Stop the paranoia about Kashmir

So Arundhati Roy is supposedly 'seditious'. Without going into the legalities of whether she is or not, let's ponder on a few things. She has voiced what most of Kashmir has been saying all along. By the same logic, most of Kashmir is eligible to be tried for 'sedition'. If demanding that one's voice be heard is sedition, then maybe this is sedition. If holding an opinion that goes against what most in this country regard as the gospel is sedition, then maybe this is sedition.

What is behind India's collective paranoia about Kashmir? Why is that each time Kashmir erupts, popular opinion in this country wants to crush that eruption, quell the voice that emanates from Kashmir, and drown among howls of self-righteous nationalistic indignation the Kashmiri clamour that cries out for a platform to be heard?

Where were these howls of protest when Gujarat burned for more than a week in 2002? Where were all the 'Indians' when the face of the nation changed forever, courtesy Mandal and Mandir in the tumultuous times of the early 90's? Where do these voices disappear when scam after political and business scam is unearthed? Remember what we do during that time? We just shake out heads and try to laugh it off, saying that 'ye sab toh chalte rehta hai', scarcely realising that corruption is eating at the root of our social fabric like a hungry acid.

No one will say anything when the North-East burns, with innumerable forces and counter-forces trying to defy the might of India. When Naxalism - which even the Prime Minister calls the biggest security threat to India - continues to wreak havoc in the jungles of Dantewada, we again shake our head and shrug. Dantewada and Bastar are not as glamorous 'possessions' as Anantnag and Gulmarg, is it?

Nothing shakes us out of our consumerism-fuelled nirvana, until someone mentions 'Kashmir'. And then hell breaks loose. Why? Why the obsession with this parcel of land, more than one-thirds of which is not even in our control? Why this outpouring of patriotic 'love' for Kashmir Valley, and utter disregard for the rights and aspirations of Kashmiris?

This is a country where hooligans masquerading as political activists can ransack public property at the drop of a hat with brazen impunity, and walk away with a swagger, without even the threat of a police lathi falling on their backs. This is also a country where tens of people are killed in the Kashmir Valley for protesting against what they construe as discrimination and injustice by the establishment. No lathicharge, no tear gas, no water cannons, no rubber bullets, just plainly shot dead. That doesn't make us scream in unison, we are content watching the reality show unfold on live television. But the voicing of opinion, by the likes of Arundhati Roy, contrary to what the majority holds as the unalterable maxim will have us yelling 'sedition'.

We are so conditioned by the nationalistic propaganda about Kashmir fed into our young impressionable minds right from school that as adults it is almost impossible to hold balanced and sane views about the state's situation. Kashmir is not only the majestic mountains and the valleys, the beautiful Dal and the Jhelum, it's also made up of Kashmiris, both the Muslims and the Pandits, who give the land its soul and its vibrance. Each and every voice has to be listened to, even if it may be against our long-held position on Kashmir.

What kind of a democracy is this that denies its citizens their right to be heard, or do we want to hear only what suits us? Stop this neurotic obsession with the K word. There are many pressing matters that require our hypocritical value systems to exercise better judgment.

Picked up by cops for standing on the pavement

I get a call at around 11 pm from my roomate who is on his way home. He says he has been apprehended by some cops and is being taken to the police station.

His crime? He was standing on the pavement to call me from his mobile. They asked for identification, he showed it to them. But still, all this was deemed serious enough to take him to the police station. At the police station (It was at least 8 km away from where they picked him up. Talk about jurisdiction!), they accused him of trying to 'hide' his identity despite the fact that he had already showed them his identification. They ridiculed him for being a 'North Indian' who had no business to be in Bangalore. They also said that if his friend (me) did not speak Kannada, what would he achieve by coming to the police station? They made out a 'petty offence' against him and told him to sign a statement in Kannada (he cannot read Kannada). Fortunately, he had enough of his wits about him at that moment to flatly refuse. They then threatened him that they would make him stay there all night if he did not sign the statement. All this while they did not disclose under which section of which Act had the 'petty offence' been made out. They also made him a pay a 'fine' of Rs. 200. What the fine was for, they did not disclose.

When I reached the police station, the poor guy was literally shivering and the cops were obviously pleased at his visible discomfort. They told me that your friend is very afraid. They then told me that the area where he was standing is notorious for chain snatching and such offences. Had he attempted any such offence? No. But what if someone else would have attempted to snatch something from him, they said? Maybe that gives them a reason to take him to the police station. When I asked them about the Act under they had made out the charge, they said it was a 'minor' offence under the Karnataka Police Act. Finally we were allowed to go after a lecture on 'not to stand on the pavement'.

My faith in my country stands shaken. This way, we might as well start having separate visas for each state. How much more divisive are we going to get? I can never forget the sight of my roommate coming out of the police station trembling. This way, in an hour or so, he might have cracked and signed anything they would have asked him to, just to get away from the place. Disgusting. This is what you get for being law-abiding. If the law is not as ass, such law-enforcers certainly are.

Living a Dream

Our deepest desires are sometimes fulfilled in ways our consciousness cannot imagine. We may keep living a routine life, the monotony of which is temporarily broken only by our futile attempts to crib our way out of it. But destiny works in strange ways.

Three years ago, it made a crazy 24 year old, head over heels in love with a game called cricket, to write to the editor of the best cricket website in the world. The man himself was gracious enough to give more than a patient hearing to the upstart, who wanted to be part of the website, despite not having the faintest notion what it actually involved. Unfortunately, his bravado came to a halt when it turned out that there was no opening where he could be fitted in. Heartbreak!

Time heals heartbreaks. It does this by dragging us back into the rut of routine. So it happened to our cricket-mad young man. For the next three years, he occasionally satisfied himself by watching Virender Sehwag demolish the Lankans at the Brabourne Stadium. He then lined up at the Cricket Club of India gates and managed to get Dilip Vengsarkar's autograph. Such moments were rare though.

Then destiny decided to give him a second chance. Circumstances pulled him out of his routine in a manner that made him write again to the editor, three years later. This time the man decided to grant him a meeting. For an hour they chatted. About the game. About the players. About the website. About following one's passion. About surmounting obstacles. And the editor felt the guy was in love with the game blindly enough to be given a chance.

And that is how I have made it to Cricinfo, the best cricket website in the world. Destiny has conspired to ensure that one of the deepest desires of my life, working for Cricinfo, has been fulfilled.

Faith goes on trial, and is redeemed by The Master

Something to ponder for all the faithfuls, whatever be your faith. When faith itself, if it can be, is put on trial, at what point do you start questioning your faith? At what point do you start feeling that it really is not worth it, all the blind following? And what is your response then? Do you turn your back, unable to bear the sight of your faith being breached? Or are you brave enough to rough it out, willing to stand by your faith till the very end?

These questions must have gnawed at the heart of every Roger Federer fan, as he was almost ousted in the first round of the tournament that he very rightly can call his own, having reached the final for the last seven years, and having won six of those seven finals. 

He had lost the first two sets to unheralded Alejandro Falla,  who must have reminded him of a certain Rafael Nadal, as he kept peppering Federer's backhand repeatedly, till the beautiful backhand degenerated into ugly shanks and started finding the net more often than not. The Master has never been down two sets to love at Wimbledon. This was hitherto uncharted territory for him. 

So was it for my mother. Her champion, the reason she started watching tennis, had almost been dethroned. This was the point at which her faith started showing cracks, as she stopped watching the match. In the third set, I did not tell her that the score read 4-4, 0-40 on the Federer serve. (She did not resume watching till he was on match point)

Two sets to love down. Facing three break points in the third. Moments like these separate the champions from the rest. Despite playing some of his ugliest tennis ever (he never admits that in press conferences, does he?), Federer somehow found his game to take the set 6-4. When Falla served for the match at 5-4 in the fourth, even my faith stood on extremely shaky ground. This was it. The end. Finito. But Federer broke back. When he took the tie-break 7-1, he had turned a corner.

The Federer that played in the fifth set resembled the one that lost the first two sets only in appearance. The ugly shanks gave way to the beautiful backhand, the laboured movements gave way to the ballet and the violinist in him started playing those cross-court notes once again. The win was celebrated with the realisation that he had lived on the edge all through the match, and narrowly avoided falling off it. The holder of 16 Grand Slam titles must have never been more relieved to reach the second round.

And we, the fans, have had our faith redeemed. For another day. Is He slowly coming towards the end of his glorious journey? We'd better start getting used to regular trials of our faith.

An ode to The Master

So it won't be a record 24th consecutive Grand Slam semi-final for the Swiss Master. Robin Soderling has brutally broken his run which, though destined to be broken someday (he is human after all, despite all the evidence to the contrary over the years), had already assumed impossible proportions. 23 consecutive semi-finals is ridiculously freakish. That is almost six years of domination at the highest level. That the next best in the list is 10 goes one to show the magnitude of Roger Federer's achievement. And suddenly, one wishes to express his gratitude for having seen history being created for six glorious years.

So its time to let loose today. Let loose all the emotions that have been building up over the years that feared such a day as this.

O Absolute Master, this does not mean that you are on the decline. Even if the razor sharp consistency has waned over the years, you are still someone who the tennis world is fortunate to have. It is you who are still one of the greatest to have ever picked up a racquet. And thank heavens you did, for otherwise we would have been deprived of witnessing the magic that you produce, so regularly and so enchantingly. You, who in this age, when brutal muscular power is the norm on court, have the gall to play that most delicate of drop shots, you who pick the half volley as if you were picking a fallen leaf, you who have that frustratingly vulnerable and deliciously beautiful backhand, watching which is almost like getting a visual orgasm. You who unfurl that cross court backhand like a violinist producing another soft note, you who do the ballet on court, you who bring grace to the men's game which even the women's game lacks (as it is pummeled into oblivion by its Williams double act).

The crowds refuse to believe their  own eyes when they see you losing. They will you on even when they know you have all but lost, because they can't bear to see you lose, they cry with you, they laugh with you, they are enthralled by you. When you are down and almost out, and yet find the time to produce the magic of a precise drop shot when your opponent expects a booming passing shot, the crowd know what they are seeing is something that goes beyond winning and losing. What they are seeing is man at his very best, man creating something that transcends, that endures.

And know then, O Master, that you have elevated the art of hitting a tennis ball to a plane where it feels all surreal. Know also that you will always be loved and revered, no matter what. And lastly, also know that despite all the powerful one dimensional hitters that this age is condemned to witness, there will only be one Roger Federer. And that is the way it will remain. For all eternity to come. Take a bow, Master. And do not be too hard on yourself. You have had just one off day in six years.

Deja vu for Indian cricket fans

So yet another ICC tournament has ended in heartbreak for Indian cricket fans. And predictably, the daggers are out, and even more predictably, they are currently pointing towards the man in the hot seat, the erstwhile darling of the Indian media, Mahendra Singh Dhoni.

So we have normally respectable channels like Times Now speculating on whether Dhoni is 'in' or 'out' as a captain. They even go a step further and present likely 'candidates' to succeed Dhoni in the limited overs format, Virender Sehwag and Gautam Gambhir. One of the positives Gambhir brings to the captaincy table is that he is 'young blood', according to Times Now. Which prompted me to check the ages of Dhoni and Gambhir and I found that they were right. Gambhir is 'younger' than Dhoni by the earth shatteringly huge number of 99 days. They also champion Sehwag's case for the captaincy, but then have the courtesy to remind us that he remains injured half of the time. Case open and shut.

It would be appalling if it weren't so funny, the way the Indian media, the electronic media especially, 'cover' cricket. And I do not even want to get started about the Hindi channels. Some of the titles of their cricket shows, like 'Mujrim Kaun', are alone enough to frighten away any remaining sense of objectivity.

The real problem doesn't lie with MS Dhoni, or for that matter, with any of his lads, though they haven't exactly covered themselves in glory. The fact is that the BCCI will never prepare wickets with pace and bounce. The fact is that a 'sporting wicket' in these parts is meant to be one on which a minimum of 600 runs can be scored in a 100 over game. The fact is that the Indian public doesn't want to see cricket, it wants 'cricketainment'. There is apparently no 'entertainment' in watching hapless batsmen struggle against genuine pace and bounce. And that is why, we will always be found wanting on real sporting wickets, wickets on which the bowlers have as much of a chance as the batsmen. That is why the moment Suresh Raina leaves bouncy Barbados and finds himself in slow St Lucia, he'll rub his hands in glee. After having done that, he'll then proceed to play the first short delivery from Lasith Malinga as if he has had a grenade hurled at him. Just to check if its actually St Lucia and not Barbados, you know. Thereafter, he and his fellow 'young blood' men will head over to Zimbabwe to have their batting averages inflated against bowling that is not even upto first class standard. And all will be well. Till the next World Cup, that is.

Meanwhile, India will continue to be a good Test team. Not because of their captain. Not because of 'young blood'. But because they are fortunate enough to have been blessed with a band of 'once in a century' cricketers, all of them playing at the same time. Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid, VVS Laxman, Virender Sehwag. It is due to these men that Indian cricket has had so many glorious moments over the past decade. They are not products of the 'system'. The 'system' produces flat track bullies like Raina and Yuvraj Singh. They are men who have been able to rise above the system, men who have transcended the system, men who despite having been raised on featherbeds, didn't flinch when they had to face genuine pace bowling on bouncy wickets. And Indian cricket owes its current status to them. I shudder to think what will happen when these legends call it a day.

The IPL - From circus to scandal

My last post was when the Little Master got his limited overs double hundred. The IPL tamasha began after that. I generally desist from writing about the IPL as one has to really struggle to derive genuine cricketing insights from the never ending flurry of sixes and fours. And after three seasons of trying to banish even such kind of cricketing action off the news pages and replace it with a concoction of big business and Bollywood, the IPL has succeeded this time.

All this has had a sense of inevitability to it. With the value of the IPL increasing manifold - to the extent that the television broadcaster was arm twisted into agreeing to pay more than one and a half times the amount originally negotiated for TV rights – it was only a matter of time before someone powerful who could not have his share of the pie was rattled enough to wreak a wave of vendetta upon the shady dealings behind the scenes. Note how the entire media has been turned upon Lalit Modi (as if he was some all-powerful one man army who went around sparing none). He is no angel, by any stretch of imagination, but to insinuate that he was the only one responsible for this mess is to cast a doubt upon the integrity as well as the competence of the others involved in the BCCI, especially those that form the IPL Governing Council.

There are two possibilities, theoretically. One, Modi was given a blanket power of attorney by the BCCI to do what he thought fit. Which then means that there was no need to have a Governing Council in the first place, if the dashing ‘Commissioner’ was able to manage the IPL all by himself. Which also gives rise to the question that what earth-shattering event has now occurred that the BCCI has turned upon its one time shining knight, if it chose to ignore his misdemeanors till now? Two, Modi tried his best to run the show all alone and cared two hoots about others, but the BCCI decided to rightly rein him in. If that is the case, pray what took them so many years? It is clear that he has rattled someone really powerful, someone who then lost no time in letting the entire official machinery loose on him like bloodhounds on a hot trail. The entire drama reeks of vendetta.

The media coverage has been achingly biased and motivated, seeking to influence opinion rather than inform. Modi and Sashi Tharoor have become convenient scapegoats whereas the roles of the big fish have been hugely ignored. The public has expectedly lapped up the news, damning Modi and ridiculing Tharoor. It is not hard to see why. Everybody loves to hate Modi for he does not conform to the public image of an administrator. He is not content with maneuvering behind the scenes while presenting a holier-than-thou face to the public. He is in your face, brash, acerbic, calls a spade a spade and has succeeded in making more enemies than friends. Tharoor dared to almost publicly support his girlfriend. Indian politicians are supposed to have very private love lives. They are not supposed to be on Twitter. We are okay if an agriculture minister says that he is not responsible for astronomical food prices. We are okay if a state Chief Minister has been convicted in a murder case. But Tharoor, he dared to tweet. This was the last straw after having called economy class as ‘cattle class’. He had to go, right?

It is a sad reflection on the state of our society. We have managed to reduce even corruption, nepotism and the like to their lowest levels. All things murky are tolerated, even encouraged, as long as the ones calling the shots are raking it in. The moment a perceived ‘outsider’ – in this case, the Rendezvous combine that won the Kochi bid, alongwith Tharoor – wins the next round of the same dirty game, playing by the same dirty rules, all hell breaks loose. It was only yesterday that the IPL was being touted as India’s answer to the NBA and the EPL. Overnight, it has transformed into a hotbed of allegations, counter allegations, investigations and witch hunts. There are even self-righteous calls of ‘banning’ the IPL by hypocritical politicians whose career is littered with scandals the size of which easily dwarfs the IPL fracas.

As a society, we thoroughly deserve what we have today. We deserve Sharad Pawar. We deserve Lalu Prasad. We deserve Shibu Soren. We deserve the game of political cat and mouse that the Indian Premier League has become. But spare a thought for the once gentleman’s game. It certainly does not deserve all this. What have we reduced it to?

Justice done, belatedly

Justice had been delayed for far too long. But it could not be denied forever. And so, the greatest limited overs batsman the world has seen is now the holder of the highest individual score in that format. It had always seemed unfair that this record should have remained anyone's but his. At the post match presentation ceremony, he said, "Batting for 50 overs was a test of my fitness. It would be good to bat for another 50 overs some other time and see if I can last that long." Wow! The 36 year old boy wants to go on forever! Is it hard to see the reason for his phenomenal success? It is the hunger and the passion that he retains even after having spent more than two decades in the grind of international cricket. Money must have stopped being a motivating factor long back, if it ever was one. His wife has said that the day he stops enjoying his game, he'll call it a day. Enjoy! That is the key word. He himself has often said that the sound of bat hitting ball is enough motivation for him. That is the extent to which he loves the game.

And there's a lesson to be had in this for each one of us. Let our passions dictate the course of our lives. Why are we alive? So that we can continue living? Why do we exist? So that we can continue existing? Is that why we slog ourselves to death at work? To what end? Whenever I speak to friends, they are just awaiting the arrival of the weekend, so that they can 'enjoy' themselves away from the drudgery of their work. Did anyone ever hear Sachin saying that he 'enjoyed' his break away from the game? For that matter, can we ever imagine Sachin doing anything else but play cricket? What would have been his fate had his father pushed him to become a singer, as imagined by Rancho in 3 Idiots? So, all you poets masquerading as consultants, all you authors disguised as bankers, all you actors hiding behind the facade of being accountants, give the real 'you' a chance to live. You owe that to Sachin and his maiden limited overs double century.

P.S. There are a fair number of curmudgeons in India who still believe that Sachin plays for 'himself' and not for the 'team'. And each time the legend scripts yet another batting odyssey, these curmudgeons, blinded by the prism of their own bias, say that its just another innings by him for the sake of 'his records'. What would such people be saying after he became the first man ever to score a double hundred in a one day international? Curmudgeons that they are, they'll probably say, 'Oh, just another record for him'. Blast them!

The pursuit of basics

It was not so long ago in 2008 that real estate developers were hard pressed to sell their overpriced property. A long overdue semblance of a correction followed in 2009. Not even a year has passed since then and we are already witnessing the return of the crazy price levels that were prevalent in 2007. The sharp rise in stock markets seems to be the culprit, with gains from stocks being invested in property.

Take the case of Ghatkopar West in suburban Mumbai. In 2008, the Kalpataru group was finding it difficult to sell flats at its under construction 'Aura' project @ Rs. 6,800 per sq ft. That too, when possession was to be given in less than a year. Now, barely a year later, comes the Wadhwa group which launched 'The Address' at the steep rate of Rs. 9,000 per sq. ft., with possession in 'three and a half' years. Wow! The projects are barely 100 metres apart on the same side of LBS Marg. A 2BHK flat at 'Aura' cost around Rs 75-80 lakh last year. A 2.5BHK flat at 'The Address' costs twice that now. The stock market rally and the rescheduling of their own massive bank debt has made the developers forget one small component of the market, the end user. Its another matter that these flats might get lapped up by cash rich investors eager to park their stock gains. For an end user like me, I would never like to spend Rs. 1.5 crore to buy such a hopelessly overpriced piece of property, with possession almost 4 years down the line.

Why is it that this industry is allowed to get away with super-supernormal profits? How would you like if tomorrow HUL were to sell a bar of 'Hamam' at Rs. 50? Alright, there is a lot of difference between the two industries, real estate and FMCG. Developers always complain about 'high land cost' when asked about runaway property prices. The complaint is valid, but only to an extent. How come prices tanked upto 35-40% last year for the same overpriced properties on the same 'high cost' land, when faced with a demand slump? How many end users can actually afford to buy a Rs. 1.5 crore flat in Ghatkopar? Not many.

The signals are very clear. The middle class has no place in the real estate scheme of things. On a separate note, it is such capitalistic excesses that have given rise to the regressive philosophies of communism. When a basic commodity like housing is priced out of the reach of almost the entire population, barring a very small elite minority, it is bound to give rise to strife in the long run across all levels, be it political, social, family or individual. One of the first dreams of young men in India is to buy a house so that they can have a roof above their heads - so that they can marry, so that they can have kids, who in turn will worry about buying a roof for their own heads, when their time comes. With entire lifespans spent chasing the fulfillment of basic requirements like housing, is it a surprise that no significant progress, whether scientific, technological or artistic is achieved by the majority of Indians living in India?

Thank you, Mr Bala

It all started more than a decade ago, when I had barely stepped out of school into college. At a book exhibition in Indore, I happened to pick up two books on cricket. 'By God's Decree', Kapil Dev's first autobiography and 'All The Beautiful Boys', by Rajan Bala. The first one because it seemed a good buy for the starry-eyed cricket fan that I was and the second one because of no specific reason. The name sounded catchy maybe. Or because the cover was attractive, showing an international match in progress. In the first book Kapil Dev talked about his early days and described his career till 1985. I quickly devoured the book, which left no significant imprint behind. The second book was mostly, an assorted collection of mini-biographies of Indian players the author, a cricket journalist, had seen playing over the years. It was a fascinating concoction of personalities and incidences interspersed with the technicalities of the game.

I was hooked onto the book. All these years, I had been only one of the millions of fans who are blindly passionate about the game without knowing what drives their passion. I would watch all the matches India played, celebrating each win and mourning each loss as the sole ends in themselves. The game, that was the means to those ends, never mattered that much to me. This book changed all that. It introduced me to the personalities that enriched the game. I read about the immaculate perfectionist that was Sunil Gavaskar, about the astonishingly gifted Gundappa Visvanath, about the peerless leader Tiger Pataudi, about the suicidally courageous Mohinder Amarnath and many more fabulous men.

I developed a sense of appreciation of the history of the game, atleast in the Indian context. I learnt to separate the chaff from the grain. I grew up from being one among the "rabble, who flock to cricket grounds to be entertained" (in Bala's words) to being a "student of the game, one who is not carried away by the superficial and the flippant". I started picking up the finer nuances of the game. Pretty soon, cricket stopped being merely a game between bat and ball for me. It became something much more than that. It became a constant companion, a soulmate, a partner for life. The 2001 Australia series ensured that my bond with cricket was further strengthened. The affair has endured till date. Relationships with human beings are numerous and transient but this is one stand that will never be broken.

For introducing me to the inner beauty of the game that I knew but skin deep, I have to thank Mr Rajan Bala from the bottom of my heart. You may wonder why I am writing this a decade after the story began. This is because Mr Bala is no more. He passed away in October last year. He was one of the finest cricket journalists India has ever produced. What set him apart from others was his mind-boggling knowledge of the intricacies of the game. It is said that Tiger Pataudi used to invite him for team meetings during Test matches. I cannot think of a greater tribute that a non-player can receive, coming as it does from India's best captain ever. I have been trying to purchase a book by Bala, 'Glances At Perfection', but unfortunately it is out of stock at most places. And it suddenly occurred to me that I must place on record my gratitude for the man who, through his pen, showed a teenager what it really meant to be 'passionate' about something. It is my humble advice to all those Indian cricket followers who think of the game as more than instant entertainment. The purists would want you to read 'The Art of Cricket' and 'The Art of Captaincy' but please do also read 'All The Beautiful Boys' by Rajan Bala. Who knows, there might be so many more love affairs waiting to happen.

Kolkata: Hooghly, Kalighat and more

Just returned from a visit to Kolkata for a friend's wedding. There were two of us, I and another friend, who reached Howrah station early in the morning, after a 34 hour train journey across five states. Whenever I step out of the grand old terminus, the sheer magnificence of the Howrah Bridge dwarfs me to immobility for an instant or two. It is almost like one is forced to pay obeisance to mankind's genius in straddling the opposite banks of the Hooghly without needing to spear the waters of the river with a single pillar. We were put up at a guest house at Camac Street. The Kalighat temple had been strongly recommended to us, so that was our first stop for the day. As soon as one nears the temple, one is accosted by all sorts of people volunteering to get you the best 'darshan' through the 'VIP' queue in exchange for a stiff sum. The hordes of them and the general atmosphere of chaos pervading the entire area was such that I decided not to go inside, while my friend, the devout worshipper, braved the 'pandas' - as the 'VIP darshan givers' are called - and went inside the temple. After parting with a hundred bucks for the 'quick darshan', he also had to deal with a pandit who performed an auspicious ritual for him and then demanded no less than 250 bucks in return, all of this unsolicited. Somehow managing to shake him off, he came outside where I was standing observing the ebb and flow of the countless devotees who thronged the temple for divine blessings. How queer it is, I thought, that this multitude of people are willing to place their destiny in the hands of a God who allows 'priveleged' access to those who are willing to pay. Maybe anything can be bought by money in these times. Disgusted at this ghastly mixture of religion and business, I was glad to get away from there.

After a trip to Vardan Market, we met another friend who was in the city for yet another wedding. We went to see the Victoria Memorial. The sheer size of the Kolkata Maidan overwhelms a Bombayite used to the cramped ways of life in the island city. I knew the Hooghly was quite close to the Memorial. I have always wanted to see the river from close quarters. A cab ride to Babu Ghat took us to the jetty where ferries take one to the opposite side, Howrah. The river, swollen with silt, is calm and soothing. The Vidyasagar Setu is on the left and the Howrah Bridge on the right. The din and bustle of the city is nowhere to be heard. The calmness of the scene permeates inside me. As ferries come and go, the conversation meanders slowly like the mighty but benevolent river in front of us. We talk about following your heart, doing things you want to do, things that make you happy. We talk about how supposedly Leftist Bengal is changing. About how India is being split up further, by the looters who double up as leaders. A friend, impressed by Rahul Gandhi's vision, has joined the Youth Congress. Talks about campaigning in the next assembly elections in Uttar Pradesh. We talk about the changes that India is going through. All agree that this is the best time to be alive in this country, with the future heavily pregnant with endless possibilities. The eternal hope of the youth. Like the eternal promise of the Hooghly. An hour and a half passes by unnoticed. It is time to go. As dusk settles over the expanse of the river, I take a last look at the distant Howrah shore, then at the two bridges cutting across the river. The cab ride back to Camac Street takes us past the Eden Gardens, that historic citadel, witness to the overflowing passions of a nation blindly in love with a game. The river already seems a distant memory as we are engulfed again by the noise of the city. But the scene will remain forever etched somewhere in my heart, three young men hopeful about the promising future of a young nation, with the Hooghly engulfing us in a shroud of serenity.

India Sri Lanka Test Series: A Review

Mahendra Singh Dhoni couldn't have asked for more. A 2-0 scoreline against a team that many felt was the best Sri Lankan team ever to come visiting on Indian soil. Two hundreds by him in contrasting circumstances, one when India was not yet out of the woods at 157-5 in Ahmedabad, and one when they needed to ensure they batted only once at the Brabourne in Mumbai. And to top it all, the No. 1 ranking for India in the ICC Test standings. A captain couldn't be happier.

However, a top ranked team should always look to iron out whatever deficiencies it perceives are remaining in the side. While it may seem like one is playing spoilsport amidst all the hype and hoopla surrounding Team India's ascent to No.1, here are a few points for the team management to ponder over.

1. The chairman of selectors has painted the town red claiming that India has the best top 7 in the world. While one would would tend to agree with him as far as 6 of the 7 are concerned, doubts still persist over Yuvraj Singh. He may have hit half centuries in 2 of the 3 innings he played in the series, however, all of his 3 dismissals were to his old nemesis, spin. While at Ahmedabad, he made the cardinal mistake of stepping out to kill the spin of Murali with BOTH bat and pad, he was tricked in the flight by Herath at Mumbai while holing out to midwicket at Kanpur off Mendis. Though he did show a marked improvement in not lunging forward to play the spinners, it cannot be said with confidence that he has it in him to face a quality spin attack on a surface affording some turn. He will be spending most of his Test career playing on such tracks on the sub continent. If he has to enjoy a long run in the Test side, he will have to spend more time facing Bhajji and Co. in the nets. Perennial reserve Subramanium Badrinath has already served a reminder to the selectors with his marathon 250 against Mumbai that lifted Tamil Nadu from 50-5 to 501.

2. Harbhajan Singh was the highest wicket taker for India with 13 wickets. 5 of those were tailenders and 2 were gifts from the umpires at Mumbai, Dilshan being the unlucky victim in both innings. Morever, the wickets cost him 41 runs apiece. That's way too costly for the team's senior spin bowler. Harbhajan's average has been steadily going uphill over the years and now stands at almost 31. Worryingly, his tendency to stray down the legside is becoming too frequent. Even on the 4th day at Mumbai, with India sitting pretty on a lead of more than 300, batsmen were able to work him away to square for runs. Watching from the stands, one felt the pace at which he was bowling was too fast to trouble the batsmen. Further, the lines he bowled allowed the batsmen to leave the delivery too often. Given Bhajji's pedigree, India should have finished the match on the 4th evening itself. It is a telling comment on the spinners that on a pitch offering considerable turn from Day 1 itself, 6 of the 10 wickets in the Lankan second innings fell to pace. The lack of spin bowling talent at the domestic level is alarming as well. For the land of the famed Spin Quartet of the '70s, it is shocking that apart from Bhajji, Ojha and Mishra, no other spinner seems worthy of a Test cap at present.

3. The case of Ishant Sharma gets curiouser and curiouser. The latest pace bowling sensation has been steadily going downhill this year. He has lost considerably in pace and is just not able to exert a decent amount of control on the batsmen. Too often, he has wasted the new ball, spraying it all around. And when batsmen of the calibre of Mahela Jayawardena know that all you are going to do with the new ball is just bring it in off a good length from off stump so that it ends up almost on leg stump, you are a sitting duck. The pitch at Ahmedabad was no paradise for pace, but that was not the only thing bothering Ishant. There have been rumours that erstwhile bowling coach Venkatesh Prasad confused the young man into sacrificing pace for line and length with the result that the poor boy is now somewhere in between the two. Guru Gary needs to work on the lad. Sooner the better.

4. Amit Mishra has carried the drinks far too often in the recent past. It told in his performance at Ahmedabad where he bowled atleast one 'hit me' ball per over. He earlier used to have pretty decent control over his repertoire but was all over the place at the Motera conceding a double century for his only wicket. However, this problem seems the most easily rectifiable. He needs to get more games. If he is not assured of a place in the XI, he should be released to play first class cricket. Bowling in the nets is not going to help.

While the Indian camp might not seem to be brimming over with problems, the Sri Lankans seemed like wallowing in a sea of them. Nothing went right for them in this series apart from the first session at Ahmedabad. A sampler:

1. The batting looks thin. While Paravanithana got starts, he is still new to Test cricket and needs a lot more time to develop his patience. For all his eloquence at press conferences, Kumar Sangakkara seemed to find new ways of getting out each time. Apart from the magnificent 2nd innings effort at the Brabourne, he just couldn't get going. Samaraweera's reputation of being a run machine preceded him, but he was unable to get the huge scores he normally does in Lanka. Mahela Jayawardena did little apart from his marathon 275 at Ahmedabad. He threw away both the starts he got in the 1st innings at Kanpur and Mumbai while Kumar sold him a dummy in the 2nd innings at Kanpur. If not for keeper Jayawardena's solid contributions, Lanka would have been in far greater trouble. Dilshan looked dangerous but umpiring errors cost him dearly at Mumbai.

2. A genuine all-rounder can hold his place in the side on the strength of his batting or bowling alone. While Angelo Matthews has potential, he has miles to go as a Test level batsman. His bowling seemed pedestrian on these pitches against a marauding Indian batting line-up. It was a needless show of bravado going in with one seam bowler and Matthews at Kanpur.

3. The word is out. Murali is past his best. The ageing champion, being the freak off spinner that he is, relied on his wrists to get the ball to turn even on a shirtfront. The wrists have lost their strength over the years which means those fizzing off spinners and top spinners have lost their fizz. It was sad to see him get mauled by the Indians, especially Sehwag. Its time to move on for the great man. Maybe a home series on his favourite Galle. But thats only for the sentiment value.

4. 'Mystery' cannot help you sustain an entire career in international cricket. Ajantha Mendis has been sorted out by the Indians. Period. You cannot just rely on the carrom ball, mate. The control is nowhere near what it was in that dream series in Sri Lanka when he mesmerised the Indians.

A final word on the field placings. Modern day captains are known to be defensive but having a deep point in place almost all day long takes the cake. Both captains were guilty of this modern malaise. Guys, whatever happened to good old backward point? Old Jonty must be grimacing down in South Africa. He would have preferred to go off the field.

Virender Sehwag: Beyond Mere Numbers

A friend who works at an MNC bank mustered enough courage to tell his boss today that post lunch, he was going to watch the Test at the Brabourne Stadium. He went back to office after the match only to see the crestfallen faces of colleagues who couldn't quite muster his kind of courage. "We were fools to miss the match", they lamented. Maybe it was fitting that those who couldn't risk antagonising their bosses missed out on seeing the biggest risk taker cricket has ever seen.
The most correct and orthodox Test cricketer of our generation was batting at the other end. He might as well have been batting in another era. When Viru is in full flow, the time tested adages of Test cricket seem like inane non-essential throwbacks to an era that is under danger of becoming irrelevant. The significance of Virender Sehwag can never be understood through mere numbers, though they in themselves are quite astonishing. Most double hundreds by an Indian. The three highest Test scores by an Indian are all from his blade. He has a chance to become the only man to score 3 Test triple centuries. He has a chance to overtake Brian Lara's 400. And all this by a man whom purists had said wouldn't be able to survive in Test cricket. But he has a far far bigger impact on the game that goes beyond even impressive statistics. Under normal circumstances, a score of 393 would seem imposing, on a track affording some turn. But when that score is overhauled at a run rate of almost 6 an over with only 1 wicket down, the word 'opposition' seems too respectful for the bowling side, 'cannon fodder' is more like it. In the first 150 runs of the partnership between Sehwag and Dravid, Dravid had contributed 45. Not bad you might say, considering Rahul's job was more to give Sehwag the strike. In the next 50 of the partnership, Dravid 'contributed' 6 runs. Make no mistake. I am not trying to belittle the Master. In fact, I got goose bumps when he came out to bat. My risk taking banker friend said it was a 'hair raising experience'. However, it only goes to say that the non-striker is also almost a non-entity when Viru is on strike. A run rate of 4 per over - which is considered pretty good in Tests even by today's T20 influenced standards - seems pedestrian, because the man never lets it fall below 5. The maddening effect he has on the crowd need not be mentioned. Suffice it to say that the North Stand at the Brabourne ran out of adjectives and started shouting 'paisa vasool' towards the end of the day. The more knowledgeable among the crowd kept exchanging incredulous "The man is crazy" looks throughout the day. The range and sheer audaciousness of his strokes needs no mention. Two shots stand out in memory for their ingenuity that reminded the bowler of the hopelessness of his calling. Bowling over the wicket in the rough outside leg stump to a packed leg side field, Rangana Herath must have pinched himself to be convinced that the first ball after tea that was nonchalantly caressed inside out through extra cover for a boundary, was actually going in that direction. Mutthiah Muralitharan must have wished he would have retired before Sehwag essayed the reverse paddle sweep to again beat the packed leg side field. These were not slogs or swipes, but products of a sharp cricketing brain that has as much mental strength as it has daredevilry. Let us once and for all stop admonishing the man's manner of playing and acknowledge that there has never been someone like him before nor will there ever be. Virender Sehwag, you are in a class of your own. I will be there at the Brabourne tomorrow to witness history being created by you.

Happily Misfit

Ours is the generation of the go-getters, the trendsetters, people who aspire, people who love to climb the ladder at breakneck speed, people who never 'look back' in life, and so on. We are the driving force of the world, it seems. There might be no doubting that. One such 'trendsetter' happens to be a good acquaintance. She has all the attributes of a 'go-getter'. At the top of the corporate ladder at age 37. Nowhere left to climb further. Slogged at work almost till the day she was about to deliver her first child. Going by the standards of our times, I would suppose she would be the one of the happiest people alive. After all, what more could one want from life? I asked her a simple question on getting to know that she had made it to the topmost rung of the ladder. "You're happy, aren't you?" The answer,"I'll ask you the same question when you are 37. At my age, you do not do things that make you happy. Rather, you find happiness in whatever it is that you happen to be doing." I was momentarily at a loss for words. I hadn't expected this answer. No ways. But then, maybe 'achievers' are not supposed to feel happy about themselves in our times.
A soon-to-be married friend's house. The topic of discussion meandered towards the purpose of one's life. We had been talking about how today, young parents want the best (read most expensive) education for their children. And even when they could ill-afford to do so. Then the question arose, what is the purpose of the current generation? Only to bring up the future generation in as expensive a manner as it can, believing it to be the best way of upbringing children? No, everyone felt. Ideally not. There had to be more to life that this. Not that everybody wanted to do so. But then, the favourite whipping boy, 'peer pressure', was blamed. 'Karna padta hai'. Is one happy doing so? Certainly not. Does one feel like doing something to remedy the situation? No. I am amazed. Most of us are not really happy with the lives we are leading in the first place. On top of that, young couples are burdened with the societal pressures of bringing up children in the best (read most expensive) manner possible. Is this the life that we are supposed to be living? What happened to the investment banker who used to love writing poetry? Hasn't put pen to paper for the last 4 years, I am told. What about the chartered accountant who used to love painting? Has almost forgotten how it feels to hold a paintbrush in his hands.
The big new car? We have it. A house at Malabar Hill? Slogging day and night towards it, many will make it there. The vacation to Egypt? Been there last month itself. Satisfaction in life? You gotta be kidding. Satisfaction at work? Don't even talk about it. Thats a paradox, isn't it? Satisfaction? Work? If its work, its got to be tedious, boring, a daily struggle, a necessary evil so that I can have the next big car before my colleague buys it, so that I can buy an even bigger house, so that I can go back to Egypt again to temporarily escape the dull drab drudgery thats my work.
I start thinking about myself. I desire something too. No, its not that big new car. No, its not a house at Malabar Hill. Its not that overseas vacation either. I desire something more basic. I desire to do work. Good work. Work that creates. Work that is fulfilling. Work that leaves an imprint. I want to be remembered by the work that I have done, not by how much of a fortune I leave behind. Above all, I want to feel happy and satisfied after a good day's work. If I can do that, then everything else is a by-product of that feeling. I am a misfit, it seems. Maybe I am. But I am happy. Happy to be a misfit.

Sreesanth . . . Back with a bang!

Its so heartwarming to see a bowler, a fast bowler at that, get the Man of the Match award in a Test match in India. That too, after the run feast that ensued at Ahmedabad which must have left a bad taste in the mouth for the bowlers.

At the outset, credit must go to the team management for having the guts to play Sreesanth in what was his first Test in over one and a half years. Yes, it could have backfired, Sreesanth could have been only so much hot air as usual, he had been given a 'final' warning by the BCCI recently, but kudos to Dhoni and co. for giving the man a chance. He wasn't a natural selection anyways. Admitted that Ishant Sharma has been steadily going downhill this year. He has lost considerably in pace and is just not able to exert a decent amount of control on the batsmen. Too often, he has wasted the new ball, spraying it all around. And when batsmen of the calibre of Mahela Jayawardena know that all you are going to do with the new ball is just bring it in off a good length from off stump so that it ends up almost on leg stump, you are a sitting duck. However, in Sreesanth, the replacement for Ishant, Dhoni had an altogether different dimension to handle - its no secret that the guy is not popular in the Indian dressing room - and the last thing you want before a Test match is going in with a new ball bowler whom the fielders will love not to support. Its an extreme thought but more diabolical things have happened in Indian cricket. Given this, Sreesanth and Bhajji seemed to make all the brotherly noises when celebrating the downfall of the Lankan wickets. Here's hoping it wasn't just for the cameras.

Coming back to Sreesanth the bowler. Way too often has Sreesanth the maverick ridden roughshod over the Sreesanth the bowler. Dhoni called him one of the best reverse swing bowlers in India today. With Sreesanth, when he's in rhythm, he's almost the bowling equivalent of Virender Sehwag. He'll continue to work the magic so long as he desires. The surroundings just stop to matter. Delivery after delivery, he was right on target, making the ball talk as if he was bowling in English conditions. Purists have always drooled over his perfect seam position. That and more was on display at Kanpur. What was interesting was his deliberate attempt not to overcelebrate a wicket. In fact, I believe he carried it too far but then when you have received a 'final' warning from your employers, I guess you are bound to be a bit overrcautious. Not all comebacks are fairytale ones. But if Sree can continue to exhibit even a fraction of the control that he commands over the ball, over himself , this might well be the dawn of a new Sreesanth, one that prefers the 'seam position' to 'screaming at the opposition'

20 years and countless heartbreaks - 'Sach' is life

I've watched the India Australia match at Hyderabad and been priveleged enough to have witnessed one of the best limited overs innings of all time. As a viewer and a fan, I have got more than my share of entertainment. Yes, it hurts that yet again, a certain Sachin Tendulkar took India so close in a monumental chase, and then they somehow contrived to crumble in a heap at the doorstep of victory. I've shed my share of tears afer hearing Tendulkar's post match comments, will fret about what could have been and then go to sleep. Tomorrow will be another day for me, as it will be for millions of other fans.

For a moment, I try to imagine what the man himself must be feeling right now. Never have I seen him so gutted after losing a match. Can any of us imagine what a battered 36 year old veteran must be going through after spending almost 7 hours in the middle, scoring more than half the runs his side has, almost winning the match singlehandedly, only to find the door to victory shut rudely in his face because a few of his mates couldn't get a foot in the door he had kept prised open till then? When was the last time the difference between the top score and the next best score was 116 runs? To think that the valiance of the man came unstuck because someone didn't dive in when threatened by a run-out. Has a lack of basics ever hurt more? Why he, out of 1.25 billion people? Why only he, O Almighty, to shoulder the burden of others' incompetence? Wasn't Pakistan 1999 in Chennai enough? Weren't a countless other heartbreaks enough? Pray, aren't 20 years enough? How many more letdowns can he suffer? As usual, some will say that he did not finish the job he had set out to do. Which job? That of making up for others' folly? India had no right to be in the position they were in, but for Sachin. It wasn't India against Australia actually. It was Sachin Tendulkar against Australia. Like it was in the Sharjah desert more than a decade back. Some things never change.

P.S.: And Mr. Punter, you could have been more appreciative of the man at the post match presentation than "He plaaayed brilliantly". He deserved much more from the man who is attempting to chase his records. I stick my neck out and say that you could have never played an innings of such magnificence, never ever while chasing 350 under lights. Remember Nagpur barely a week ago? No, your innings batting first in the 2003 World Cup final pales in comparison.

Mom and Tennis . . . and Federer

I owe Roger Federer a lot. It was about four years ago in 2005 when I was watching the French Open, I guess, when something unexpected happened. My mother, your typical stoic Indian housewife, started watching the game. I told her about how this guy named Federer was already on his way to greatness, and also about this teenaged Spanish fellow named Rafael Nadal who kept running and retrieving all that his rivals threw at him. Before I knew, my mother got hooked onto the diet of tennis and of course, Federer.

For all her life, my mother has never had any aim except to see to it that her two children, me and my sister, are well looked after. She’s had no desires of her own, except to see our desires getting fulfilled. Now, she had one. And that was to see this mild-mannered Swiss win, match after match, tournament after tournament. She’d never had any hero in her life to look upto, now she had one. Soon, she started to love the game of tennis because of him.

Her domestic chore schedule started being dictated by Grand Slam draws. Most of her tasks are completed before Federer descends on to Centre Court. After that, till the match lasts, it’s a roller coaster ride of emotions. Each hold of serve is greeted with a sigh of relief, each break of serve silently cheered with a look of ‘finally, you managed to do it’. The nowadays vulnerable backhand is admonished while his seemingly dwindling capacity to crank up the aces regularly is fretted about constantly.

When I’m at office, I am assured of regular score updates, a bit too regular if Federer is playing that day. She knows her tennis history basics well. Rod Laver’s or Bjorn Borg’s presence on the court doesn’t go unnoticed. Nadal is viewed with revulsion and scorn, although with a grudging respect and admiration for his never-say-die approach. (This year at Wimbledon, she’s realized that for all his beauty and grace, its not Federer but Nadal who brings verve and vitality to a tournament). Players that Roger loves to whip are her favourites, Andy Roddick, Nikolay Davydenko, Lleyton Hewitt, James Blake. Murray and Djokovic are the arrogant upstarts who dare to - and occasionally do - upset her favourite’s applecart.

After he lost the Wimbledon 2008 final to Nadal, the atmosphere at home for the next few days was funereal. I cried with relief after he came back from the dead to take the tie to a fifth set, but I knew Nadal deserved to win that day. But mom couldn’t reconcile to the fact that Federer had lost. “It was Wimbledon, wasn’t it? Not the stupid red clay which these Spaniards anyways love. How dare he!” she said of Nadal.

When he lost the 2009 Australian Open to Nadal, he was hardly able to speak, and then someone from the crowd shouted, “We love you, Federer”. The dam broke, and the Master wept like a kid. And she wept along with him, feeling the disappointment of her champion, his tacit acceptance of Nadal’s superiority that day.

Later, she was over the moon when Federer finally won the French Open this year.

What does she see in this man, she, this non-matriculate, village-bred, middle-aged Indian woman? Tennis is not supposed to be for her, is it? It’s supposed to be an elitist sport. I believe it’s the wizard-like artistry in Federer that enchants her, though she might not be able to describe it in as many words. The guy has a way of endearing himself to anyone, even a commoner. He is supremely controlled yet amenable to the occasional display of emotion, invincible on his day yet vulnerable in a delicate manner, all deft touches and then some brutal hits, almost immortal yet almost the guy-next-door.

For me, in an abstract manner, he is the closest I have seen to Howard Roark from Ayn Rand’s ‘The Fountainhead’. He is as man ‘should be’, existing for the sake of his work, his art, his game. The court is his canvas, the racquet his brush, all the tennis records his to paint. He exists for no other reason, and one can’t imagine otherwise. The fluidity of his movements, the beauty of his shot-making, his grace in occasional defeat, and his humility in victory all point to the greatness of what man can achieve.

You’re special for my mother and millions of other fans across the world. Thank you, Roger.

The Prince of Kolkata bids adieu

Mere words are not enough to convey what Sourav Chandidas Ganguly meant for Indian cricket and Indian cricket fans, in particular. One has to recall fond memories of instances which one has been fortunate enough to witness over the years, courtesy live television coverage. These instances tell the story of a man who took Indian cricket from the depths of the match-fixing saga to a stage where fans began expecting Indian teams to win atleast a Test or two, if not the series, each time they travelled abroad.

It is said that under Tiger Pataudi, Indian teams learnt how to win. If that is true, and it sure is, under Ganguly, Indian teams learnt how to win abroad. Earlier, especially during the horror phase of the 90s when Indian teams were like 'tigers at home and lambs abroad', fans were left clutching at the proverbial straw when it came to overseas performances. As has been the bane of Indian cricket, one was left to marvel at sporadic individual moments of brilliance while the team as a whole, almost inevitably, crumbled in a heap. I recall during the 1996-97 tour to South Africa at Cape Town, Sachin Tendulkar and Mohammed Azharuddin put up a breathtaking display of attacking batsmanship against genuinely quick bowling by Allan Donald and Shaun Pollock. I particularly remember Azhar hitting Lance Klusener for five boundaries in an over. He had earlier walked in with the score reading 58-5. It was also the tour on which India were shot out for a combined total of 166 in two innings, at Durban, lasting all of 73.2 overs in the match. During those days Indian performances overseas vacillated between generally mediocre and fleetingly brilliant.

Fast forward to the fifth day of the Adelaide Test against Australia, in 2003-04. India were minutes away from a historic win against the world champions in their own backyard. Rahul Dravid, the pillar of the Indian batting in those days, was at the crease. The camera panned towards the path leading from the pavilion to the ground. And the scene that I witnessed will forever remain with me. A supremely confident Sourav Ganguly stood near the boundary gate, calmly signing autographs, patiently waiting for the moment to arrive. As Rahul cut Stuart MacGill to the point boundary to signal India's victory, Dada walked out on to the ground, the king proudly waiting to receive his knight-in-shining-armour as he headed back with the spoils of victory. It was Sourav himself who had earlier shown the way, with an authoritative 144 in the first Test at Brisbane.

The seeds of this renaissance had been sown during the tumultous series against the Australians in 2000-01. As India almost made a mess chasing the smallish target on the fifth day of the deciding Test at Chennai, Ganguly sat in the pavilion with tension so palpable on his face, you almost felt for him. As Harbhajan Singh hit the winning runs, he jumped up, raised his arms in victory and then rushed straight into the brotherly embrace of Rahul Dravid. He was so overcome with emotion that Rahul held Sourav's head close to his chest, slowly patting it, trying to calm him down.

The man was emotional to the core, all right. But he was a also a shrewd handler of men. As he used to say, "Captaincy is all about man management". And he backed his guys to the hilt, going to the extremes to protect them from the powers-that-be, the first Indian captain to genuinely do so, after perhaps Tiger Pataudi. Like Tiger, Dada's aristocrat background seemed to lift him from the need to pander to the regional and parochial mentalities of Indian cricket administrators and players. Punjab man Harbhajan Singh would have never played for India after being thrown out of the National Cricket Academy, but for Dada. Ganguly saw the boy was a special talent, and fought for his inclusion against the visiting Australians in 2000-01. The rest, as they say, is history. The core players of the current Indian team were discovered, nurtured and developed under Dada. Harbhajan apart, Zaheer, Yuvraj, Sehwag, Dhoni are in a sense, all Dada's boys. Under him, the Indian team developed a sense of purpose, a refusal to bow down meekly as was typical of Indian teams of the 90s.

It is fair to say that as a batsman, he more or less did justice to his enormous potential, especially in the limited overs format, where he surely is one of the greatest ever. In Tests, apart from the phase during his captaincy, he did very well. And whatever is said about his weakness against the short ball, scoring more than 7,000 Test runs is not a joke. Very few batsmen from the sub-continent are genuinely comfortable facing the fast short-pitched delivery.

Nowadays, my mother makes an interesting point each time the media goes berserk after an Indian overseas win. First ever series win in Pakistan in 2004. First ever Test win in South Africa in 2006. First Test win in Australia in 22 years at Adelaide in 2003. She says each time these guys win abroad, it is hailed as a historic win. Didn't we use to win anything earlier? And then, with a wistful smile, she answers her own question. No. Hailing from Bengal herself, she then says what every Indian cricket lover must be saying in his heart, "Dada, amake chode jaao na". Take a final bow, Sourav Chandidas Ganguly. You were the architect of a new era that does not know the meaning of the word 'fear'.

Shabbash Anil bhai!

It was a perfect lazy Sunday afternoon. I was just relaxing watching the Kotla Test meandering towards a draw. A heavy Sunday lunch accompanied by the laidback artistry of Sourav Ganguly and VVS Laxman leads one into a heavenly state of mind, a regal sense of calm. All was well with the world. India had saved the game and were going to Nagpur needing only a draw to regain the Border-Gavaskar Trophy. Then it happened. A small message flashed on the score ticker. ‘Anil Kumble has announced his retirement from international cricket’. I was rudely shaken out of my stupor. I stared at the screen, dumbfounded.

You know the inevitable was coming. That it had to happen. You even know it was probably the right time. Yet one part of you hoped that it be postponed for one more series, then one more . . . A Test match without Anil Kumble? More than that, a home Test match without Anil Kumble? Since the time I was about eight years old, I have been used to seeing this guy doing duty for Team India. I remember I used to mimic his run-up of those days. An index finger would rise to prop up the spectacles on his nose, a hand would fiddle with the front of the India jersey, a twirl of the ball in his hands and off he would go on that peculiar run-up of his, taking frog-like hops on the way.

He was like money in a state-run bank. Ball after ball, over after over. How many times have we seen him return figures like 31-6-77-2, on the first day of a Test? He holds the record for the most number of leg before and caught and bowled dismissals in Tests. This is because he was always at the batsmen, forcing them to play. As a batsman, you were never ‘in’ against Kumble.

Yes, his googly turned more than his leg break. He seldom mesmerised the batsmen like Shane Warne. He could never have bowled the Ball of The Century. But that’s the problem with cricket. Results do matter. But many times, it’s the manner in which a result is achieved that seems to matter as much as, if not more than the end result itself. It’s not enough if you have 619 Test wickets. It’s not enough if you have been the stock as well as the strike bowler for your team for most of your career. Where’s the classical leg-spinner’s loop, critics asked? Where’s the turn, they asked? Why does it need to turn eight inches when all it requires is a couple of inches of deviation to take the edge, Anil countered? They ridiculed the man’s means, but he pointed towards his record, and they had to accept grudgingly.

For eighteen long years, Anil with the ball in hand was a man possessed, refusing to give in. Nothing could stop him. Not even a broken jaw. But of late, the load had started to take its toll. The returns were diminishing, the effort was unwavering though. The body had begun to give in, though the mind refused to give up. But Matthew Hayden had other ideas. Kumble thought he had a chance to catch the brute of a drive off Hayden’s blade. The resulting eleven stitches on his little finger hastened the end. He was too proud a performer to foist himself as a passenger on the team. At the Kotla, time stood still as Jumbo took the field for one last time. One’s eyes were moist as India’s highest wicket in both forms of the game took a lap of his favourite arena.

The first of the Fab Five departs. That last catch off Mitchell Johnson will forever remain etched in memory. Shabbash Anil bhai!

Time for some perspective

We in India are experts at jumping the gun. We are the absolute masters of knee-jerk reactions. We revel in suggesting instanteneous 'solutions' to contrived 'issues'. I sometimes envy journalists who write on cricket for a living. Some job, this! Getting paid to criticise some of the finest men ever to play the game, and that too on flimsy grounds, most of the time. Take the case of VVS Laxman. The man has cranked out more than 6,000 Test runs in all sorts of conditions at a more than healthy average in the mid-40s. He's had a part to play in many significant victories for Team India over the years. And the poor guy has done all that under the threat of the proverbial sword dangling over his neck all the time. One small mistake, and the knives come out. I somehow could never understand how he was deemed 'unfit' for limited overs cricket, when he had the capacity to make three centuries in that format in the space of a week in Australia in 2003-04. Similarly I am at a loss to understand the section of the media which said till recently that he should be dropped. And why? So that India could play three spinners at the Kotla. Whom were they counting on to make the runs? Their current darling Dhoni? Laxman has made them eat their words after his thrilling double century. So what now? In the perfect knee-jerk reaction possible, its now being suggested that VVS should be promoted up the order to bat at No. 3. Pray, what about poor Rahul Dravid? Where do they think he's made all those 10,000 Test runs? At No. 7? It would be laughable if it weren't so downright stupid. The logic being offered is that the No. 3 batsman needs to 'set the pace' for the innings, something 'slow' Dravid cannot, they feel. These people forget that this was the Kotla wicket, where even Anil Kumble almost managed a half-century. We'll see who 'sets the pace' on the tour to New Zealand next year. Its excusable if the general public makes such comments. They are after all not supposed to know the nuances of the game. But professional journalists who work for respectable names in the media are supposed to know that this is Test cricket. This is not two-minute instant noodles. Where's the perspective, guys? What next? My guess is next time Harbhajan Singh gets a half-century, they'll suggest that India drop Dravid and go in with five bowlers, now that 'all-rounder' Bhajji can bat at No. 7!