The Ego Has Landed

So the FIFA World Cup is upon us, and that too it’s being hosted by Brazil, the Mecca of football (after Bengal of course). Now the thing about being a Bong is that we have a deep respect for rivalry, given that all Bengalis are prepared to kill one other over a match between East Bengal and Mohun Bagan, albeit that both are crappy teams.

So while the rest of the nation would be salivating on an IPL final, the quiet Bengali would be staying up past midnight for some obscure Premier League match, just to make sure that Manchester United loses, irrespective who the opponent is.

For someone who grew up in a sports crazy family and pretty much followed all major sporting events (except of course IPL, which is really not a sport), my first memory of the Football World Cup dates back to 1998, when I was a silly schoolgirl, completely in love with Ricky Martin and his song, “Cup of Life”. Of course, over the years, I have learnt to look beyond the good looks, the glamour and the celebrity status of footballers, and focus on important stuff like who they date or which brands they endorse. Or in case of David Luiz, how he maintains his curly locks. Come on, it’s important. I also have curly hair.

But coming back to 2014, I would have given an arm and leg to be there in Brazil, not just because of the World Cup, but also because Latin America has always been in my bucket list, and of course, being there for a live football game (even if it’s Nigeria vs Ghana) is a dream come true: just like watching the Wimbledon final in the All England Tennis Club or a Test Match at Eden Gardens (which I have done five years in a row as a kid). It was once in a lifetime opportunity but I let it go.

So while the next month will witness major lifestyle changes (reverse sleeping patterns, multiple sick leaves and unexplained mood swings), let’s not forget there are more important things in life than just watching the World Cup. This is also the time to step back and take a more objective view of who your REAL friends are, because let’s face it, if the person you hang out turns out to be a closet Wayne Rooney fan, you know it’s time to make new friends.

Now that the time is here and the ego has landed, let’s all put aside our petty concerns and focus on what’s really important, because, for the next one month, “We are One”.

To Be or Not to Be?

If you haven’t yet seen the Ron Howard British-German biopic Rush, immediately do so, especially if you are in the middle of Two States and feeling stuck between a rock (Arjun Kapoor’s expressions) and a hard place (an abysmal script).

For those who haven’t heard of Rush, please go join Manchester United, because that’s where you belong. Apparently they are hiring losers. Again.

For the rest of you, before you dismiss it as yet another movie about some obscure game which you don’t follow, wait, take a break from IPL and give it a chance. The premise may be a 1970s rivalry between two Formula I drivers, but trust me it’s so much more than that. I know I am asking you to commit national treachery here: I mean who watches movies about boxing (Raging Bull, Ali, Cinderella Man), Rugby (Invictus), Baseball (Moneyball) and now Formula I, when we already have so many stories to share about cricket? Still, even as an ardent cricket fan, I suggest that you go watch Rush.

Rush is not just a good sports movie, but it addresses a very deep rooted psychological disease that most of us suffer from: especially people who have tasted success, who have managed to make a mark and who have a standing in the world. We often harp on how difficult it is to become successful or how hard you need to work to get there, but what we overlook is how tough it is to actually let go of it, once you have achieved everything you could have ever imagined. Ask a successful actor, artist or a sportsman about the hardest decision of their lives and more often than not the answer would be, “When should I retire?” Case in point: our very own Sachin Tendulkar.

While a major part of the movie is a roller-coaster ride of witty dialogues and fast-paced Grand Prix chase sequences as it follows the lives of two talented rivals with diametrically opposite personalities, in the end it leaves you with one question that each of us asks ourself at some point in life: “To be or not to be?”

It may be a little too early for me to answer that question, but it just makes me wary that ten years later, I may just end up being rushed into a life that I never even wanted…

Old Wine New Bottle

History was made last weekend at the Australian Open Men’s final. Stanislas Wawrinka, still somewhat obscure in the big league despite being ranked among the top ten players in the world, got his name inked on a Grand Slam trophy. And he beat Rafael Nadal to do so, an opponent against whom he had never won a set in their previous 12 encounters. Not to mention his demolition of Djoker in the semi-finals.

But as significant as this achievement was, to me, the bigger accomplishment was that he is now the top-ranked Swiss player, pushing Federer to the second spot.

Yes, read that again. Roger Federer, the nice guy, the classy guy both on and off the court, the guy who epitomized everything Swiss, is no longer the Swiss No.1! Never thought I would live to see such a day.

I think I have ranted about the nice guys in sports enough number of times: be it Rahul Dravid, VVS Laxman, Steven Gerrard, Didier Drogba and of course Federer. So this post is NOT about nice guys, but about their gradual withdrawal from sports as a new generation of power hungry, aggressive and competitive young players take over. So while you simply relish the energy of Eugene Bouchard, Corey Anderson or Julian Draxler, you still miss the legacy of the old horses who became your role models while you were growing up.

But then there are these rare breed of late bloomers who are just tasting success despite being in the circuit for ages. So while you admire the grit and determination of a Li Na, who at 31, just won her second Grand Slam and her first Australian Open or cricketers like George Bailey, David Hussey, James Tredwell or Saeed Ajmal, all of whom burst into the scene much later their contemporaries, you also question their long-term survival in the game. As you see the likes of Venus Williams and Roger Federer gradually fade away in their twilight years after an illustrious career, Li Na or Wawrinka are just getting started. They may not be as graceful or as exciting to watch, but the very fact that they constantly gnaw away, patiently waiting for their chance, never giving up, is inspiration enough.

Youth, dynamism, raw talent: these are synonymous with any sports, but may be, just may be, it’s time to look beyond charisma and stand up for the good old warhorses.

Not because they are old, but because they remind us that the glory of the past is not behind us; just yet…

The Endangered Game of Cricket

I have been one of the most loyal followers of cricket for almost two decades now. I simply love the game: every version of it (and no, IPL is NOT cricket) and I have grown up worshipping some of the players of my generation like Laxman, Dravid and my childhood favourite, Azharuddin while nurturing ambitions of being involved in the game professionally. Not to mention some of the classic rivalries in our era, be it the Ashes or India-Pakistan had me glued to the screen for hours. I have also witnessed some of the greatest moments in cricket for an Indian fan: the World Cup win in 2011, the T20 Championship in 2007 and the Champions Trophy in 2013. Finally I have been privileged enough to watch some of the best individual performances ever in history: Sachin Tendulkar’s Sharjah storm against Australia, VVS Laxman’s gritty innings against Australia at Eden Gardens, Sehwag’s triple century against Pakistan, Shikhar Dhawan’s delightful test debut and most recently Rohit Sharma’s one-day double century.

Which brings me to the India-Australia bilateral series that ended on Saturday, with India clinching it 3-2. It’s been a strange series, with records tumbling and both teams making it a habit of chasing down scores well beyond 300. Yes, it’s great for the spectators in the ground to see the ball flying off into the stands every over; yes, it’s great for the viewers sitting in their living rooms/pubs cheering each boundary and yes, it’s great for the administrators/sponsors who can rake in the mullah.

But is it good for the game in the long term? I seriously doubt that. If there is a ten-year-old kid watching the match, would this series inspire him to become a bowler? Chances are he would have recurrent nightmares of Ishant Sharma.

As a sincere follower of the game, I can only shudder to imagine what will happen to it ten years down the line, when bowlers get replaced by bowling machines and there is no contest between the bat and the ball and when each team will play eleven batsmen just to ensure 1000-run ODIs.

I had embraced the dynamics of the game from being a five-day Test match to a 50-over game to a 20-over game. I had accepted that more money and glamour would encourage more young people to take up cricket professionally and I had even looked away when corruption and match-fixing scandals raised their ugly heads, choosing to believe that the game was still sacrosanct despite these aberrations.

But what I see now scares me. I still want to cherish the sheer intimidation of the Waqar Younis-Wasim Akram duo, the guile of Shane Warne/Muttiah Muralidharan or the persistence of Anil Kumble. I still want India to produce world class bowlers who can hold their own in international conditions and I still like to watch a good contest rather than new batting milestones.

I still want to watch cricket as I have known cricket and as I have loved cricket which seems to be endangered now…

(Un)Real Mad(rid)

Over the weekend while I was busy cheering for Liverpool and Arsenal in their respective matches against Manchester United and Tottenham, history was being created around Tottenham forward, Gareth Bale.

So, Real Madrid shelled out an obscene 100 million euros (how many zeroes again?) for a six-year deal, surpassing the 94 million they paid Manchester United for Cristiano Ronaldo. The deal also makes FCB’s 57 million for Neymar a couple of months back look like Justin Bieber.

That’s all about the numbers. Over the last couple of days, I came across articles, a lot of which criticized Real Madrid for splurging on a player, “who was not worth so much”. Yes, he is good; yes, he is young, but he is nowhere close to Messi or even his RM colleague, Ronaldo. It is more of a case of extravagance of club President Florentino Perez and one-upmanship by RM over FCB (ahh, the hidden Delhiite in all of us, with RM still sulking over losing out Neymar to FCB. Some articles even went to the extent of portraying it as a callous waste of money at a time when the Spanish economy is in doldrums.

But you have got to give it to RM for investing in young talent and grooming them; you have got to give it to them for having a long-term horizon (in the six years that Bale would be with the club, he would reach his peak form even before he hits 30) rather than obsessing about immediate ‘value’; you have got to give it to them for their flamboyance, both on and off the field. It’s more to do with their inherent culture and way of life rather than this particular case of a transfer. It IS the Spanish way!

As for the argument about the bad economy, that just doesn’t hold its ground at all. It’s not government or tax-payers money at stake. The clubs are privately funded and it’s a simple business deal for them. If they have got the money, they have all the right to put it where they want to. No economics professor can make them feel guilty about it. Look at India for example. Despite being one of the poorest countries in the world, the BCCI is the richest cricket board in the world, and you don’t have the nation up in arms against it! Sports, at the end of the day, is big business.

If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well, even if at times it may seem Real(ly) Mad(rid)…

Flying Colours

Remember some of the greatest sports movies that you have seen? Remember the rush of adrenaline each time you watch them? Remember the number of times you became inspired by the heroes and made unrealistic promises to yourself?

Hollywood has churned out enough of them and some of my favourites include Any Given Sunday, Remember the Titans, The Color of Money, Bend it Like Beckham, Ali, Million Dollar Baby and of course, Jerry Macguire.

Bollywood, on the other hand, though mostly focused on family dramas and candy floss romance, did have its share of sports movies, and good ones at that. Think Lagaan, think Paan Singh Tomar, think Iqbal or even Chak De and the first of the lot which still manages to make me root for Aamir Khan: Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar.

So this weekend when I watched Bhaag Milkha Bhaag, I braced myself for an emotional upheaval. This was not only a sports movie, but a true story at that. Milkha Singh might have been well before my time, I may not have known much about him growing up, but when you combine history with sports and give Farhaan Akhtar the reins to it, the result has to be quite out of this world. At almost three and half hours, it may be a tad too long, but that doesn’t take away from the sheer cinematic treat that it is. It’s a journey through time, and instead of just watching it, you feel a part of it, as you are taken on a rollercoaster ride into the life of an athlete, who, as gifted as he is, is essentially a human being, with his share of trials and tribulations, vulnerabilities, mistakes and distractions. It also provides a fair portrayal of the political turmoil of the era: something most of us haven’t experienced. Most importantly, it reminds us that there is more to a sportsman’s life than glamour, fame, money, women and endorsements. It’s very easy to get caught up in the frivolities and temptations, but dig a little deeper, and you see the hard work, discipline and willpower that goes into the making of a great athlete. Which brings me to Farhaan Akhtar and the effort that he put in for over a year, to get under the skin of the character. Literally. When you talk about the conventionally ‘hunky’ Bollywood hero, you would say Salman Khan or John Abraham or Hrithik Roshan. But not Farhaan Akhtar, who plays a nerd in a movie like Karthik Calling Karthik! If Aamir Khan surprised you in Ghajini, Akhtar simply blows your mind away in Bhaag Milkha Bhaag.

May be it’s not one of those movies that I can watch multiple times (like Jerry Macguire), but if I ever had a chance to make a movie myself or act in one, this would surely be on top of the list (right up there with Boys Don’t Cry or Philadelphia). Not too many works of art challenge you to this extent, both emotionally and physically, but the fact that Bollywood has matured enough to treat a true story with sensitivity while retaining the ethos of it, speaks volumes about our industry today. And yes, it’s entertaining too.

At the same time, it has enough sense to limit Sonam Kapoor’s screen presence to bare minimum.

The Flying Sikh does fly high with flying colours, and carries Bollywood with it…

Remember the Titans

So it’s no secret that I simply love sports; in fact I love it more than chocolates. I love it as much as Bengalis love their fish or south Indians love their gold or north Indians love anything that comes as dowry.

And this time of the year, especially this year, it’s like a typical Indian wedding season, as far as sports is concerned. Even before I could fully recover from the French Open, I was hit by the Champions Trophy, the FIFA World Cup qualifiers and now, the mother of all grand slams, The Wimbledon which begins today. And I am not one of those passive followers who go about their daily chores like Delhi men go about molesting women, briefly pausing to check the score on their cellphone/bribe a cop. For me, any game has to be watched LIVE, including the ads, the pre and post-match analyses and of course, the presentation ceremony.

Which brings me to yesterday. Having followed all of India’s convincing victories in the Champions Trophy, I was eagerly waiting for the final between the two top teams in world cricket: Shane Warne and Elizabeth Hurley. Sorry, replace Warne with Arun Nayyar.

Anyway, I digress. So I had planned my weekend accordingly, so that I was ready in front of my TV (complete with junk food and drinks), sharp at 2:30 p.m., one hour before the match was scheduled to begin. And I sat like that till 8:30 p.m. when it finally began. I kid you not. For six hours, I cursed the rain and cursed the ICC (especially Sourav Ganguly) for not keeping a reserve day. I mean seriously: first you go and keep an important match in Birmingham of all places, where it ALWAYS rains, and then you have the gall to say that there is no reserve day! Are they really dumb or did they just want to avoid playing India because they didn’t want to lose. I know, I know I am acting like a besotted annoying fan from Kolkata, but seriously even I can take only so much of Mamata Banerjee and highlights: that too after already watching ALL the matches live.

But when it did begin, it was a treat indeed. One moment I was abusing Ishant Sharma and Dhoni, and the next moment I was blaming everybody for match fixing, but as soon as Morgan and Bopara committed suicide, I was looking at Ishant, ready to smother him with a hug, forgiving him of his past sins and his long hair. And there it was, the moment of glory: even at 1:40 in the morning, I was wide awake, my eyes lovingly caressing the trophy. I remembered the last time I was this happy, way back in 2011, when India won the World Cup and we were on the roads at 3 a.m. Somehow, this was more special: for one, this was in England, against the home team under terrible conditions. But more importantly, this was a different Indian team: a young team without superstars (read Tendulkar), without egos and without any baggage. There were no larger-than-life individuals, no cold wars and no politics: these were simple college boys enjoying themselves, who were mature enough to rise to the occasion, but naïve enough to show their emotions.

For all of us born after the 1983 World Cup, we haven’t seen much of success, as India was mostly relegated to the 4th/5th position of the ICC rankings, marred by controversies and regarded more for its superstars than for its ability to win consistently, especially abroad. But in the last few years, things have changed gradually. What began with the T20 World Cup, we have now won every major tournament, beaten the best at their backyard and proved to the world that we no longer rely on individual excellence.

And all under my dedicated, single-minded and determined focus backed by sheer hard work.

For Dhoni, the next milestone is probably 2014 Lok Sabha Elections. But what about me?

Ugly Betty

So I watched Yeh Jawani Hai Diwani over the weekend. To begin with, let me warn you that it’s an extremely crappy movie which drags itself (and you) to a slow death. Add to it the painful second half which is entirely about an elaborate destination wedding which never ends and of course, the typical filmy dialogues, the complete lack of a storyline, not to mention the forced climax (why is Bollywood so obsessed with happy endings) do make you want to run out, get drunk and watch Hangover III.

There was nothing new about it and we would all agree that it was a rehash of some of the popular Bollywood movies: Dil Chahta Hai, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara among others.

Friendship, check
Finding your dreams, check
Ugly duckling turning into a swan, check

Having said that, I cried in the movie. Yes, I am hypocritical that way. But there is something endearing about the Ugly Betty (Jassi) especially since I have spent most of my school/undergrad days in similar circumstances: nerdy, awkward, shy, uncool, bespectacled with no social skills. Of course, this being Bollywood, she HAD to transform into this hot chick, while I have remained in the nerd club, complete with the books.
And then you also have the familiar story about seeing the world, living your life and dreaming big as opposed to surrendering to the mundane mediocrity of societal parameters.

All of it you have heard before and all of it resonates with you and if you have ever been in a relationship which didn’t work out because of this very reason, you would identify with it more. However, what does NOT convince you is the abrupt happy ending, forced for the sake of happiness. God forbid, if Bollywood had the courage to bend the rules, to explore the dark side of the moon, to portray reality without sugarcoating it.

And speaking of Ugly Betty and making dreams come true, Serena Williams still manages to dominate WTA, as she romped to yet another Grand Slam title, defying age, competition and her first-round humiliation in 2012 French Open.

We Ugly Betties have dreams too, and sometimes, just sometimes, they also come true...

If You are Out There

So Alex Ferguson retired. After 26 years, after becoming a legend, after creating history. It’s not often that you come across a personality who makes a name from the sidelines, without actually being on the field. At least I can’t think of anyone so larger than life in modern sports.

So what is it that makes him wield so much power even without playing the game? Charisma? Leadership? Passion for the game? Being a shrewd strategist?
And that makes me wonder about the qualities of being a great leader, the age-old debate about whether leaders are born or made.

Yes, leaders have to good at what they do and lead from the front? But the reverse is not necessarily true, i.e. even if you are the best in your field, you may not be a good leader. Case in point: Sachin Tendulkar.

Leaders also need to have a keen mind, listen well and be receptive to ideas, stay calm, be humble and not take themselves too seriously. Which is why I admired Mark Taylor as a captain even when he was struggling for form.

Leaders need to be inspiring, articulate and fearless enough to believe in their dreams against all odds. But you may be all of those things and yet not be a sustainable leader despite the initial wave of success. Who better than Adolf Hitler to exemplify that.

Most of all, leaders need to respect the people, win their trust, stand up for them and put their interests ahead of his/her own. But you can only do that when you are completely secure as a person and secure about your acceptance. History is replete with examples of insecurity and mistrust playing havoc with the psychology of an otherwise good leader.

Thus the question remains: are people like Mahatma Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, Nelson Mandela rare gifts to humankind or can you actually groom leaders?

Can the B schools over the world, with all their fancy jargon and smart shoes, actually impart leadership skills to students or do they simply churn out ‘managers’ instead of leaders?

And can Manchester United really replace Sir Alex Fergusson, not just as a coach but as an eccentric yet inspiring personality with an uncanny ability to bring out the best in people?

With great power comes great responsibility, but can you be responsible even without resorting to power? And can you command respect without demanding it?

Drinking Mercury

Following my decision to embark on a journey to sainthood, I stacked my fridge with healthy vegetables, fruits and dairy products, staying away from my usual quota of fried snacks, aerated drinks and alcoholic drinks. But then it was Friday, and the obvious happened. A friend landed up and since she needed company to drink, I simply HAD to postpone my sainthood journey for a couple of days. But rest assured it HAS indeed begun.

I spent a major part of Saturday COOKING. Yes, I repeat, cooking, so much so that my cylinder ran out of gas, leaving me with half-cooked daal and veggies: a clear sign that nature is conspiring against my will to attain nirvana. But of course, I am not someone who gives up easily. So, despite the unexpected turn of events, I stayed away from eating out or ordering home delivery, surviving on sleep. I think life becomes so much easier if you can just sleep through your worries, hunger included.

But I also watched my first IPL match of the season. Dear readers, let me maintain a guilty silence of two seconds while you soak in this information…

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So, why would I do something so irrational, so stupid, so downright pathetic? The answer is simple: Rahul Dravid! Ever since he retired from all forms of the game, I had been missing him, and when I ACCIDENTALLY came across his speech during the toss while channel-surfing, I simply didn’t have the heart to ignore him. So yes, I am not ashamed to admit that I watched an ENTIRE IPL match (full 40 overs plus the painstaking extra innings in between) between Rajasthan Royals and some other team (inconsequential).

To add to the-already pointless weekend, I also watched the pointless match between Arsenal and Manchester United. The latter having already won the League seemed to have to the ground straight from the bar after having a really long celebration, but even then managed to hold on to a 1-1 draw.

If purposelessness had to be redefined, this weekend may well be the new yardstick for it…

Alpine Romance

This weekend was orgasm redefined: I spent a major part of it watching India’s young players give a drubbing to the Aussies, as they walked away with the Border-Gavaskar Trophy after a 4-0 clean sweep. I have been following cricket for the past fifteen years, but rarely have I seen such complete domination, and the fact that the Australians were at the receiving end of it, made it all the more orgasmic.

If that wasn’t enough, I spent the nights drooling over my childhood hero, Andre Agassi’s autobiography, Open. While I have been an ardent admirer of his game, his colourful personality, his daring experiments with clothes, accessories and hairstyles, not to mention his failed marriage to Brook Shields followed by a low-key wedding to Steffie Graf had only added to his charm. Call it my fascination with the vulnerable yet rebellious appeal. However, after reading the book, I discovered new aspects of his life which only strengthened my loyalty towards him: his volatile relationship with his father, his troubled childhood, his special bond with his elder brother Philly, his childhood friend Perry, his coach Brad and his trainer Gil, his agonizing years in the infamous Nick Bollettieri’s Academy, his frequent showdown with the authorities due to his on-court antics, his controversial views on his contemporaries including Jeff Tarango, Jim Courier, Michael Chang and Pete Sampras. Now I had grown up watching all these players on TV, but when I read about an insider’s account of how they were as individuals and not just players, I felt a renewed connection to the game, which I admit, I had been neglecting a bit lately, purely because of a lack of personalities. Yes, I love to watch Federer play and I like Djokovic’s clinical assassination of his opponents or Murray’s raw talent, but I miss the colourful personalities of the nineties. Give me an Agassi or a Kuerten or an Ivanisevic any day over the modern day players.

But the highlight was definitely my three hours of temporary insanity when I blew up 20k on clothes, accessories, bags (yes, plural) and a huge suitcase. Imagine yourself among the most stylish clothes in Debenhams, and then imagine a 50% discount on the stuff that you actually like! How often does that happen? So there I was, posing in front of the mirror, wearing a sweater, a blazer and an overcoat on a hot Mumbai afternoon, with people staring at me. But I couldn’t care less, as I lovingly stuffed all of them inside the biggest American Tourist suitcase available. Just to complete the feeling of being totally loved by myself, I gifted myself a couple of oversized handbags in extremely pretty shades, but now I am feeling a bit guilty. Call it the morning-after awkwardness.

If you are wondering what made me splurge on stuff which would never see the light of day in Mumbai, I am not TOTALLY crazy. I am actually going to Switzerland for a couple of weeks for work, and hopefully I can venture into the mystic Swiss Alps while I am there.

The shopping was just the foreplay, the romance begins next week…

The Meena Kumari Syndrome

I spent a major part of the weekend watching the Australian Open. Even though both Li Na and Andy Murray lost, I continue to be a staunch underdog supporter, more so than ever.

And when I did find some respite, I watched Inkaar despite the lukewarm response it has received in the box office, despite the loose script as claimed by a few and despite Arjun Rampal. Why did I watch it? Of course the Sudhir-Mishra-Chitrangada-Singh combination is addictive, but so is the world of advertising which has remained a much-cherished wonderland for me. The theme itself was a powerful reality: I mean as a girl I can totally vouch for the fact that we look up to our bosses, especially in our first job, and somewhere down the line, the admiration can easily turn into attraction and if you have someone as dashing as Arjun Rampal as the boss, it’s an obvious outcome.

Now compared to the glamorous setting of this strictly urban multiplex movie, Matru Ki Bijli Ka Mandola was the exact opposite, in its completely rustic appeal, the apparent North Indian touch and the over-the-top acting. Even the on-your-face predictable humour was so not my cup of tea. But somehow I simply loved the movie, with all its gulabi bhaes, the invisible hand in the form of Mao (an appeal to my communist roots) and most of all, Pankaj Kapoor at his drunken best! But the key takeaway was the Meena Kumari syndrome and as a friend pointed out, I seem to be suffering from it as much as Bijli.

So yes, I do have a problem: I am never happy, I am never satisfied, I am never content and I almost take a perverse pleasure in being the drama queen whose life is falling apart.

I crib because I want it all and I crib because I have it all…

The End of an Era

I was looking forward to this weekend with a lot of hope and expectation: may be Mayan WAS right, may be the world WILL come to an end and may be I would finally make peace with the world and the director of the movie 2012 for scarring me for life…

But no, it wasn’t to be: I woke up as good as new, as fresh as ever, with a slight hangover, but nothing earth shattering: the world was calm, the world was its usual languid self, the world was all set to screw me over in 2013, again…

Until yesterday, when Sachin Tendulkar finally announced his long-awaited retirement for One Day cricket. Now, personally I found it nothing short of a tragedy that someone as legendary as him would wait for being forced out of the team rather than bowing out gracefully when he was at his peak. For all his contribution to the game, for all the adulation that he deserves and for all the years of entertainment he has provided, it was a sad end to a glittering career.

I can’t help wondering why would anybody of his stature drag the fairy tale to an unhappy ending?

Wouldn’t it have been infinitely more memorable to have retired on the eve of India winning the world cup, playing his last match on his home ground and hoisting the trophy?

Is that what makes the difference between a great player and a great leader?

Is that why I have always been a staunch Dravid loyalist despite the fact that he almost drove me to death by boredom when I was younger and more impatient?

Is that why while I am supremely grateful to be born at an age which saw the Little Master at his peak, I would never tell my kids that he was the cricketer I idolized?

But with his retirement, an era does come to an end, if not the world.

Worker's Song

Lately I have been doing things completely uncharacteristic of me: like I filled up my self-evaluation form at work for the SECOND TIME IN THE SAME COMPANY! If you know me, you would also know that this is sort of ground breaking, because, this is the longest relationship for me in ANY form (apart from this blog). Also, also, I RENEWED my contract for my house for another year. The irony is of all the five houses that I have stayed in the last three and a half years since I passed out of college, I like this one the least. It has never been HOME, but a very convenient place in a good locality and close to work, where I can just crash at night and not worry about commuting or arguing with autowalas. But I never imagined that I would actually stay on for so long, which is why I had avoided investing in the house, except for the basic furniture and white goods. But now that I do plan to stick around for some more time, I decided it was high time I fixed the basic plumbing of the house. Which meant more expense this month, adding to the personal financial crisis that my life currently is.

What with all the Durga Puja festivities, family visits and now Diwali shopping, I was already in trouble. Add to that the splurging on the smartphone and a new watch. And now that the wedding season is already here, like every year, I lose a few more friends to matrimony, which makes it worse because I have to shell out money for the wedding gifts also. But the major blow came in terms of air ticketing since I have 2-3 trips planned for the first half of next year (in anticipation of my bonus), but I needed to fund at least the tickets for now before prices become unaffordable. I ended up buying the cheapest ones, which turned out to be non-refundable and now even if the rest of the world ends in 2012, certain parts of South East Asia HAVE to survive, along with anon, SH and of course me. No matter what happens, I WILL GO TO CAMBODIA/MANILA IN FEBRUARY because I have already paid for it.

SO, given the Lehman Brothers state of affairs in my life, I spent a major part of the weekend at home, watching football, cursing Andre Santos (how can he swap shirts with RVP not to mention the sheer embarrassment on the field???) and reading Salman Rushdie. Somehow, I had never made it through the intricately detailed Midnight’s Children, but Fury, with all its depressing connotations, turned out to be a surprisingly good read. The only time I went out, I had to take a bus and squeezing myself in the back seat with a bunch of men was enough to make me stay put at home.

Stability, as I am figuring out, is the curse of the working class…

Second Chances

Don’t you simply loathe those people who simply can’t stay at home on a weekend and HAVE to throng all the popular places in Mumbai, irrespective of increasing auto fares, alcohol prices and obnoxious Bandra crowd? Of course you don’t, because you are one of them!

But I am one of those hypocritical people who claim that they are too cool to follow the crowd, that they love their own company and that for them, the weekend is all about cleaning/washing/doing laundry/paying bills, but secretly dress up and travel halfway across the city to try new places/things.

Like this weekend: we had this marvelous idea to go to Gateway of India, hire a yatch and sail for two hours. But it seemed the rest of Bombay had already beaten us to it, and after fighting off the crowd, we did manage to get onboard the Blue Whale and the next couple of hours were simply out of this world, literally. We managed to cruise across the sea, admiring the private yatchs of the Who is Who of Bombay, the light breeze playing havoc with my already messy curls, but the alcohol smuggled into the boat making sure that I no longer cared about it. The sunset itself was straight out of the Kerala Tourism brochures, and suddenly, I was miles away, lost in the memory of cruising through the backwaters of Alleppey and Kumarakom. And while I was living in the pseudo dream, one of my closest friends was actually getting married in God’s Own Country: a traditional Mallu Christian wedding which I so badly wanted to attend, but thanks to circumstances, had to pull out of. We wound up the night with a beautiful view of the Queen’s Necklace from the Hanging Gardens and pigging out on Chinese food. Life was almost perfect, but not quite.

I also read Lance Armstrong’s autobiography, “It’s not about the bike”, and given the recent state of events, I was not quite sure what to make of it. Irrespective of where things stand, he would always remain a hero. You can strip him off his accolades/medals, but you can never take away his place in history.

Life does give you a second chance, but at times, you are too scared to take it or you simply make a mess of it…

Addicted

As a kid, I never liked playing with dolls. In fact one of my darkest secrets is that I am abnormally attached to this ONE doll (I still have it in my home in Kolkata) and despite my mom’s subtle suggestions that I am too old to hold on to it, I have steadfastly refused to give it up. But no, I am definitely not proud of it, because the rest of me is testosterone charged: I love no-nonsense, objective conversations and I love sports (and no, golf is not a sport).

In fact I love sports so much that I can lounge around the house for two days tuned to different sports channels without getting up, other than to go to the gym. Yes, I have joined a gym, and since I am paying through my nose, I ensure that I put in my one hour EVERY DAY, even if my body refuses to co-operate.

But coming to my weekend, I had the MOST awesome time, as I remained glued to the TV in my old college T shirt, munching on Kurkure: while the India-New Zealand Test match served up a mouth-watering contest, it was followed by the Premier League in the evening and the U.S. Open at night. What more can you ask for? I mean, really!

Take yesterday for instance: my day began with Virat Kohli getting his 2nd Test century. Then following a brief entertainment by Dhoni and Ashwin, New Zealand dismissed India managing to get a narrow lead in the first innings. But India hit back with Ashwin taking yet another 5-wicket haul, and today India will be chasing a challenging total in the 4th innings, while I shall get no work done!

After the cricket match, I had a narrow window, during which I hurriedly finished my cardio, had a bath and again settled in front of the TV, this time to watch Arsenal vs Liverpool, followed by Manchester United vs Southampton. I rooted for the underdogs as Southampton almost drove home with a fairy tale victory over the favourites, but for the last minute heroics of Van Persie.

As soon as the match got over, I switched over to the live action of US Open. Some of the old favourites like Kim Clijsters, Lleyton Hewitt or even Venus Williams are crashing out in the early stages which only reminds me that I am also getting older.

Have I become an addict? Or was I always an addict kept under control by reality?

May be it’s time for me to retire as well, and go back to the doll I love so much…

The Underdog Pride

I have always been an underdog: from the time I won the 100 metres race in school despite being one of the smallest girls to being the first person to be placed in college, multiple backlogs notwithstanding, my limited “success” has always taken people by surprise. My numerous failures, on the other hand, have been in line with the low expectations that most people have from me. So yes, I am never in the limelight, never the favourite and definitely, never the one burdened with ‘potential’, and I prefer it that way.

So my tryst with anonymity has made me a sucker for other underdogs, and almost instinctively, I find myself standing up for the black sheep: be it the lost new hire awkwardly sitting in one corner at an office party, or a wild card playing her first match in a Grand Slam against a top-ranked player.

Which brings me to the third round match between the four-time Wimbledon champion Serena and her Chinese opponent, Jie Zheng. While not exactly a newbie in the WTA circuit, Zheng had lost all her previous encounters with Williams, and the petite underdog was not a serious challenge to her powerful opponent. Or so we thought. The spirited pint-sized girl put up a tenacious fight, making Williams slog for every point, running down everything that the American could throw at her and even taking the first set in a tie-breaker. The match went right down to the wire, as Williams finally won the decider 9-7, but for me, Zheng was still the winner.

Obviously, as I made myself comfortable in front of the TV last night for the Euro Final, there was little doubt that I was going to root for Italy against Spain, the clear favourites. It has absolutely nothing to do with my recent visit to the country or my fascination with the volatile yet supremely talented Mario Balotelli (ok, may be the second reason does impact my loyalty to SOME extent). But unlike the Williams-Zheng match, this time there was no contest as Italy suffered a humiliating defeat, though my only consolation was that Italy would go home, head held high, for giving their fans something to cheer about.

With underdogs, it’s never about winning, but it’s about pride…

Slice of Life

The first thing (ok second thing, because I posted about my trip before anything else) I did after I came back to India (even before I unpacked) was watch Shanghai. Not only is it directed by THE Dibakar Banerjee, it also has one of my three favourite actors in the mainstream-yet-sane-arena, Abhay Deol (other two being Rajat Kapoor and Kay Kay Menon). Now I have seen Oye Lucky Lucky Oye n number of times, while Love, Sex Aur Dhoka remains one of my offbeat favourites. But Shanghai is different in its intensity, in its treatment of the contemporary politics-corporate greed-bureaucratic corruption nexus and in its portrayal of the evergreen battle between right vs. the easy way out. What I like most about the movie (no, not Emraan Hashmi, though this is, by far, his best work) is its complete lack of judgment or moralism: may be Shalini (Kalki) and many other crusaders in real life are looking for the Devta, or that someone special to look up to, to take them forward, to lead them, but s(he) doesn’t exist. Even Dr. Ahmedi, with all his good intentions and inspiring speeches, is just another human being, with his share of weaknesses, particularly his intelligent, attractive and young female students. And allow me once more to rave about Prosenjit, as I have previously done in case of Autograph and Baishey Srabon. For someone who has grown up on his movies and seen him grow into a mature actor from the silly, slightly overweight Bengali hero, dancing around trees, it’s been quite a journey.

Otherwise, my life (more specifically my house) is falling apart, literally. First my clothes hanger (which is actually a thin rope outside my window) gave in under the weight of all the laundry I did over the weekend, which resulted in ALL my favourite clothes being soiled/ruined. This is like the greatest tragedy conceivable in my worst nightmares. Secondly, the fan in my living room shoebox stopped working, and the uncooperative electrician refuses to fix it, although he has already taken the money. Then, my loserly cable operator blocked Neo Prime till I installed the god-damned set-top box, something I was avoiding so far. But since I HAD to watch the French Open final, I decided to shell out more money on digital TV, which I don’t need. After all, Euro 2012 has started and I have already stocked up on junk food, chocolates and lemonade (what? I am off alcohol for some time after my binge drinking in Italy). Hence access to Neo Prime is of immediate importance. Finally, my operating system crashed, which means I have to now get my laptop fixed as well. In summary, the last three days have cost me a lot in terms of capital expenditure, which is tough, considering that half my monthly salary goes to my landlord and the other half is divided equally among paying bills/watching movies/eating out/shopping, leaving no room for luxuries like fixing the fan or watching digital TV or buying a clothes hanger.

Still I managed to buy Manreet Sodhi’s new book The Taj Conspiracy and got it signed by her. An engineer and an IIMC management graduate who gave up a successful corporate career for writing, initially I had dismissed her as yet another in the new breed of contemporary Indian writers. But as I interacted with her and listened to her journey through literature and history, she came across as a sincere and serious writer, who is not scared to experiment, and most of all, who writes for herself, rather than dumbing it down for the audience. While her first book, Earning the Laundry Stripes was a semi-autobiographical, tongue-in-cheek account of a woman’s journey through corporate life, her second book, The Long Walk Home is a historical fiction, while The Taj Conspiracy is a historical thriller.

As I listened to her story and saw the copies of the book disappear from the table, I stared longingly, conjuring up an image, where I would be sitting in that chair, slightly nervous, slightly anxious, but at the same time, satisfied and fulfilled to have lived a dream.

Writing, as she said it, is a calling, not a career or a profession…

Cup of Life

Yet another Saturday night…
Yet another boring social event…
This time, I am sitting pretty uncomfortable in a black saree, stealing glances at my watch, and shifting uneasily…
Finally, the dinner is served…
I gobble it up, and run for my life (which is difficult, considering I am in a saree and high heels)…
It’s 10 p.m., there is still time for the match to begin, but I want to watch the pre-match analysis as well…
After all, it’s my first UEFA Champions League Final…

Now the advantage of being a football virgin is that I am still learning, I am still in the haze of the initial ecstasy, my slate is still clean, I don’t have any loyalties and I am not a slave to any superhero: all I want is an exciting, breathtaking match, while being dispassionate about the outcome. After the last minute heroics of Manchester City last weekend, I had been looking forward to the final showdown between Bayern Munich and Chelsea.

So it began: red vs. blue, the favourites on their home ground vs. the underdogs, the young talent of Thomas Muller vs. the experience of Ashley Cole. Unlike cricketers and tennis players, here I don’t know most of the players, I am not familiar with their past legacies, except the vague recollection of a certain Didier Drogba, who represented Ivory Coast in the 2010 World Cup with a broken arm in a cast. The first half is scratchy; BM is in control, but falls short of converting its chances. I am a little bored, and I believe so is Chelsea, except Petr Cech, the goalie.
The second half beings on the same note; another half an hour; still no goal. I am sleepy and I begin to feel that the game is overrated, and the saree is making me all the more uncomfortable. And suddenly, out of the blue, a header from Muller somehow manages to go through and wake me up. It’s not exactly a great goal, but the crowd goes berserk. I can’t make up my mind whether to be happy or not, because I don’t know who to support, AND I remind myself to stay put lest my drapes come off. With seven minutes to go, Chelsea’s chances of winning the trophy are next to nothing, but, but, but Drogba had other plans. With barely two minutes to go, he comes up with an equalizer, and this time I am screaming my lungs out, my heart warming up in favour of the underdog.

When Robben misses the penalty during the extra time, I am ACTUALLY HAPPY, but I still can’t see Chelsea winning, so I am hoping that they hang on till the penalty shootout. It’s way past my bedtime; I am tired and my movements are restricted thanks to the god-damned saree.

The penalty shoot out begins; the story continues; BM leads as Mata misses; but Cech, who has been the busiest Chelsea player in the match, saves two penalties from Olic and then Schweinsteiger. As Drogba approaches, I am actually praying to god (and I never pray). My prayers are answered.

Drogba holds his nerve, Chelsea wins; I stare away with a vacuous smile on my face as I look at the smiling faces sharply in contrast to the crying Schweinsteiger; but I restrain myself and get up in a dignified and lady-like manner, rearranging my pleats, though the crazy girl in me wants to jump uninhibitedly.

I came in as an agnostic, I was converted to a believer…

The Indian Summer

There are three important aspects of the summers in India: the wedding season, the IIT entrance exam season and most importantly, the IPL season. For a sex-starved nation, it’s a lethal combination of everything that results in the collective orgasm of the country: cricket, Bollywood, money, celebrities, glitz and glamour, sprinkled with adequate doses of not-so-subtle sleaze and the great Indian passion for mugging up formulae and memorizing laws of motion stuck in an 8-by-8 room, also known as Bansal Classes in Kota.

If you observe closely, the dynamics among the three are quite fascinating. So while an ageing Bollywood actress who can no longer set the box office on fire, makes a quick buck shaking a leg in some opulent wedding of some rich industrialist’s kid’s wedding, an egoistic actor going through an extended mid-life crisis (and hence making movies like Ra.One) decides to BUY himself some self-respect by owning an IPL team. The industrialist, not to be left behind, vows to outdo the actor and thereby establish his superiority once and for all, by using all his funds meant for a fledgling airlines to buy rival IPL team: a team which represents a REAL metro and can ACTUALLY play cricket! Score! The ageing actress, desperate for her share of twitter limelight, desperately clings on to rival industrialist, who agrees to sponsor her stake in another IPL team, in exchange for retaining his freedom. Further, some obscure cheerleaders in a KKR match are cutting costs by wearing the same outfit for the match and the wedding, all in the name of the sanctity of Indian culture!

Meanwhile, in the afore-mentioned city of Kota, a 17 year-old bespectacled boy, with his nose in the latest and fattest version of M.L. Khanna, is secretly comparing the chemistry among Salman Khan, Kareena Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra in the IPL Opening Ceremony, more determined than ever to crack his way through the most coveted institutes in the country, so that, some day, he can also become as ugly and rich as Mukesh Ambani and gift an IPL team to his pretty wife.

Such are the seasons of life, and it’s no surprise that I am a withering leaf, getting blown away to an increasingly lifeless existence…