A pleasant Saturday evening. After weeks of running around and ‘follow-up’, I finally seem to have a permanent solution to the recurring problem with my car’s power windows! I roll down my window as I drive back home, partly to enjoy the pleasant breeze, and largely to relish the joy of a window that rolls down when I want it to :- )
As I navigate the steep bump in front of Figurine Fitness while speculating upon how I should celebrate my car’s fitness, I hear a rude honk from behind. A black Safari, with dark tinted glasses to match, evidently in a hurry to save the world (as usual!). The road is narrow with houses on both sides, and is speckled with numerous cars and side lanes a – I cannot risk accelerating beyond the 45kmph that I am currently at! But my friend in the Safari is more daring, and resumes his incessant honking. I raise my hand in the rear view mirror as a signal to him to take it easy. Suddenly, he swerves from the left, overtakes my car and then deliberately swerves to the right to ram into the passenger door, and then speeds away. For a moment, I can’t believe this has happened – I had heard of, and expected, such irrational behavior in Delhi, but not in peaceful Bangalore. My next thought is to give chase to express my indignation, but the pragmatic part of my brain is already telling me this won’t work – the guy is driving like a maniac, and I have no idea how many men are inside the car. I quickly note down the car’s registration number, and still in shock, drive to my home a km away to inspect the damage.
What I see breaks my heart! There is a huge dent on the left side of the bonnet, and an ugly scar running all along the passenger door! I am furious by now at the completely uncivilized and barbaric behavior of the guy – this can happen only in India! I decide I will not let him get away. Immediately, I call 101 to give them the car’s registration number, but they tell me I will need to go to a police station to file a case.
By this time, I am seething. I decide I will go to the station, but I also realize I need to mobilize some resources – a lone woman who cannot speak the local language (except – Kannada gottilla) is unlikely to meet with blazing success with the notorious Indian police. P is out of town; I call D –she’s out with friends; C doesn’t pick up his phone. My mind’s numb by now – all I want is to DO something! Heck, I’ll go it alone, I tell myself. 101 had directed me to the Ulsoor police station. I ignore the openly curious looks of all the men squatting in the station, and march up to the duty officer and pour out my tale. Our man, however, is unimpressed, and continues to pick his teeth as he gleefully informs me this is not under his jurisdiction. But 101 directed me to Ulsoor, I splutter. He shrugs. So what do I now, I demand. Go to Jeevan Bhima Nagar station, he states dismissively.
Thanks, I mutter, I didn’t expect any better from you, so why be surprised. By now the angry indignation is wavering – going by this experience, I am unlikely to get anywhere even at JBN. So do I bow in and keep silent, like most of us do, ineffectual against the notoriously corrupt SYSTEM, I wonder. Not quite yet, I decide. If we ‘evolved’ people also start giving in without a fight, then the future of our country is indeed bleak.
As I drive to JBN, I again try to mobilize some resources – H, my landlord’s son is out with friends, but he suggests I contact Uncle whose clinic is very close to the station. Unfortunately, Uncle has just stepped out, so I take a deep breath and decide to face this alone.
Unlike the sprawling campus of Ulsoor, JBN station is a small corner house converted into a station – two or three small dinghy rooms in a straight line, one room leading to another, all crowded with harassed fellow sufferers. As you move from one room to the next, you get the feeling of being sucked into the vortex of a deep well – or maybe it is just my imagination working overtime! However, I am pleasantly surprised when the first officer I meet with offers me a seat before I can spill out my tale. I am escorted into the innermost chamber (the bottom of the well?), where two or three officers are frenziedly manning the phones. One of the officers remarks they got the car details from 101, and have traced the car’s owner. A driver was driving the car, he says – we know the owner, he is a nice man. If he’s such a nice man he should be more careful about the people he chooses to drive a car, I rage. The officer shrugs and says the owner lost his son a few days ago, thanks to the manic driving of one of his drivers.
I am so angry by now that I have no sympathy for the owner, even when I hear about his son’s death. What about my case, I demand? We can give you the phone number of the owner and you can negotiate a settlement, the officer says. But I don’t want settlement, I fume – I want to meet the driver and I want to see him face the consequences (probably slap him, Hindi movie style? But I don’t say that!). The other alternative is that you file a case with us, the matter will go to court, your car will need to be left with us for the examination, and well, you let the law take its course, he suggests with a deadpan expression.
I can see where he is leading to by now. In my beloved country, the law literally takes its own course, and a very long and tortured course spread over decades at that! Letting the law takes its own course would mean constant haranguing (and bribe paying) by police officers, countless visits to the courts, endless dealings with petty officers...for in the Indian judicial system, the powerless (or less powerful) is guilty and the influential innocent, no proof needed.
My mind baulks, the resolve weakens. I had marched into the station demanding to “see justice done”, but in my outrage, I had momentarily forgotten what that means in India. And despite the odds, if I still decide to pursue the long path of justice, would I really be fighting against the ‘right’ accused? The owner claimed the accused was a driver, but because of the dark windows, I had no means of verifying the claim. For all I know, a family member was driving the car, and a poor man at the bottom of the food chain would pay the price (I have grown up on a staple of Hindi movies with such incidents you see). Or even if it was the driver who was at fault, maybe he was exhorted to drive faster by someone, or under pressure of an unrealistic deadline. Who could tell the real story?
Plagued by moral doubts, uncertainties and unease at the thought of dealing with the complex system, I decide to give in. I write out a letter, but I do not file it – instead, I meekly tell the officer I am open to negotiation, and head back home to retrieve what remains of my weekend.
In the end, I was left with a vague sense of disappointment . I was pleasantly surprised by the civility and responsiveness of the officers at JBN, and was glad that I did something (contrary to my middle class upbringing of deferentially giving in to the notorious system). Yet, I could not get over the nagging thought that a civilized society would never allow such incidents to take place at such alarming regularity, and that I, as a part of this so-called civilized society, was in a way as much to blame as the ‘system’.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Music of Words
I had a manic-Monday-types Friday – chock a block with difficult conference calls, meetings and interviews. I was so exhausted by the time I was done by 8 that I discarded all thoughts of gymming and headed straight home. Dined on some soup and dinner rolls. I was alone at home, and somehow, time appears to inflate when you are alone – unless you are drunk or asleep. There wasn’t anything interesting on TV (I get bored of TV very quickly anyway), I didn’t have the energy for a full fledged movie (not the kinds that I had at home anyway) or a book – but it was Friday for chrissakes, and I detest turning in early on a Friday night. Somehow, the more I stretch my sleeping hour on a Friday night, the more I tend to savor the seemingly endless possibilities of the weekend – so what if most of these possibilities remain just that, limited to the realm of my imagination.
Unexpectedly, it started to rain. Not the gentle pitter patter of a Bangalore evening shower, but more like the gentle drilling of a crane, coarse but blunted as if a piece of cloth covered its mouth. I could almost imagine the raindrops falling straight down - not slanting - but vertical. Slow, incessant, seemingly endless - just the kind of rain that depresses me. Give me a tumultuous downpour any day – one that knows that a quick departure is always better than a long drawn farewell.
So it was probably the combination of my solitary-yet-content state and the slow, unending rain that made me drift towards reading poetry after a long time. Surprisingly, I did not drift towards Vikram Seth. Instead, I dwelled upon the lyricism of Eliot’s Burnt Norton & The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, the latter a poem that I can read and re-read a thousand times and one; the wonderfully constructed Patterns that compassionately but unsentimentally chronicles a young Flanders woman who has just learnt that her beloved fiancé who she was to marry a day later has been killed in war; Under One Star by Wislawa Szymborska, a delightful peep into all the delightful little pieces of life; Maya Angelou’s And Still I Rise – oh, what a powerful writer she is!; Wilfred Owen’s cry against war, Dulce Et Decorum Est; the wonderfully ironic A Strange Problem by Kanwar Narain on ‘the power to hate with all my heart Is ebbing by the day’; Harivanshrai Bachchan’s melancholy reflections on life in Kya Bhoolon Kya Yaad Karoon; and finally; Books, by Gulzar, an interesting eulogy to the decline of the physical reading of books.
A bit of caustic wit and irony was called for after all this sentimentality, and who better than Dorothy Parker and Emily Dickinson to supply it! I shared Parker’s disappointments in being forced to live with one perfect rose, and shared Dickenson’s Presentiments on “Faith” (a fine invention), “Hope” (the thing with feathers), formal feelings after a great pain, not being able to stop for Death, and a certain slant of light in winter.
I ended with Vikram Seth of course – a seven course Michelin meal should be polished off with a fitting dessert. I suppose if I was given the chance to take just one book on a marooned island, I’d take his Collected Poems. That, or Neruda, is all the nourishment one needs!
Unexpectedly, it started to rain. Not the gentle pitter patter of a Bangalore evening shower, but more like the gentle drilling of a crane, coarse but blunted as if a piece of cloth covered its mouth. I could almost imagine the raindrops falling straight down - not slanting - but vertical. Slow, incessant, seemingly endless - just the kind of rain that depresses me. Give me a tumultuous downpour any day – one that knows that a quick departure is always better than a long drawn farewell.
So it was probably the combination of my solitary-yet-content state and the slow, unending rain that made me drift towards reading poetry after a long time. Surprisingly, I did not drift towards Vikram Seth. Instead, I dwelled upon the lyricism of Eliot’s Burnt Norton & The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, the latter a poem that I can read and re-read a thousand times and one; the wonderfully constructed Patterns that compassionately but unsentimentally chronicles a young Flanders woman who has just learnt that her beloved fiancé who she was to marry a day later has been killed in war; Under One Star by Wislawa Szymborska, a delightful peep into all the delightful little pieces of life; Maya Angelou’s And Still I Rise – oh, what a powerful writer she is!; Wilfred Owen’s cry against war, Dulce Et Decorum Est; the wonderfully ironic A Strange Problem by Kanwar Narain on ‘the power to hate with all my heart Is ebbing by the day’; Harivanshrai Bachchan’s melancholy reflections on life in Kya Bhoolon Kya Yaad Karoon; and finally; Books, by Gulzar, an interesting eulogy to the decline of the physical reading of books.
A bit of caustic wit and irony was called for after all this sentimentality, and who better than Dorothy Parker and Emily Dickinson to supply it! I shared Parker’s disappointments in being forced to live with one perfect rose, and shared Dickenson’s Presentiments on “Faith” (a fine invention), “Hope” (the thing with feathers), formal feelings after a great pain, not being able to stop for Death, and a certain slant of light in winter.
I ended with Vikram Seth of course – a seven course Michelin meal should be polished off with a fitting dessert. I suppose if I was given the chance to take just one book on a marooned island, I’d take his Collected Poems. That, or Neruda, is all the nourishment one needs!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Unintended
First, the unexpected death.
Then, the blasts.
Suddenly, I am more alive to the mortality of those I know & love.
And hence, the white flag.
Perhaps, I regret it already.
Words, silly words
reckless
sometimes ridiculous
casting their spell of inevitability
when all I desire
is a certain ambiguity.
Then, the blasts.
Suddenly, I am more alive to the mortality of those I know & love.
And hence, the white flag.
Perhaps, I regret it already.
Words, silly words
reckless
sometimes ridiculous
casting their spell of inevitability
when all I desire
is a certain ambiguity.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Peach Orb
An ode to our trip to Ranganathittu - composed by Elina. Editors scouting for the next Sylvia Plath may please contact her directly.
The waterfall belonged to Gulliver’s Lilliput Land
And yet inspired a lot of freakishly frolicking folks
Who looked beyond the torn black slippers?
Bobbing along the blue green current and
The catch of the chilly marinated day!
The coracles weaved themselves
amongst the slight waves of the man made dam
And the memories of kingfisher colored children
laughing into the peach orb of a vanilla sky.
In the winding roads of an unborn morning
We had set out to meet a few birds and
And a scarcely traveled path of kindred time
And we discovered out of bounds marshes,
Amongst bound bamboo growth in definite gardens
Foxes and lions of Indian Politics, an insecure Indica
And a foreign cuisine for our north of the Vindhya tongue
And some light which fell through the
Canopy of trees and kissed our foreheads as we literally
Cooled our heels by a brook bordered by fish scales and
Love Ballads which celebrated the genre of gullible childhood.
And it is all a celebration of the times we live
Saluted by Mona Lisa smile on dark glasses
A discovery of ‘What The Point’ amidst surreal banality
And this poem to us.
The waterfall belonged to Gulliver’s Lilliput Land
And yet inspired a lot of freakishly frolicking folks
Who looked beyond the torn black slippers?
Bobbing along the blue green current and
The catch of the chilly marinated day!
The coracles weaved themselves
amongst the slight waves of the man made dam
And the memories of kingfisher colored children
laughing into the peach orb of a vanilla sky.
In the winding roads of an unborn morning
We had set out to meet a few birds and
And a scarcely traveled path of kindred time
And we discovered out of bounds marshes,
Amongst bound bamboo growth in definite gardens
Foxes and lions of Indian Politics, an insecure Indica
And a foreign cuisine for our north of the Vindhya tongue
And some light which fell through the
Canopy of trees and kissed our foreheads as we literally
Cooled our heels by a brook bordered by fish scales and
Love Ballads which celebrated the genre of gullible childhood.
And it is all a celebration of the times we live
Saluted by Mona Lisa smile on dark glasses
A discovery of ‘What The Point’ amidst surreal banality
And this poem to us.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Here's looking at you, Fed
It is heartbreaking to watch a magician suddenly lose his art. There he comes charging to the net, only to miss a volley he would have usually aced with his eyes shut. The perfect forehand goes just long, the incredible angle has disappeared. The razor sharp serve is uncharacteristically vulnerable. Not just once, but again and again. The proud shoulders droop, the head nods increasingly in desperation. The heart still hasn't lost the fight, but the body has lost the midas touch.
When the agony ends, as end it must, the winner is more apologetic than ecstatic. For he recognizes that in his victory he has humbled, maybe even humililated, a master.
Today Rafa won a record 4th French Open, defeating The Great Federer 6-1, 6-3, 6-0.
When the agony ends, as end it must, the winner is more apologetic than ecstatic. For he recognizes that in his victory he has humbled, maybe even humililated, a master.
Today Rafa won a record 4th French Open, defeating The Great Federer 6-1, 6-3, 6-0.
During the final, ignoble set, I mailed to a dear friend telling her how disappointed I was. Here is what she replied:
What is to separate this man from the Gods? Every once a year he is confronted with his mortality and to the fact that there is one aspect of his prowess that one other human is better at, thanks to Nadal.
The wisdom of her words made me think - what about Rafa? Everyone talks about Roger Federer and how Roland Garros would be the crowning jewel in his coronation as the Greatest Tennis Player Ever (if not the greatest athlete ever). We all sympathize with TGF for being repeatedly denied the only major title to elude him for four successive years by this ONE man (for everyone acknowledges that were it not for this kid from Mallorca, Pete's 14 and Andre's Slam would have been conquered years ago). The French crowds, delighted with TGF's charm and fluency in their language, have unsuccessfully rallied behind him against the defending champion. But had it not been for Fed, Rafa would have undoubtedly been Numero Uno in men's tennis. For now, however, he has to stay content with winning at Roland Garros and being the best Number Two ever in men's tennis.
So in a way, they each take away from the other, and in that taking away, add to each other's greatness. Their evident mutual respect and affection only adds to the allure of this great rivalry. Shakespeare could not have scripted this better - for in the decades to come, no mention of The Great Roger Federer will be complete without naming Rafael Nadal. And this is how it is, this is how it should be.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Watch Agneiszka Radwanska
Justine Henin's untimely exit from women's tennis, though unfortunate, has made the women's draw at Roland Garros much more exciting. The Williams sisters, true to their erratically scintillating form, have lost to rookies. Sharapova seems to have lost the razor sharp brilliance she displayed in Melbourne, and has relied more on her shrieking grunts than her shot making to get through to the 4th round. Ivanovic and Jankovic have been consistent, but frankly, they present minimal threat to Henin-Williams-Sharapova on a good day. Kuznetsova, Dementieva, Chakvetadze & Safina can always spring a surprise, but the greatest thrills have come from watching the under-19's in the main draw.
I haven't caught too many of the matches, but two girls I am really impressed with are Suarez Navarro and Agneiszka Radwanska. I saw parts of just one match of the former - the 4th round match against Penetta (who got rid of Venus Williams in the 3rd round). S Navarro boundless energy reminds you of Sanchez Vicario, but she is fitter and much more lethal - with a one handed backhand that makes you wish she would play against Justine Henin, the queen of the single handed backhand. Will Suarez Navarro go on to become a Djokovic, or remain a one Grand Slam wonder aka Tsonga? - only time will tell.
But the one who really caught my attention is 19 year old Agneiszka Radwanska, voted the emerging player of the WTA tour in 2007. Yes, she lost in straight sets to Jelena Jankovic in the 4th round, but did she give Jelena a scare! Radwanska has a good game of course, but what gives her an edge over her contemporaries is her tenacity, level headedness and surprising physical stamina, her frail frame notwithstanding. She just did not give up against Jankovic, keeping her kool and saving several match points to force the second set into the tie breaker. Had Radwanska made better use of her serve, Jelena would have been under serious threat of not making the QF's.
Fortunately, Radwanska has time on her side, and if she gets the right guidance and manages to stay fit, we'll surely see much more of her on the women's tour in the later rounds.
I haven't caught too many of the matches, but two girls I am really impressed with are Suarez Navarro and Agneiszka Radwanska. I saw parts of just one match of the former - the 4th round match against Penetta (who got rid of Venus Williams in the 3rd round). S Navarro boundless energy reminds you of Sanchez Vicario, but she is fitter and much more lethal - with a one handed backhand that makes you wish she would play against Justine Henin, the queen of the single handed backhand. Will Suarez Navarro go on to become a Djokovic, or remain a one Grand Slam wonder aka Tsonga? - only time will tell.
But the one who really caught my attention is 19 year old Agneiszka Radwanska, voted the emerging player of the WTA tour in 2007. Yes, she lost in straight sets to Jelena Jankovic in the 4th round, but did she give Jelena a scare! Radwanska has a good game of course, but what gives her an edge over her contemporaries is her tenacity, level headedness and surprising physical stamina, her frail frame notwithstanding. She just did not give up against Jankovic, keeping her kool and saving several match points to force the second set into the tie breaker. Had Radwanska made better use of her serve, Jelena would have been under serious threat of not making the QF's.
Fortunately, Radwanska has time on her side, and if she gets the right guidance and manages to stay fit, we'll surely see much more of her on the women's tour in the later rounds.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
How to be Strong
Someone on the radio was interviewing a breast cancer survivor today. Amongst the several facile questions, this one took the cake: (incredible wonder in her voice) How did you find the strength to cope with this, how did you muster the strength?
I found the question so ridiculous I burst out laughing. If you have cancer (or any other potentially fatal disease), you do not have the luxury to brood over questions such as how will I muster the strength to cope with this disease? Because that is not a choice – if you do not find that courage, you are dead. Quite plain and simple. You put your faith in your oncologist, your God, you family, your friend, your astrologer, your dog - whoever – and just keep on fighting the goddamn cells and hope that you destroy them faster than they breed in your body.
I found the question so ridiculous I burst out laughing. If you have cancer (or any other potentially fatal disease), you do not have the luxury to brood over questions such as how will I muster the strength to cope with this disease? Because that is not a choice – if you do not find that courage, you are dead. Quite plain and simple. You put your faith in your oncologist, your God, you family, your friend, your astrologer, your dog - whoever – and just keep on fighting the goddamn cells and hope that you destroy them faster than they breed in your body.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
More on Thailand
Unfortunately, and unlike most other countries, taxi drives in Thailand are boring. The driver doesn’t speak English, and if he does, all he wants to know is how much you earn, and hence how much he can cheat you.
So the scene for surprise and interest shifted, surprisingly, to my hotel’s elevator.
Giving me company in the elevator one day was an American man and a Chinese-American lady – they were both emerging from the excellent Spa, and the lady was passionately elaborating on spa hygiene and related horrors. As the elevator doors closed, she remarked (shouted is more like it, but I am a polite listener) – I mean, nayl fhunghus is extrehmely diffhiculht to gaid rid auf. As I was leaving the elevator, her subdued male companion remarked – anye fhunghus, for thad madder. Touche'. The brilliance of the conversation left me spell bound. I hope they saw the smile as I left. I wish they understood what it meant.
Another morning. I am heading out to work. A short, slightly plump (healthy looking?) Arab enters the elevator. He gives me a brief, disdainful glance, then settles down to admiring himself from all possible angles in the full length mirror, lingering a wee bit longer on his womanly bottom. No surprise that he got off at the Health Club – there are full length mirrors there all along the wall behind the treadmills. I suspect he didn't get much of running done though.
I guess you need a bit of madness to stay sane in this crazy country.
So the scene for surprise and interest shifted, surprisingly, to my hotel’s elevator.
Giving me company in the elevator one day was an American man and a Chinese-American lady – they were both emerging from the excellent Spa, and the lady was passionately elaborating on spa hygiene and related horrors. As the elevator doors closed, she remarked (shouted is more like it, but I am a polite listener) – I mean, nayl fhunghus is extrehmely diffhiculht to gaid rid auf. As I was leaving the elevator, her subdued male companion remarked – anye fhunghus, for thad madder. Touche'. The brilliance of the conversation left me spell bound. I hope they saw the smile as I left. I wish they understood what it meant.
Another morning. I am heading out to work. A short, slightly plump (healthy looking?) Arab enters the elevator. He gives me a brief, disdainful glance, then settles down to admiring himself from all possible angles in the full length mirror, lingering a wee bit longer on his womanly bottom. No surprise that he got off at the Health Club – there are full length mirrors there all along the wall behind the treadmills. I suspect he didn't get much of running done though.
I guess you need a bit of madness to stay sane in this crazy country.
Holidays in Hell – Doing Business in Thailand
I blame this on PJ O’Rourke. If I hadn’t been reading Holidays in Hell in, appropriately, Thailand, I promise I would not have called out the country by name in this post. But after my third visit to this land, I am in no mood for niceties. And if Mr O-Rourke can describe hell in the beautiful city of Beirut, I don’t see why I shouldn’t spill the beans on the ‘best tourist destination in Asia’.
The stupidity starts with the visa. You can get a visa upon arrival for tourism, but you need a non-immigration visa if you are traveling on business. But that is not enough. You also need to apply for a temporary work permit after you have entered the country – the non-immigration visa is simply for you to get out of Suvarmbhoomi airport and reach your office. But officially, you cannot work at your office till you have the work permit.
No one understands English of course, even the ones who can supposedly speak it. Communication is excruciating – and this is not because of the language alone. The bigger problem is that a Thai’s comprehension level is at least ten times slower than that of an average human – and I am being polite here. Everything needs to be explained, re-explained, re-re-explained…and numerous irrelevant questions need to be patiently answered. A has to be followed by B, and if you jump to C, prepare to spend an extra fortnight to explain the why’s and the what’s.
Have you attended a meeting with over five of these blokes in the same room? It’s like playing Chinese whispers with people who are deaf, but God compensated that with the faculty of speech. First, they will look you over and discuss you loudly with each other in Thai, frequently looking and pointing at you so you know you are the object of attention. After this polite welcome, they will settle down to the bawling in Thai, with frequent looks at you to confirm that you do not comprehend a word, which being the case the decibel levels will keep on rising. The amount of noise and stupidity that goes around is enough to drown an army of Chinese pigs.
The favorite Thai word? It may be a three letter word outside the workplace, but inside, it’s ISSUE. A glow comes into their eyes when you mention this word – and they will have a two hour long meeting every two hours to discuss issues. Don’t forget to send minutes of meeting, else that will be another issue. But don’t expect them to do what you asked them to do – they wont read what you sent. You can bring it up at the next issue meeting, but in the end, it’s all your fault anyway. They are remarkably well organized that way – they will do all the shouting and cribbing while someone else will do the work.
As for Thai men in the workplace, they all appear to be the same with their soft voices and Buddha like countenance, cultivated no doubt after years of training and suffering. The women simply outnumber –and outshout – them.
Next time I hear about going to Thailand (on work), I am jumping from the thirteenth floor of my office.
Created Dec 07
The stupidity starts with the visa. You can get a visa upon arrival for tourism, but you need a non-immigration visa if you are traveling on business. But that is not enough. You also need to apply for a temporary work permit after you have entered the country – the non-immigration visa is simply for you to get out of Suvarmbhoomi airport and reach your office. But officially, you cannot work at your office till you have the work permit.
No one understands English of course, even the ones who can supposedly speak it. Communication is excruciating – and this is not because of the language alone. The bigger problem is that a Thai’s comprehension level is at least ten times slower than that of an average human – and I am being polite here. Everything needs to be explained, re-explained, re-re-explained…and numerous irrelevant questions need to be patiently answered. A has to be followed by B, and if you jump to C, prepare to spend an extra fortnight to explain the why’s and the what’s.
Have you attended a meeting with over five of these blokes in the same room? It’s like playing Chinese whispers with people who are deaf, but God compensated that with the faculty of speech. First, they will look you over and discuss you loudly with each other in Thai, frequently looking and pointing at you so you know you are the object of attention. After this polite welcome, they will settle down to the bawling in Thai, with frequent looks at you to confirm that you do not comprehend a word, which being the case the decibel levels will keep on rising. The amount of noise and stupidity that goes around is enough to drown an army of Chinese pigs.
The favorite Thai word? It may be a three letter word outside the workplace, but inside, it’s ISSUE. A glow comes into their eyes when you mention this word – and they will have a two hour long meeting every two hours to discuss issues. Don’t forget to send minutes of meeting, else that will be another issue. But don’t expect them to do what you asked them to do – they wont read what you sent. You can bring it up at the next issue meeting, but in the end, it’s all your fault anyway. They are remarkably well organized that way – they will do all the shouting and cribbing while someone else will do the work.
As for Thai men in the workplace, they all appear to be the same with their soft voices and Buddha like countenance, cultivated no doubt after years of training and suffering. The women simply outnumber –and outshout – them.
Next time I hear about going to Thailand (on work), I am jumping from the thirteenth floor of my office.
Created Dec 07
Monday, May 05, 2008
Romulus, My Father
Raimond Gaita's father loves to collect beetles* and make them fly in the wind. "For luck", he says. And also for self belief and resilience - words he does not state, but lives his life by. The film adapation of Romulus, My Father, starring 'Hector' Eric Bana, is a touching interpretation of Raimond Gaita's novel by the same name.
At heart a simple tale of survival and kinship, there are several interesting scenes in the movie. The young Raimond once takes eggs for one of his friends - an old, decrepit man who lives in the back of beyond in remote Australia. The old man is delighted, but there is no water - so our man pees into a pan and boils the eggs in them, much to young Raimond's consternation!
Then there is Hora, Romulus' s friend in need and a father figure to young Raimond. An unlettered handyman, Hora loves reading and dispenses several words of wisdom to the eager youngster during their outdoor pursuits. While kayaking with Raimond, he quotes Bertrand Russell and states - If you enjoy wasting your time, then it is not a waste. Later, during a difficult time for the family, he remarks - Things change; watch your thoughts, for they decide what you become in life.
Probably the best part about the movie is that while it is a tribute to Romulus, the audience gets enough time to get to know the other key characters - Raimond, his manic depressive mother Christina, Hora, and Hora's brother Mitru, who falls in love with and marries Christina but is finally driven to take his life by this decision.
Romulus himself is outwardly no hero, just an ordinary man who loves his son and posesses an intense will to survive against all odds. So it is that he recovers from a near fatal accident and a later bout in an asylum after his wife's death, and lives to see his son study at St Joseph, a dream he had cherished and nurtured.
There is an interesting scene when Romulus is beating metal against fire to mould it to his will (he is a handyman - good with his head and hands - which may explain why the locals call him Jack). The beating of the metal fades into the incessant ringing of the bell at St Joseph's, interrupting young Rai's reverie. Thus it is that the lives of the father and the son are entwined.
The ending manages to bring in a bit of suspense. Romulus is back home from the asylum, but has he recovered? He wakes his son in the middle of the night - it is time to move home. On the way, upon Raimond's prompting, he narrates how Mitru was killed: He biked to the top of a tower, and jumped; but before that, he stuck a knife pointing upwards in the ground, "Just to make sure". They stop for the night by a cliff, Raimond sleeps, Romulus is gazing across the rocks. Morning breaks, Rai awakens and looks around - there is no sign of Romulus. He rushes to the cliff and looks down in fear at the sheer drop. The despair on his face echos the question in the viewer's mind - has Romulus abandoned his son too, just like Christina and Mitru did? "Pappi !", screams Raimond. "I am here", comes a gruff voice . Romulus is collecting beetles by the side of the cliff - for luck, and life.
At heart a simple tale of survival and kinship, there are several interesting scenes in the movie. The young Raimond once takes eggs for one of his friends - an old, decrepit man who lives in the back of beyond in remote Australia. The old man is delighted, but there is no water - so our man pees into a pan and boils the eggs in them, much to young Raimond's consternation!
Then there is Hora, Romulus' s friend in need and a father figure to young Raimond. An unlettered handyman, Hora loves reading and dispenses several words of wisdom to the eager youngster during their outdoor pursuits. While kayaking with Raimond, he quotes Bertrand Russell and states - If you enjoy wasting your time, then it is not a waste. Later, during a difficult time for the family, he remarks - Things change; watch your thoughts, for they decide what you become in life.
Probably the best part about the movie is that while it is a tribute to Romulus, the audience gets enough time to get to know the other key characters - Raimond, his manic depressive mother Christina, Hora, and Hora's brother Mitru, who falls in love with and marries Christina but is finally driven to take his life by this decision.
Romulus himself is outwardly no hero, just an ordinary man who loves his son and posesses an intense will to survive against all odds. So it is that he recovers from a near fatal accident and a later bout in an asylum after his wife's death, and lives to see his son study at St Joseph, a dream he had cherished and nurtured.
There is an interesting scene when Romulus is beating metal against fire to mould it to his will (he is a handyman - good with his head and hands - which may explain why the locals call him Jack). The beating of the metal fades into the incessant ringing of the bell at St Joseph's, interrupting young Rai's reverie. Thus it is that the lives of the father and the son are entwined.
The ending manages to bring in a bit of suspense. Romulus is back home from the asylum, but has he recovered? He wakes his son in the middle of the night - it is time to move home. On the way, upon Raimond's prompting, he narrates how Mitru was killed: He biked to the top of a tower, and jumped; but before that, he stuck a knife pointing upwards in the ground, "Just to make sure". They stop for the night by a cliff, Raimond sleeps, Romulus is gazing across the rocks. Morning breaks, Rai awakens and looks around - there is no sign of Romulus. He rushes to the cliff and looks down in fear at the sheer drop. The despair on his face echos the question in the viewer's mind - has Romulus abandoned his son too, just like Christina and Mitru did? "Pappi !", screams Raimond. "I am here", comes a gruff voice . Romulus is collecting beetles by the side of the cliff - for luck, and life.
Seasons in the sun
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
- T S Eliot, The Wasteland (The Burial of the Dead)
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
- T S Eliot, The Wasteland (The Burial of the Dead)
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Do you....as much as I .....
They tell you that after a period of intensely missing someone comes a time of forgetting and healing. They are correct.
What they do not tell you, however, is that the period of forgetting is often followed by one of intense re-remembering, where the temptation to peel off the cure is nearly as strong as the original feeling itself.
What they do not tell you, however, is that the period of forgetting is often followed by one of intense re-remembering, where the temptation to peel off the cure is nearly as strong as the original feeling itself.
The Cells must be crazy
The word ‘cancer’ and its associations is probably the strongest signal of impending mortality to the human mind. I remember how, when we were first faced with its inevitability, everyone would whisper the word softly and deferentially, in a tone that indicates fearful respect for something that one does not really understand. Almost like we were in a temple or a church.
So a cancer hospital seems to be an unlikely place to make new friends and revive broken and forgotten relationships. But when you remember the coming of winter by ‘that time when we were in room 304’, the hospital does become your second home. You start recognizing not just the doctors, nurses and the staff, but also the other ‘regulars’. You exchange notes on treatments and medicines and kids and hopes and dreams. You think about all that you have done and all that is still left to be done, and wonder if you can get the fickle caravan of time to stay awhile with you.
It is not a pretty sight, but in a strange and perverse way, it also gives you strength. You see little kids with their heads shaved off for the treatment – some smile mischievously through the pain, others howl with an agony that haunts you for days. Any feelings you may have of ‘why me/why my family’ disappear when you hear a 25 year old man talk reassuringly to his wife after his first chemo session – she is not at his bedside because she has just given birth to their first child.
So it didn’t appear that strange after all that Dad mended the breach with one of his oldest friends at his bedside in the hospital. Or that a dear friend with whom he had lost contact some years ago should emerge from the room next to his, herself undergoing chemotherapy. He also made a lot of new friends, and surprisingly, not just with the nurses (whose phone numbers and e-mails he assiduously noted in his notepad – a job that was later entrusted to us when his cataract started troubling him more).
Of all the new friends we made, probably the closest bond was with a brother-sister duo, whose father had been admitted in the room next to ours with lung cancer. Uncle was a role model – he ate and lived healthy (we heard him advising his daughter against all ‘white’ stuff while refusing sugar in his tea), shunned drinking and smoking, had been managing the entire household (including washing & cleaning) as his wife was an invalid, and faced his unexpected illness with cheerfulness and optimism. Mridula-di and Vishal clearly worshipped him, and why not?
Uncle’s first visit to the hospital coincided with dad’s later cycles, and they would often ‘consult’ with us veterans. Dad stayed in touch with Vishal, while I exchanged an occasional email with Mridula-di. Dad’s visits to the hospital reduced (touch wood), but sometimes he would run into Vishal, in which case he would always pass on detailed updates on Uncle to me.
Over the months, life limped on and then gathered momentum, and communication dwindled. Last week when I was in Delhi, Dad asked me if I’d heard from Mridula-di. He’d called Vishal a few days ago, but hadn’t got a response. We hoped Uncle was better.
Vishal called Dad today to tell him that Uncle died a few weeks ago. Apparently, Dr Chaturvedi, the friendly doctor who loved talking about his son’s video games when he caught me watching movies on my laptop, hadn’t given him much of a chance. But when you are battling the errant cells in your own body, the faintest chance can offer brilliant hope.
I wonder what Dad told Vishal when he heard the news. It is difficult mouthing clichés about death when you know how close you came to it yourself. All you can say is a silent thank you – to Life for giving you company, to Death for staying away. Amen.
So a cancer hospital seems to be an unlikely place to make new friends and revive broken and forgotten relationships. But when you remember the coming of winter by ‘that time when we were in room 304’, the hospital does become your second home. You start recognizing not just the doctors, nurses and the staff, but also the other ‘regulars’. You exchange notes on treatments and medicines and kids and hopes and dreams. You think about all that you have done and all that is still left to be done, and wonder if you can get the fickle caravan of time to stay awhile with you.
It is not a pretty sight, but in a strange and perverse way, it also gives you strength. You see little kids with their heads shaved off for the treatment – some smile mischievously through the pain, others howl with an agony that haunts you for days. Any feelings you may have of ‘why me/why my family’ disappear when you hear a 25 year old man talk reassuringly to his wife after his first chemo session – she is not at his bedside because she has just given birth to their first child.
So it didn’t appear that strange after all that Dad mended the breach with one of his oldest friends at his bedside in the hospital. Or that a dear friend with whom he had lost contact some years ago should emerge from the room next to his, herself undergoing chemotherapy. He also made a lot of new friends, and surprisingly, not just with the nurses (whose phone numbers and e-mails he assiduously noted in his notepad – a job that was later entrusted to us when his cataract started troubling him more).
Of all the new friends we made, probably the closest bond was with a brother-sister duo, whose father had been admitted in the room next to ours with lung cancer. Uncle was a role model – he ate and lived healthy (we heard him advising his daughter against all ‘white’ stuff while refusing sugar in his tea), shunned drinking and smoking, had been managing the entire household (including washing & cleaning) as his wife was an invalid, and faced his unexpected illness with cheerfulness and optimism. Mridula-di and Vishal clearly worshipped him, and why not?
Uncle’s first visit to the hospital coincided with dad’s later cycles, and they would often ‘consult’ with us veterans. Dad stayed in touch with Vishal, while I exchanged an occasional email with Mridula-di. Dad’s visits to the hospital reduced (touch wood), but sometimes he would run into Vishal, in which case he would always pass on detailed updates on Uncle to me.
Over the months, life limped on and then gathered momentum, and communication dwindled. Last week when I was in Delhi, Dad asked me if I’d heard from Mridula-di. He’d called Vishal a few days ago, but hadn’t got a response. We hoped Uncle was better.
Vishal called Dad today to tell him that Uncle died a few weeks ago. Apparently, Dr Chaturvedi, the friendly doctor who loved talking about his son’s video games when he caught me watching movies on my laptop, hadn’t given him much of a chance. But when you are battling the errant cells in your own body, the faintest chance can offer brilliant hope.
I wonder what Dad told Vishal when he heard the news. It is difficult mouthing clichés about death when you know how close you came to it yourself. All you can say is a silent thank you – to Life for giving you company, to Death for staying away. Amen.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Paved Paradise
Saturday evening. It’s raining again in Bangalore. I used to joke when I moved here three years ago that the moment you think about stepping out on a weekend, it begins to rain in Bangalore. Mercifully, however, the downpour is neither torrential nor incessant – more like a show of crackers that dazzles and delights for a few moments, and then disappears, just as suddenly as it appeared.
So when there was a brief lull – which can be but an interval or the final bow for the day, always maintaining that element of intrigue - I decided to go for a walk down 100 Feet Road. It had been a while since I had taken in the smell of wet earth and savor the freshness that seems to imbibe even the dullest of objects after it has rained, and I was suitably armed with my old floaters and a black umbrella.
It turned out to be a horribly rude nudge into reality.
I have stayed off Indiranagar 100 Feet Road since I came to Bangalore more than three years ago. I still remember falling in love with this stretch of concrete as I was driven down it in a rickety auto rickshaw on my way to inspect my second house. The vast expanse of the road, the wide cobbled pavements straight out of a European town, the gracious houses deferentially sitting behind the majestic trees that formed a leafy arch across the width of the road, the red jacarandas in full bloom - I was reminded of a story of an enchanted grove that I had read as a kid. I confess that the road played a big part in my saying yes to the house, and continuing to stay in its vicinity since then.
But the slow rotting of this beautiful city has predictably not failed to escape 100 Feet Road. Many of the houses have been sold off and converted into shops and restaurants, leading to drastic cutting of the graceful old trees that once lind its banks. The beautiful stone pavements – once one of the widest in the city – have also been dug up and destroyed due to the construction and a stated intention to widen the road (which, of course, has not been followed up with any action). The road itself is in a pitiable condition – potholed at several places, overloaded with vehicles and noise and people, deprived of the many hued flowers that lent to it a unique calm and serenity. Destroyed by a hungry marauder who, unable to understand or appreciate the beauty of a beautiful Van Gogh, viciously slashes and rips it apart.
And so a walk that started with pleasurable anticipation turned into an incessant dodging of slush on the pavements and navigating between angry traffic at places where there was no pavement. Within five minutes, I was forced onto one of the more peaceful by-lanes (relatively speaking) to escape the vicious anger of this once beautiful road.
They paved paradise, and put up a lot of shops.
So when there was a brief lull – which can be but an interval or the final bow for the day, always maintaining that element of intrigue - I decided to go for a walk down 100 Feet Road. It had been a while since I had taken in the smell of wet earth and savor the freshness that seems to imbibe even the dullest of objects after it has rained, and I was suitably armed with my old floaters and a black umbrella.
It turned out to be a horribly rude nudge into reality.
I have stayed off Indiranagar 100 Feet Road since I came to Bangalore more than three years ago. I still remember falling in love with this stretch of concrete as I was driven down it in a rickety auto rickshaw on my way to inspect my second house. The vast expanse of the road, the wide cobbled pavements straight out of a European town, the gracious houses deferentially sitting behind the majestic trees that formed a leafy arch across the width of the road, the red jacarandas in full bloom - I was reminded of a story of an enchanted grove that I had read as a kid. I confess that the road played a big part in my saying yes to the house, and continuing to stay in its vicinity since then.
But the slow rotting of this beautiful city has predictably not failed to escape 100 Feet Road. Many of the houses have been sold off and converted into shops and restaurants, leading to drastic cutting of the graceful old trees that once lind its banks. The beautiful stone pavements – once one of the widest in the city – have also been dug up and destroyed due to the construction and a stated intention to widen the road (which, of course, has not been followed up with any action). The road itself is in a pitiable condition – potholed at several places, overloaded with vehicles and noise and people, deprived of the many hued flowers that lent to it a unique calm and serenity. Destroyed by a hungry marauder who, unable to understand or appreciate the beauty of a beautiful Van Gogh, viciously slashes and rips it apart.
And so a walk that started with pleasurable anticipation turned into an incessant dodging of slush on the pavements and navigating between angry traffic at places where there was no pavement. Within five minutes, I was forced onto one of the more peaceful by-lanes (relatively speaking) to escape the vicious anger of this once beautiful road.
They paved paradise, and put up a lot of shops.
Blackout
Come, let us go our own way, without remembrance of what passed and could have passed between us. Let us meet as were to perchance meet two strangers, without recognition or recollection, devoid of memory and possibility.
Friday, January 04, 2008
The Sound of Patterns
An old unpublished post (is that an oxmoron?) - Aug 2006
A few days ago, I attended a formal office conclave to celebrate the inauguration of our new facility in Costa Rica. It was an elegant affair – about twenty of us from the office, and after a brief speech by the Costa Rican President (the guest of honor), we were shepherded into the cafeteria-turned-into-ball-room for champagne and light snacks. I noticed a pair of musicians at one end of the room, and immediately headed for that corner.
Throughout the two hour affair, which saw a score men, and a few women, all dressed in somber black and grey, network and talk shop, the man on the guitar and the lady on the flute plucked their melodies – oblivious to their audience, their bodies gently swaying with the music like soft waves – now the flautist would smile and challenge the man with a melody, now the guitarist would respond admirably and throw back the gauntlet.
What I liked best about the pair was not the music they played, but they way they played the music. Although they had been called upon to perform for an audience (albeit an indifferent one in this case), the music that they played was first for themselves – for them to create and them to savor. The artiste’s enjoyment was primary; making the audience happy was secondary.
And I think that is how any beautiful creation should be – a pure, confident and forthright expression of your heart, unencumbered by doubts and disbelief….not targeted towards the lowest or the largest common denominator, but created solely for the pleasure of creation. Like Howard Roark’s architecture in Fountainhead.
Later in the evening, the guitarist’s place was taken by a lady with a harp! I have never seen a harp before – it looks like something you would weave pretty patterns with. Come to think of it, that’s what music does too – except that you need to hear the patterns.
A few days ago, I attended a formal office conclave to celebrate the inauguration of our new facility in Costa Rica. It was an elegant affair – about twenty of us from the office, and after a brief speech by the Costa Rican President (the guest of honor), we were shepherded into the cafeteria-turned-into-ball-room for champagne and light snacks. I noticed a pair of musicians at one end of the room, and immediately headed for that corner.
Throughout the two hour affair, which saw a score men, and a few women, all dressed in somber black and grey, network and talk shop, the man on the guitar and the lady on the flute plucked their melodies – oblivious to their audience, their bodies gently swaying with the music like soft waves – now the flautist would smile and challenge the man with a melody, now the guitarist would respond admirably and throw back the gauntlet.
What I liked best about the pair was not the music they played, but they way they played the music. Although they had been called upon to perform for an audience (albeit an indifferent one in this case), the music that they played was first for themselves – for them to create and them to savor. The artiste’s enjoyment was primary; making the audience happy was secondary.
And I think that is how any beautiful creation should be – a pure, confident and forthright expression of your heart, unencumbered by doubts and disbelief….not targeted towards the lowest or the largest common denominator, but created solely for the pleasure of creation. Like Howard Roark’s architecture in Fountainhead.
Later in the evening, the guitarist’s place was taken by a lady with a harp! I have never seen a harp before – it looks like something you would weave pretty patterns with. Come to think of it, that’s what music does too – except that you need to hear the patterns.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Simply the Best !
Real men also cry. Even when one of them is possibly the greatest player in tennis history, and has just equaled a 27 year old record held by another all-time great. So it was when Roger Federer won the All England Lawn Tennis Championship for the fifth consecutive year, beating his nemesis Rafael Nadal in a final that was complete paisa-vasool for tennis lovers.
(This post has been WIP for too long, for Fedex has since gone on to win the US Open against the precocious Djokovic, despite being decidedly less than his usual brilliant self).
It is not easy to write a dedication to Roger Federer, for whatever I say about him would have been said before, and better. Anyone with even a mild interest in tennis acknowledges that the Swiss does not need to equal or surpass any more records to prove that he is the greatest player ever in the game of tennis. For His Royal Highness Roger Federer’s claim to greatness is not his ability to break and create records at a breathtaking pace – it is that he has brought beauty and elegance to a game that had begun to be too strongly associated with bulging muscles and nerve wracking grunts. He glides on court like a ballerina from the Bolshoi and uses his tennis racket to orchestrate the most breathtaking shots that the game of tennis has seen in a long while, using his talent, intellect and intense concentration to unsettle even his strongest opponents. A lethally reliable serve and a tremendous repertoire of shots notwithstanding, what impresses me most about Federer is the manner in which he conserves and optimizes his energy, raising his game by several notches in the rare instances that he is behind.
Tennis was never a beautiful sport, but watching Federer play sometimes tempts one to draw comparisons with a Chopin composition, a Van Gogh painting or a Somerset Maugham character - quite simply, it moves you emotionally in a way that one would never associate with a rough game of sport.
So it does not come as a surprise when great tennis players, current and past, discuss him in reverential undertones and writers like David Foster Wallace write tomes on Roger Federer as a religious experience. "He just plays you, trying to make you play your worst and he plays his best. He matches up his strength to your weakness unbelievably," said Federer’s first round opponent at the US Open. If Federer continues the way he has, a DVD on Federer moments will soon become a must-have for tennis fans.
I had saved my ode to Roger Federer for the 2007 French Open. Watching the maestro play throughout the tournament, I was confident that this was the year of his Grand Slam. Yes, there was that little matter of disposing Rafa, two time champion and king of clay, but that could be taken care of. The official crown of The Best Player Ever beckoned Roger.
Unfortunately, the feisty Nadal cares a dime for reputation or greatness, and denied Federer that opportunity, stamping his authority over the World No 1 for the second successive time on clay.
So I told myself – going by the measure of records as a measure of greatness, Federer is not the greatest player in tennis, at least not yet. After all, when you contrive to lose a Grand Slam final in 4 sets despite being ahead and having several break points against your opponent, you still have some work left to do.
And then came Wimbledon – Nadal & Federer once again. Emperor versus a worthy pretender. Already, it appeared that Nadal was much more comfortable on grass than Federer was on clay. And then there was his youth, power and tenacity, not to forget that he is one of those rare players against whom Federer has lost more matches than he has won - this was indeed going to be a dream Wimbledon final.
True to form, the match did not disappoint. Both players played breathtaking tennis – sometimes winning a game at love and at other times clawing from behind to clinch a game, made some unexpected unforced errors, and came up with some near-impossible shots – battling each other with that rare hunger and tenacity that distinguishes the great from the good. Hawk Eye also played its role, with a rare outburst from the level headed champion. When Nadal won the second set, Commentator 1 said of Mika, Federer’s girlfriend: She looks nervous. “So does he (Roger Federer)”, quipped Commentator 2.
Two sets later, Commentator 1 of Mika: “She had some nails 2 hours ago”.
But after over four hours of breathtaking brilliance, HRH prevailed, palpably lifting his game in the final set to deny Nadal the opportunity of dethroning him. And in a telling demonstration of the tremendous respect that the world’s best two tennis players have for each other, Nadal embraced the champion at the net. Meanwhile, a particular sequence in the game stays with me. At one set all, Federer is serving to level the 3rd set 6-6 and take it to the tiebreaker, when an ace fired by him is challenged by Rafa – who has successfully challenged several Federer points before, much to the champion’s chagrin. Federer shakes his head in disbelief, as if to say - you dare challenge an ace fired by ME? The shot is called in, Federer wins the point, and backs it up with two unplayable serves to win the game. Just in case you missed the point – no one challenges Roger Federer.
But men’s tennis is changing. For a legion of youngsters – Djokovic, Murray, Baghdatis - are joining forces with Rafael Nadal to challenge the world number one’s complete domination of the game. The Emperor has mercilessly destroyed his opposition in the battles till now, but some say that he has hardly been challenged, except possibly by Nadal. So as the boys throw the gamut for the war ahead, will the ‘aging’ Federer succeed in stamping his superiority once again? If that is so, as most of us hope it will be, the best in men’s tennis is yet to come.
But as the competition draws closer, Federer appears to be in no mood to relinquish his crown. For as he said at the press conference after the US Open final upon being asked to compare Djokovic and Nadal – No 2 or No 3 does not matter, what matters is being Number 1.
From anyone else, that would be arrogance. Coming from Roger Federer, it’s simply confidence.
For now, a closing glimpse. At the post match Wimbledon press conference, the presenter asked Federer: 15-40 down twice in the second set, and you still won (the final)?
Well, you get lucky sometimes, he smiled.
Champions are also humble.
(This post has been WIP for too long, for Fedex has since gone on to win the US Open against the precocious Djokovic, despite being decidedly less than his usual brilliant self).
It is not easy to write a dedication to Roger Federer, for whatever I say about him would have been said before, and better. Anyone with even a mild interest in tennis acknowledges that the Swiss does not need to equal or surpass any more records to prove that he is the greatest player ever in the game of tennis. For His Royal Highness Roger Federer’s claim to greatness is not his ability to break and create records at a breathtaking pace – it is that he has brought beauty and elegance to a game that had begun to be too strongly associated with bulging muscles and nerve wracking grunts. He glides on court like a ballerina from the Bolshoi and uses his tennis racket to orchestrate the most breathtaking shots that the game of tennis has seen in a long while, using his talent, intellect and intense concentration to unsettle even his strongest opponents. A lethally reliable serve and a tremendous repertoire of shots notwithstanding, what impresses me most about Federer is the manner in which he conserves and optimizes his energy, raising his game by several notches in the rare instances that he is behind.
Tennis was never a beautiful sport, but watching Federer play sometimes tempts one to draw comparisons with a Chopin composition, a Van Gogh painting or a Somerset Maugham character - quite simply, it moves you emotionally in a way that one would never associate with a rough game of sport.
So it does not come as a surprise when great tennis players, current and past, discuss him in reverential undertones and writers like David Foster Wallace write tomes on Roger Federer as a religious experience. "He just plays you, trying to make you play your worst and he plays his best. He matches up his strength to your weakness unbelievably," said Federer’s first round opponent at the US Open. If Federer continues the way he has, a DVD on Federer moments will soon become a must-have for tennis fans.
I had saved my ode to Roger Federer for the 2007 French Open. Watching the maestro play throughout the tournament, I was confident that this was the year of his Grand Slam. Yes, there was that little matter of disposing Rafa, two time champion and king of clay, but that could be taken care of. The official crown of The Best Player Ever beckoned Roger.
Unfortunately, the feisty Nadal cares a dime for reputation or greatness, and denied Federer that opportunity, stamping his authority over the World No 1 for the second successive time on clay.
So I told myself – going by the measure of records as a measure of greatness, Federer is not the greatest player in tennis, at least not yet. After all, when you contrive to lose a Grand Slam final in 4 sets despite being ahead and having several break points against your opponent, you still have some work left to do.
And then came Wimbledon – Nadal & Federer once again. Emperor versus a worthy pretender. Already, it appeared that Nadal was much more comfortable on grass than Federer was on clay. And then there was his youth, power and tenacity, not to forget that he is one of those rare players against whom Federer has lost more matches than he has won - this was indeed going to be a dream Wimbledon final.
True to form, the match did not disappoint. Both players played breathtaking tennis – sometimes winning a game at love and at other times clawing from behind to clinch a game, made some unexpected unforced errors, and came up with some near-impossible shots – battling each other with that rare hunger and tenacity that distinguishes the great from the good. Hawk Eye also played its role, with a rare outburst from the level headed champion. When Nadal won the second set, Commentator 1 said of Mika, Federer’s girlfriend: She looks nervous. “So does he (Roger Federer)”, quipped Commentator 2.
Two sets later, Commentator 1 of Mika: “She had some nails 2 hours ago”.
But after over four hours of breathtaking brilliance, HRH prevailed, palpably lifting his game in the final set to deny Nadal the opportunity of dethroning him. And in a telling demonstration of the tremendous respect that the world’s best two tennis players have for each other, Nadal embraced the champion at the net. Meanwhile, a particular sequence in the game stays with me. At one set all, Federer is serving to level the 3rd set 6-6 and take it to the tiebreaker, when an ace fired by him is challenged by Rafa – who has successfully challenged several Federer points before, much to the champion’s chagrin. Federer shakes his head in disbelief, as if to say - you dare challenge an ace fired by ME? The shot is called in, Federer wins the point, and backs it up with two unplayable serves to win the game. Just in case you missed the point – no one challenges Roger Federer.
But men’s tennis is changing. For a legion of youngsters – Djokovic, Murray, Baghdatis - are joining forces with Rafael Nadal to challenge the world number one’s complete domination of the game. The Emperor has mercilessly destroyed his opposition in the battles till now, but some say that he has hardly been challenged, except possibly by Nadal. So as the boys throw the gamut for the war ahead, will the ‘aging’ Federer succeed in stamping his superiority once again? If that is so, as most of us hope it will be, the best in men’s tennis is yet to come.
But as the competition draws closer, Federer appears to be in no mood to relinquish his crown. For as he said at the press conference after the US Open final upon being asked to compare Djokovic and Nadal – No 2 or No 3 does not matter, what matters is being Number 1.
From anyone else, that would be arrogance. Coming from Roger Federer, it’s simply confidence.
For now, a closing glimpse. At the post match Wimbledon press conference, the presenter asked Federer: 15-40 down twice in the second set, and you still won (the final)?
Well, you get lucky sometimes, he smiled.
Champions are also humble.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Change of Heart
To make love with a stranger is the best.
There is no riddle and there is no test. --
To lie and love, not aching to make sense
Of this night in the mesh of reference.
To touch, unclaimed by fear of imminent day,
And understand, as only strangers may.
To feel the beat of foreign heart to heart
Preferring neither to prolong nor part.
To rest within the unknown arms and know
That this is all there is; that this is so.
Unclaimed - Vikram Seth
There is no riddle and there is no test. --
To lie and love, not aching to make sense
Of this night in the mesh of reference.
To touch, unclaimed by fear of imminent day,
And understand, as only strangers may.
To feel the beat of foreign heart to heart
Preferring neither to prolong nor part.
To rest within the unknown arms and know
That this is all there is; that this is so.
Unclaimed - Vikram Seth
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Tiger, tiger, burning bright...
Thank God its Thursday ! Finally, it was time for us to start our journey towards the heart of India – the Kanha National Park in Madhya Pradesh.
The excitement started in Bangalore, when we were running late for our flight and had forgotten to book a cab. In desperation, we offered an autorickshaw 100 bucks for the 4- km ride to the airport. Our man took our exhortations to drive fast quite seriously, and his manipulations of the auto as we were caught in the jam outside the airport, accompanied by entertaining commentary and expletives (aimed at the other drivers) was worth every rupee. For once, I was glad I was not driving my precious car!
After an almost-night-out in Bombay, I was ready to drop off when we reached Nagpur the next morning, but there was still the 220 km road journey to cover. The Qualis offered to us by a friend’s relative turned out to be a bit of a squeeze for seven women and their luggage, but we somehow survived the 5.5 hour road journey. The highpoint was stopping at a hand pump on the way to drink and soak our tired limbs in some refreshingly kool water!
We reached our accommodation, the MP Tourism run Baghira Log Hots, at about 4 in the evening. Not being able to take a safari at that time (we were too tired anyway!), we had a relaxing evening spent sitting outside our cottages and gazing at herds of cheetal flock past as we listened to the sounds of the jungle. The rustic resort is located in the core zone of Kipling country (the name of the resort is obviously inspired by The Jungle Book), and turned out to be a great place to enjoy the Park.
The excitement commenced right away, as we found a baby elephant caught in the grass next to our cottage (panic not - all elephants in the park are tame) and later heard a leopard hunt a deer in the park.
The main activity at the Park is, of course, the jungle safari - there are two safari’s in a day (morning 6-10 and evening 4-6). How many animals you sight depends upon the time of your visit and of course, your luck. I finally broke my jinx of no tiger sightings in several previous wildlife trips by seeing three this time! Looking at this majestic creature - the lazy and regal walk, the proud tilt of the head, the soft and shiny fur and the mesmerizing eyes – is an experience of a lifetime that sends an unmatched thrill down your spine.
The two male tigers were actually ‘sighted’ by forest guards, who then transmit this information to all safari jeeps so that the visitors can come for the ‘tiger show’. This is essentially a 2-3 minute circling of the tiger as you sit atop the park’s elephants – it may appear a bit contrived to purists but you are unlikely to ever get a closer viewing of the king of the jungle, so it is worth the 100 bucks per person. We also had the more natural ‘stumbling upon the tiger’ experience when we came across a tigress nonchalantly ramble across the road that we were driving on.
Our safaris would not have been half as entertaining without Sharmaji, our jeep driver, who, with seven women who he wrongly presumed were innocent college kids, imagined himself as Kanha’s Casanova (much to his chagrin later!). We learnt all the wrong facts about Hindu mythology from him, and even though we were left to ‘catch’ the wildlife on our own, his inimitable vignettes (Main hee who Sharma hoon joh Sita ke saath tha, mujhe zyaada bolne ki aadat nahin hai) and the laughter they evoked are unforgettable.
Though the tiger is clearly the main attraction of the park, on offer are several other wonders for a nature lover. Kanha is the only park that is home to the barasingha (12 horned deer), and our superb luck continued as we came upon a group of them sunning themselves in an open meadow, as if parading for a National Geographic photo-shoot. Other animals that you are likely to come across are various groups of antlers (cheetal, sambhar, chousingha and barking deer – the last look more like street dogs!), bisons, wild boars and of course, langurs (you can see them peering longingly at your food from outside the windows of the dining cottage). The park is also known for the nilgai, the leopard (we waited in vain to see one), sloth bear and dhol (wild dog) – we came across a pack of the last polishing off their kill a few hundred meters from our cottage.
There are also wonderful opportunities for bird lovers – some birds we sighted that you don’t see in cities were the blue jay, the rocket tailed drongo, the junglefowl (we even saw one fly!) and the brainfever bird (heard, not sighted). We also came across a kite hunt for its prey and several egrets by the ponds.
Apart from the safaris, the Kisli gate has an excellent nature’s trail that you can walk or cycle - watch our for the tiger and leopard pugmarks! A wildlife film is also screened here every evening. The Kanha museum in the middle of the jungle is an excellent source of information on the park’s inhabits.
On our second day at the Park, there was a light shower in the evening – although the thunderstorm that preceded it made us think we would be flooded in for the next week (sigh, wishful thinking). But then, every sight and sound in the wild is on a grandiloquent scale. I had a great time getting wet in the rain, trying to match step with a peacock as it strutted across the trees in front of our cottage. The thunderstorm did manage to break the park’s electricity pole though, and there was a sense of adventure in sitting out in the jungle in complete darkness with only the blanket of stars to guide you, hearing an occasional distress call from a cheetal or a leopard growl next to you (or so we imagined, as we ran into our cottage!).
The cottages are quite comfortable, given that you are located in the midst of the jungle in the heartland of India. Seven of us were comfortably accommodated in two clean and pleasant A/C Deluxe Rooms. The pricing, at a little over Rs.3,500 per person per night (Includes all meals, but excludes safari's) is quite reasonable for the peak season - the staff is also flexible when it comes to accommodating extra people in the room. They are also extremely helpful and courteous - they will entertain your requests for tea and coffee at odd hours with a smile. The manager is extremely knowledgeable about wildlife, and is an excellent source of information.
The food is definitely one of the highpoints of the resort, apart from the service and the location. The menu of simple Indian food (dal, veggies, and a non-item item) is extremely tasty and reminds you of the cooking in old Government guest houses. The only area where we could fault the cook was the deserts. There is also a decently equipped bar (they even had some red wine!) and happy hours in the evenings.
Our only grouse was with the safaris – the charges for these were higher than those published on the MP tourism website, and a lot of expenses were not disclosed upfront. Also, being the tourist season, a lot of local boys were being sent as jungle guides, instead of the trained forest staff. It would also have been nice to have a covered porch outside each cottage, especially for the hot summer months.
The best time to visit the park is the summer months, when the heat draws the animals to the watering holes. Do remember to carry comfortable cotton clothes (no denims, please), sunglasses, caps and sunscreen, and a good pair of binoculars. Our manager told us that Dec to Jan are also great for sighting the barasingha – apparently its antlers are in full splendor during these mating months (the antlers are shed every year after this season) – but the temperature touches sub zero levels then.
Don't you believe in God?
Two ladies came knocking at my parents’ door this morning, distributing a leaflet about a talk by some holy man. Very politely, I declined, but the ladies did not take kindly to it. Why can’t you take it – demanded one loudly. I don’t need it – I replied, still polite. Don’t you believe in God??– she demanded in an accusing tone, even more loudly. What I believe or not believe is my business, I don’t ask you about your beliefs, so spare me mine - I replied, matching her tone this time. With a shake of her head, she went off.
Why is everyone so bent on making you believe in Parmatma – the One? Everyone from the stranger at the door to my own mother is upset with my Godlessness, even when, pardon my French, its no bloody business of theirs? If God does exist, I’m sure he doesn’t need the vote of someone who is skeptical about his existence to keep him in business – he enjoys an absolute majority anyways. Why then are his followers so caught up with not only convincing you about his existence, but also the superiority of their God, be he Hindu or Christian or Muslim or Jew? After all, I don’t go accusing people of God-ness when they choose to hook up un-authorized loudspeakers late into the night for a ‘paath’ (holy reading), or when they kill other people (many of whom are God-believers, incidentally) in the name of their God, and then think a holy dip in a freezing river or a grand yagna or pilgrimage will wipe clean all their sins (a belief perpetuated by the holy men who benefit by such ceremonies).
I do not feel compelled to convince people to not believe in God - one’s beliefs are a matter of personal choice, insofar as they do not violate the right of others to life and freedom. And not believing in a God is not the same as not having faith. True faith comes from within, and does not need to be shouted about, or killed for. If I can respect a believer even though I may not understand her, why is my *Godlessness* such a matter of discomfort for her?
Why is everyone so bent on making you believe in Parmatma – the One? Everyone from the stranger at the door to my own mother is upset with my Godlessness, even when, pardon my French, its no bloody business of theirs? If God does exist, I’m sure he doesn’t need the vote of someone who is skeptical about his existence to keep him in business – he enjoys an absolute majority anyways. Why then are his followers so caught up with not only convincing you about his existence, but also the superiority of their God, be he Hindu or Christian or Muslim or Jew? After all, I don’t go accusing people of God-ness when they choose to hook up un-authorized loudspeakers late into the night for a ‘paath’ (holy reading), or when they kill other people (many of whom are God-believers, incidentally) in the name of their God, and then think a holy dip in a freezing river or a grand yagna or pilgrimage will wipe clean all their sins (a belief perpetuated by the holy men who benefit by such ceremonies).
I do not feel compelled to convince people to not believe in God - one’s beliefs are a matter of personal choice, insofar as they do not violate the right of others to life and freedom. And not believing in a God is not the same as not having faith. True faith comes from within, and does not need to be shouted about, or killed for. If I can respect a believer even though I may not understand her, why is my *Godlessness* such a matter of discomfort for her?
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