you are going to watch Mohun Bagan win."
A little aside here. I have heard plenty of fantastic stories about matches at the Salt Lake Stadium. Hotly contested local derbies, especially those against "the refugee team" (East Bengal), have been known to produce plenty of slipper-flinging, face-punching, shirt-tearing episodes of madness. So I was approaching this game with a slight bit of nervousness.
Back to the game. There was NO security at the stadium to speak of, except at the grandstand where the coaches and the VIPs sat. We drove the car through the stadium entrance and right up to the gate laeding into the stands. My companions took a miute off to take a leak on the stadium walls. Then we just walked up the ramp and into the stands - no tickets, no frisking, no fuss. The match had begun and was in its third or so minute. There were around 40,000 fans in the stadium, and it STILL looked mostly empty. "There were 215,000 who squeezed themselves in for Kahn's farewell game".
As we wound our way through the crowd to find a good spot, the home side had their first chance. A massive African (who I later learned was a Nigerian called Odafe) robbed the opposition midfielder and fed the Brazilian striker and fans' favourite Jose Barreto, who played a neat first-time through ball to Mohun Bagan and India captain Baichung Bhutia. Unfortunately, the former JCT and East Bengal star took the shot on his weaker foot and the keeper was able to get down and smother the ball. The crowd was roused and we found a great spot to sit.
A few things were noticeable immediately. The players clearly lacked the pace and the physique of the European stars we are all used to watching every weekend. For some reason, the Premiership players seem to cover 50-60 yards in a dozen or so strides, but these guys seemed to be making a huge effort to make twenty yards. Also missing was off-the-ball running. Except for the strikers and one or two others, no one seemed to be moving around to make space and time to receive the ball. Thirdly, perhaps partially as a result of a not-too-smooth playing surface, most passes were neither along the ground nor long aerial balls - they were being played around three feet above the ground with plenty of (uneven) bounces in between. Fourth, technique in terms of first touch and body position while receiving or striking the ball were far inferior to what I have seen on TV.
Having said that, the match did not fail to entertain. JCT started off by playing delightful one-touch football and enjoyed the lion's share of possession, while Bagan's dimunitive wide players weren't finding time on the ball as they would have liked. One superb move from JCT, a rare pass-and-run, along their left flank released the striker, who held the pace edge over the lumbering Odafe. The Nigerian dived in from behind and upended his opponent half a yard outside the box. I felt he was lucky to receive only a yellow card, but I didn's dare to say so aloud. The resulting freekick was way over the bar, but JCT were winning the opening exchanges.
Then, against the run of play, Mohun Bagan scored. Ishfaq was slowly finding his feet on the Bagan left wing and suddenly found himself on the end of a horror back-header from the JCT centre-half. The bounce nearly beat the 5'6" wide man, but he somehow lobbed his weak header over the advancing keeper. The ball took a couple of bounces and trickled into the empty net. The stadium erupted. The chap sitting behind me nearly burned my ear with his cigarette as he flung his arms up to celebrate. A few firecrackers were flung from the upper tier and most exploded in mid-air. The ones that didn't gave some fans in the lower tier burnt bums.
The goal took the stuffing out of JCT and gave Bagan some steel. Both teams were making horrible fouls and were being unnecessarily physical, possibly as a result of frustration and a lack of skill to beat their man, but only the away side were enjoying the referee's protection. To be fair, though, Odafe was flinging himself around with gay abandon and the ref was showing unduly immense patience with him. Bengali and Hindi profanities flowed from the crowd. One chap some fifteen feet from me took off his slipper and threatened to fling it a hundred yards. Then Mohun Bagan won a dodgy penalty.
Bhutia and a JCT defender at least a foot taller than the home skipper went up for a ball which had been lumped skyward from midfield. Bhutia fell like a matchstick in the breeze and the Mallu ref pointed to the spot. All eleven JCT players surrounded the ref and for a while it looked like a fatal Chakravyuha for Mr. Nair. In the end, two JCT men saw yellow cards and Barreto stepped up to calmly stroke the ball to the keeper's left. Apparently, the Indian FA is still wondering whether to allow the Brazilian to play for India - trust the bureaucrats to twiddle their thumbs over the one man of class playing in this country.
After that, the match meandered along without much incident. Some comical defending from the home side allowed a JCT shot to bobble around in the box before finally striking a post. Odafe committed one sin too many and slunk away down the tunnel for an early bath. The Bagan and India goalkeeper impressed with his assurance at catching hopeful punts from anywhere on the pitch. Bhutia received a standing ovation for having aimlessly wandered around the park and maintaining an impressive 100% record at passing the ball straight back to the opposition. Barreto charged with the ball from the half line like a poor man's Steven Gerrard and finally passed the ball into the gleeful keeper's hands. Ishfaq tormented the JCT right-back with some stepovers and delighted some in the crowd by tripping over the ball during some attempted stunt.
In the end, 2-0 was a deserving scoreline. JCT deserved to lose and Bagan didn't play well enough to score more. The Odafe red card and the 14 offside decisions given against the home side were the major talking points after the game. But the main thing was not the football. No one expects Mohun Bagan and JCT Mills to produce a spectacle to savour for the ages. The phenomenal passion with which Kolkatans follow the game, even if they know it is nowhere near world class, is massively touching. Most importantly, the experience of being amongst completely partisan supporters and getting lost in the ocean of curses flying around should be a very important lesson on the Road to Anfield...
Monday, October 13, 2008
Champions of Sentiment
What springs to mind when one mentions the Australian cricket team? If you were thinking about a tough, unrelenting, unemotional, ruthless side that batters, thrashes and utterly dominates the opposition into submission, you wouldn't be in the minority. Their success story for the last decade and more has been awesome and more than the mere number of victories, it is the manner in which they have been achieved that evokes such a fearsome yet dreary picture in our minds.
Scratch the surface, however, and you will find the one team in the world which actually has a tremendous sentiment for tradition and the occasion. India hangs on to its aging stars for a variety of reasons - a particular cricketer's rowdy fan following, the weight of another's statistics, the need to satisfy regional selection demands or simply a matter of not being called the villain who ended the career of so-and-so. Pakistan's cricket is always in shambles. Terrific talents rub shoulders with super-bloated egos, and political upheavals in the cricket board are never too far away. They have been and will always be an enigma.
Even England for that matter has broken the stereotype and divorced history and tradition. The slightest hint that a cricketer looks like international material and he will be off his county's regular roster and put on a central contract, ever ready to turn up in national colours. There are so many guys making their debuts and then disappearing after a handful of games that an England cap seems like no big deal. Twenty20 and its associated "innovations" were invented in England. Heck, that Mecca of cricket, Lord's, has the swankiest bit of modern architecture among cricket grounds.
That brings us to the topic of this post - Australia. Today I was watching the highlights of a rather drab (never mind the media hype about it being an exhilarating match) fifth day, one moment stood out. A leg spinner better known for his astronomical strike rate in the shortest format of the game induced a champion batsman 14 runs short of the world record of Test runs to scoop one to cover. What happened next? The huge bear of a cricketer broke into tears! THAT is what a first Test wicket meant to him. All the hard work of the last few years, all that waiting for the prized call-up to the Australian Test side, all that toil for five days in the cauldron of an Indian stadium - it all came down to this.
Does anyone remember Steve Waugh's last Test innings? Yes, it was That Sydney Test when India scored at will to post over 700. Waugh played the sort of innings he had played all his life - stoic, back-to-the-wall stuff. Does anyone remember what he wore on his head that day? A faded, torn old baggy green - not any old baggy green, but the cap he wore on his debut. Throughout his career, he was a non-nonsense batsman and a ruthless captain who would not be swayed by anything. Yet he wore his sentiment on his sleeve (rather, on his head) when the occasion demanded.
Speaking of Bangalore Tests, does anyone recall Michael Clarke's debut here? When on 97, he sent his helmet back to the dressing room and demanded that his (brand new) baggy green be brought out. He celebrated his special moment by raising aloft both bat and baggy green, just like dozens of great Aussies before him had done.
The Aussies are the ones who revere almost to the point of worship each member of a squad that was labelled as Invincible all of 60 years ago, in spite of later teams being far more "invincible". While Sachin Tendulkar is fanatically possessed in the minds of Indian fans, he has an equally large group of critics who label him as selfish and never having produced the goods when it mattered - and he is India's greatest cricketing icon. But you would never, ever find an Aussie having anything but the greatest reverence to Sir Don Bradman, and speaking ill of the Don is more taboo than the greatest sin.
What the Aussies have is an unadulterated passion for the game. It is true that players like Brett Lee and Michael Clarke are huge commercial brands back in their home country, but to them the game necessarily comes first. Should even their best cricketers, such as Ponting or Lee or Hayden, show even the slightest indication that the ad money means more to them than the baggy green, the board will not flinch in showing them the door. It's Passion or Bust. Each Australain cricketer has to spend years slugging it out in the domestic system and produce consistently brilliant performances to even get a look into the national squad. The ones who are in the national team have to produce that same level of consistency and performances at the world stage, or else there are half a dozen highly deserving guys to take each one's place.
Sadly, even a one-sport country like India cannot produce this level of professionalism. The Aussies show it in every sport, be it cricket, football, rugby, swimming or tennis - and mind you, they are quite successful in all these sports. India throws raw teenagers into the heat of Test cricket, and at the same time gives established domestic performers not more than one game to prove they can hack it at the highest level. Zonal "quotas" still form the basis of selection. Thank God no one has invoked the Constitution to demand a reservation policy for the squad.
The Aussies are not only champions when it comes to respecting and honouring tradition and history, but also champions in building upon that history to make some of their own. Beneath that rough, ruthless exterior of an Aussie cricketer is one hardworking, immensely talented sportsman whose deep regard for sentiment is his strength.
Scratch the surface, however, and you will find the one team in the world which actually has a tremendous sentiment for tradition and the occasion. India hangs on to its aging stars for a variety of reasons - a particular cricketer's rowdy fan following, the weight of another's statistics, the need to satisfy regional selection demands or simply a matter of not being called the villain who ended the career of so-and-so. Pakistan's cricket is always in shambles. Terrific talents rub shoulders with super-bloated egos, and political upheavals in the cricket board are never too far away. They have been and will always be an enigma.
Even England for that matter has broken the stereotype and divorced history and tradition. The slightest hint that a cricketer looks like international material and he will be off his county's regular roster and put on a central contract, ever ready to turn up in national colours. There are so many guys making their debuts and then disappearing after a handful of games that an England cap seems like no big deal. Twenty20 and its associated "innovations" were invented in England. Heck, that Mecca of cricket, Lord's, has the swankiest bit of modern architecture among cricket grounds.
That brings us to the topic of this post - Australia. Today I was watching the highlights of a rather drab (never mind the media hype about it being an exhilarating match) fifth day, one moment stood out. A leg spinner better known for his astronomical strike rate in the shortest format of the game induced a champion batsman 14 runs short of the world record of Test runs to scoop one to cover. What happened next? The huge bear of a cricketer broke into tears! THAT is what a first Test wicket meant to him. All the hard work of the last few years, all that waiting for the prized call-up to the Australian Test side, all that toil for five days in the cauldron of an Indian stadium - it all came down to this.
Does anyone remember Steve Waugh's last Test innings? Yes, it was That Sydney Test when India scored at will to post over 700. Waugh played the sort of innings he had played all his life - stoic, back-to-the-wall stuff. Does anyone remember what he wore on his head that day? A faded, torn old baggy green - not any old baggy green, but the cap he wore on his debut. Throughout his career, he was a non-nonsense batsman and a ruthless captain who would not be swayed by anything. Yet he wore his sentiment on his sleeve (rather, on his head) when the occasion demanded.
Speaking of Bangalore Tests, does anyone recall Michael Clarke's debut here? When on 97, he sent his helmet back to the dressing room and demanded that his (brand new) baggy green be brought out. He celebrated his special moment by raising aloft both bat and baggy green, just like dozens of great Aussies before him had done.
The Aussies are the ones who revere almost to the point of worship each member of a squad that was labelled as Invincible all of 60 years ago, in spite of later teams being far more "invincible". While Sachin Tendulkar is fanatically possessed in the minds of Indian fans, he has an equally large group of critics who label him as selfish and never having produced the goods when it mattered - and he is India's greatest cricketing icon. But you would never, ever find an Aussie having anything but the greatest reverence to Sir Don Bradman, and speaking ill of the Don is more taboo than the greatest sin.
What the Aussies have is an unadulterated passion for the game. It is true that players like Brett Lee and Michael Clarke are huge commercial brands back in their home country, but to them the game necessarily comes first. Should even their best cricketers, such as Ponting or Lee or Hayden, show even the slightest indication that the ad money means more to them than the baggy green, the board will not flinch in showing them the door. It's Passion or Bust. Each Australain cricketer has to spend years slugging it out in the domestic system and produce consistently brilliant performances to even get a look into the national squad. The ones who are in the national team have to produce that same level of consistency and performances at the world stage, or else there are half a dozen highly deserving guys to take each one's place.
Sadly, even a one-sport country like India cannot produce this level of professionalism. The Aussies show it in every sport, be it cricket, football, rugby, swimming or tennis - and mind you, they are quite successful in all these sports. India throws raw teenagers into the heat of Test cricket, and at the same time gives established domestic performers not more than one game to prove they can hack it at the highest level. Zonal "quotas" still form the basis of selection. Thank God no one has invoked the Constitution to demand a reservation policy for the squad.
The Aussies are not only champions when it comes to respecting and honouring tradition and history, but also champions in building upon that history to make some of their own. Beneath that rough, ruthless exterior of an Aussie cricketer is one hardworking, immensely talented sportsman whose deep regard for sentiment is his strength.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
How Green Is My Valley
Last night, I was travelling home from Hyderabad by train, and as is the case on any moving vehicle, insomnia had struck. Just when I was resigning myself to staring at the ceiling and listening to a dozen different tones of snores, I noticed some fellow-insomniacs in the next coupe having some sort of discussion. I butted in to random conversation, and the gang was thus - Sandeep, a Hyderabadi by origin, affiliations and allegiance but a Bangalorean by residence; Vandana, a techie who worked in Hyderabad in the past and currently works in Bangalore; and Vaishali, a US-returned LLM graduate who stays in Hyderabad but might move to Bangalore to work here.
Among other mundane topics, a hotly debated subject in the wee hours of the night on a speeding train was the relative merits of the two Cyber Cities of India - Bangalore and Hyderabad. My traumatic experience in Hyderabad for the last month and a half made me a staunch Hyderabad-basher, while the rest took turns at having pot shots at me and Bangalore in general. Poor Vandana seemed to have encountered the worst that Bangalore has to offer - the rudest auto-wallahs, the most nonchalant maid-servants, the greediest repairmen and the seediest pubs. Sandeep seemed to have experienced the worst traffic in Bangalore ever - the Domlur flyover during heavy rains.
The whole discussion made me reflect till long after the conversation - what is the Bangalore that I love so much? What are the undying symbols of the charm which I associate with my hometown? I think back (very) fondly to my high school days - when playgrounds were meant for us to play in, when we could ride our bicycles down BTM Main Road and JP Nagar Ring Road without the slightest cause for concern, when huge trees lined both sides of pretty much every main road in the city and when we could sit inside an auto and then instruct the driver to take us to our destination. All this has most certainly changed. The IT revolution has brought with it unprecedented growth, but it has also brought along pollution, traffic chaos, spiralling prices, an alarming crime rate and worst of all, a dehumanising effect on people.
Yet, I stood steadfastly by my city and to my utmost surprise, I could still bring out points which no other city can match. Take for example a Sunday morning involving an early jog in Cubbon Park followed by a soothing drive to Gandhi Bazaar and a sumptuous breakfast of Masala Dosa and Coffee at Vidyarthi Bhavan. Jayanagar has undergone a facelift like none other, but still one would find nostalgic old men and women reminiscing about the good old days at Thaatran Katte. Bull Temple Park is still Bull Temple Park - serene, invigorating, relaxing. Veena Stores in Malleshwaram still serves some of the most lip-smacking South Indian snacks anywhere. Rangashankara still costs only fifty rupees. It is still possible to get into a bus passing through Chamarajpet or Basavanagudi, and find polite conductors and patient drivers who wait for the old man to get in and have a seat before moving ahead.
It may be impossible to wish for the "old" Bangalore - life moved at a slow pace, people enjoyed their Idli and Coffee, street corners were meant for catching up with friends and gossipping about the neighbour's daughter, owning a Bajaj Chetak or a Premier Padmini was a status symbol and movie tickets costed twenty bucks. Even the Gods would frown upon any disturbance to this idyll paradise as a warm day unerringly meant a super-cool evening shower.
It's time to take a deep sigh, close my eyes and wish in vain. But not all hope is lost, for no other city in India or anywhere else in the world has a soul more pure than my Bangalore. The climate, the culture, the people - nothing else comes close...
Among other mundane topics, a hotly debated subject in the wee hours of the night on a speeding train was the relative merits of the two Cyber Cities of India - Bangalore and Hyderabad. My traumatic experience in Hyderabad for the last month and a half made me a staunch Hyderabad-basher, while the rest took turns at having pot shots at me and Bangalore in general. Poor Vandana seemed to have encountered the worst that Bangalore has to offer - the rudest auto-wallahs, the most nonchalant maid-servants, the greediest repairmen and the seediest pubs. Sandeep seemed to have experienced the worst traffic in Bangalore ever - the Domlur flyover during heavy rains.
The whole discussion made me reflect till long after the conversation - what is the Bangalore that I love so much? What are the undying symbols of the charm which I associate with my hometown? I think back (very) fondly to my high school days - when playgrounds were meant for us to play in, when we could ride our bicycles down BTM Main Road and JP Nagar Ring Road without the slightest cause for concern, when huge trees lined both sides of pretty much every main road in the city and when we could sit inside an auto and then instruct the driver to take us to our destination. All this has most certainly changed. The IT revolution has brought with it unprecedented growth, but it has also brought along pollution, traffic chaos, spiralling prices, an alarming crime rate and worst of all, a dehumanising effect on people.
Yet, I stood steadfastly by my city and to my utmost surprise, I could still bring out points which no other city can match. Take for example a Sunday morning involving an early jog in Cubbon Park followed by a soothing drive to Gandhi Bazaar and a sumptuous breakfast of Masala Dosa and Coffee at Vidyarthi Bhavan. Jayanagar has undergone a facelift like none other, but still one would find nostalgic old men and women reminiscing about the good old days at Thaatran Katte. Bull Temple Park is still Bull Temple Park - serene, invigorating, relaxing. Veena Stores in Malleshwaram still serves some of the most lip-smacking South Indian snacks anywhere. Rangashankara still costs only fifty rupees. It is still possible to get into a bus passing through Chamarajpet or Basavanagudi, and find polite conductors and patient drivers who wait for the old man to get in and have a seat before moving ahead.
It may be impossible to wish for the "old" Bangalore - life moved at a slow pace, people enjoyed their Idli and Coffee, street corners were meant for catching up with friends and gossipping about the neighbour's daughter, owning a Bajaj Chetak or a Premier Padmini was a status symbol and movie tickets costed twenty bucks. Even the Gods would frown upon any disturbance to this idyll paradise as a warm day unerringly meant a super-cool evening shower.
It's time to take a deep sigh, close my eyes and wish in vain. But not all hope is lost, for no other city in India or anywhere else in the world has a soul more pure than my Bangalore. The climate, the culture, the people - nothing else comes close...
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