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.