I have a dream...

...of meeting this SUPER DUPER rich man. Who doesnt stink. Who's reasonably nice and funny. Who likes travel and adventure, sometimes. And maybe, just maybe, he digs something more than Jeffery Archer or Sydney Sheldon. Dare I dream that he knows who Vikram Seth or Pablo Neruda is? No, I'm getting beyond myself now.

So, he's reasonably nice & funny. and VERRY rich. That's all.

He likes me. and I like him.

We get married (ok, Im not too particular about getting married, as long as I have legal rights over his money!)

I wake up every morning and make orange juice for him. no added sugar.

We go jogging in the park (I can just about manage 7 am, though 8 would be much nicer, thank you).

We both have happy, fulfilled lives. He's busy amassing his riches. I'm busy blowing them up on big rocks of diamonds, little black dresses and pointy red shoes. Just to keep HIM on his toes, you see.

We give each other space. Over the years, he falls for my best friend. And i fall for his brother.

But, this too shall pass.

And we live happily ever after....

Dear Roger

Dear Roger,

I should have paid heed to the age old wisdom of watching my words when I expressed sympathy with Rafa after the French Open final. I thought he was content being the greatest Number Two in the history of the game. I suppose you thought so too.

Looking back, the warning bells rang in the 07 Wimbledon final, when he took you to five sets. Granted, the courts at Wimby are getting slower (I am told this is a deliberate tactic – slower courts mean more long rallies and hence, hopefully, more interest in tennis – no one is talking about the quality of play of course), but let’s also admit that we under-estimated Rafa by assuming he was happy with the tag of clay court specialist, shall we?

After the disappointment at Melbourne and the humiliation at Roland Garros (forgive me, but I still cannot erase the memory of the final set), I was looking forward to redemption at SW 19 . When you lost those first two sets, I was ready to flee to the Swiss Alps. As the third set started, one thought played repeatedly in my mind – Oh God, please don’t let him lose in straight sets, please God, pleeeeeease.

Luckily, God heard our collective pleas, and you drew upon your deepest reserves to fight off the challenger. Your scorching backhand pass when Rafa held match point in the fourth set will remain a part of “Federer Magic Moments” tales to my grandkids. When you pushed the match into the fifth, I was screaming with joy – the Emperor was not going to cede his crown easily, and I was already celebrating a record-breaking sixth.

Oh what a heart breaker the last set was. Just as you seized the momentum after the first rain break, the pendulum appeared to shift towards Rafa after the second rain interruption. I suppose you were taken by surprise too – for who before this gutsy Mallorcan had dared to battle so long and so hard against The Great One, and that too at your spiritual home?
But we consoled ourselves – perhaps it was fair to the prince, given how well he had fought these two years. Did you sense then that the luck was turning away from you? I have to admit that I did not.

Things just seemed to get worse from there, didn’t they. Suddenly you were losing to the likes of a much improved Andy Murray and Giles–who-Simon. The very people who had idolized you now called for your head – he’s lost the fire, he should just retire graciously while he’s on a high. Comparisons with Bjorg were ominously invoked. I’m sure you laughed at their folly – forgive them for they know not about perfection. Yes Roger, Ed Smith was bang on when he said that your motivation is mastery, not competition. Unfortunately, this may just turn out to be your greatest liability against Rafa.

It could have been so easy for you to give up. I have often wondered – What does a gymnast do when she realizes one morning that her body no longer bides her command; what does the marathoner do when his feet do not obey his exhortations to run FASTER, FASTER! ? The fire is still there, but the midas touch is cruelly snatched away. The Gods had blessed you, but suddenly, just before the coronation, they decided to look the other way.

But then, these are the obstacles that separate the boys from the men, ain’t it? And forgive us silly mortals Roger – but we love triumph in the face of adversity. And for the greatest glory, well, a few tumbles, a couple of injuries, a near-death experience – that makes the tale so much more entertaining. If you win it all too easily, like you did, we are a bit disappointed (and jealous). We attribute it to good luck, choosing to ignore the extraordinary effort that you had put in over the years to hone your phenomenal talent. But throw in a slice of bad luck, a run of losses, and we’re back to loving you again – “what an extraordinary talent – he should have got to 20 Grand Slams by now, had it not been for ….” – we say with misty eyes.

So you valiantly fought on. And you celebrated the small victories when the big ones eluded you – the Olympics Doubles being a case in point. You still didn’t look your old self – the magical feet seemed be a trifle slower, the precision reflexes just a wee bit off target – but you persevered. Fittingly, you got your reward when you annihilated Djoker & Murray to win a record fifth US Open.

I was more relieved than delighted – The Great One was back. So were you. 2009, and a record equaling 14th Grand Slam title, beckoned.

Let us not talk about the Australian Open final, shall we? Let us not talk about faith misplaced, about the ogre in your head, about being faced with your mortality. But, dear Roger, the facts are these:

- I know you want to reclaim your Number One ranking, but it is going to be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible – not with Rafa’s current form and Murray, Djoker and the young set breathing down your neck.

- You are 27, five years more than Rafa and the Young Brigade. In a sport that gets younger each year, you are a veteran (albeit a much loved and much revered one)

- Undoubtedly, you are the most inventive player in the history of the game. But the Rafa Cavalry can read your game, and if they can’t match you on talent and beauty, they CAN blunt you with raw power. More importantly, they are not in awe of The Great Federer – they step on court to beat you, not to give you a good fight.

- You CAN still win many more Grand Slams, including the French Open (though I do not see you beating Rafa to win it – and it kills me to admit this!). You are physically fit, have looked in much better touch in 09 than the whole of 08, and you still have the fire and desire for ascendancy.

But – there is no doubt that Rafa has improved his game much more over the last two years than you have. True, your game is almost perfect, and your biggest strength has always been that you have no apparent weakness – but the Mallorcan draws out the devil in you, doesn’t he? Over the last year, you have looked uncertain against him – both in your tactics and your execution. Should you try and bring him more to the net? Maybe, but certainly not at the French Open. Should you try and outlast him from the baseline? But you like finishing your games quickly – so you usually run out of patience much before he does. As a result, you have failed to capitalize on precious opportunities and repeatedly allowed him to wrest the game away from you. In short, you have let him do to you what you have done to numerous other worthy players over a career of breathtaking brilliance.

So is there no solution to the Rafa conundrum? Of course there is. But acknowledging that there is a problem is the first step towards addressing it. And I get the feeling right now that you are simply not willing to admit that, possibly for the first time in your life, you are faced with a challenge that you cannot unravel on your own (or with the help of the former Swiss Women’s No 1).

So, why not forget the No 1, why not focus on the Grand Slams, and get some help while you’re at it? Why not get a good coach that you can stick with for a while? Why not visit a shrink who can help bury the demons? (Many years ago, you and Marat Safin had two things in common – prodigious talent and a volatile temper. You sought professional help at the start of your career – and look where you are now compared with the equally talented Russian). And why not borrow a lesson or two from your opponents, especially the one that reads “Don’t give up”?

There is nothing any tennis lover wants more than to watch you play, if possible for ever. And we would much rather see you surprise the challengers with your beauty and guile than hear your views on the WTA rankings. Bring back the belief, the glory will follow.

No Country for Western Wear

Amongst the many attractions of Bangalore when I first landed here five years ago was the security and freedom it offered to young, single women like me. This was especially true of Indiranagar, my adopted neighbourhood in the city. I could drive back from work at 3 or 4 in the morning, every day. I could walk back home after dinner at 10 pm, 11 pm or midnight. I could stop to rescue a puppy at 1 in the morning while driving the wrong way up a one way road. I did not have to think twice before booking the 10 pm movie show (heck, this has become my preferred movie show now!). I could hop into an auto at 11 pm, and be assured of safe delivery. All while wearing jeans (or a skirt) and a t-shirt. Unlike in Delhi, I was not constantly worrying about my safety - no longer did my environment remind me that I was vulnerable.

For the last four days, as I drive back from work, from the late night movie or from a late dinner at a friend's house, I seem to notice many more clumps of men hanging around street corners. Each time I see such a group, I clutch the steering tighter and reach our for my cell phone. If Im walking, I look downwards and quicken my pace. Will they think my jeans are too tight, my t-shirt too short? Or that my dress is inappropriate, unsuitable to Indian culture? Will they heckle me and humiliate me for forgetting my roots and values, even as a vast hoarde of my countrymen will speed past, ignoring my predicament, glad that their wives and daughters and sisters are safely at home?

And then we snigger at Pakistan ceding ground to the Taliban in Swat valley.

Here comes the spring again

The sky is a brilliant blue, reflecting the color named so aptly after it, watching indulgently as the clouds play their quiet but violent tug of war.

The trees are proudly flaunting their newly acquired coat of shimmering green leaves, gently swaying to the music of the wind.

The African tulips have disappeared. The rich-red flowers of the Gulmohar are being roused from their sleep, yawning as they prepare for their glorious profusion all over the country. Already, the jacaranda is stretching its lavender wings towards the sky.

Here comes the spring again.