Isn't it true that we know not whom we meet, while some make your heart wildly skip a beat, there are others that make enduring them a feat, the few with who you dream, hang out and eat, its with those that your heart’s free of deceit. when they leave, you are lost and dazed in confusion, but, embrace it even if it seems without reason, for what you feel now makes you distinctly human, no wonder they say, for anyone with an ounce passion, cruelest and hardest are goodbyes in any season.
Love this poem written by Relax'singh' (and thats not me). I wanted to have a honest blog but somewhere in the journey of being a time-pass-blogger things changed and I felt it wasn't 'honest' enough. But I do know these are true feelings and thoughts of the author and to be precise even the author's friends and in fact its so universal that it had to be in www somewhere.
It's not just the place. It's not just the human psyche, playing games, matching places with emotions. Its not purely rational either. Its a bit of everything, culminating at times, into pseudo masculine tears, wanting to break out, because the emotions causing is like the place itself, a myriad mixture of nostalgia, sadness and pride.
Madras, now Chennai, has turned 369. Not that I need a day, a certain "Madras Day", to yearn for such a heavenly place. Like every thing great, it has its own peaks and fissures, making it a naturally beautiful scoop of Arun Vanilla Ice cream. Imperfect, hence beautiful. Like the scars on the moon.
I miss, a million genuine brown faces; the world famous Kaapi; finite but uncountable number of pullayaar Koyil; extremely unhygienic road side kai yendhi bhavans, being partial and waiving off the diseases, to people who shall eat there with hunger and compassion, feeding the road side rabid dogs; shirtless young boys sweating out in sun, playing cricket with a plaster of paris bat and stone stumps; dames with malli poo on them, strolling around the sannidhi's, multi-tasking, sneak peaking at the sneak peaking vetti male youth oglers; egg puffs at bakeries; bicycle doubles and triples ride; foot boarding pallavan transport buses; vetti jay walking at the spencers; soccer and beach bathing on saturday mornings at the marina; 12 Rs bajji plates at bessie; mun vaasanai, sondha mun vaasanai after the first few rain drops; Slum side carrom board competition, standing all the while; 15 rupees bottomless juice shops; karumbu juice and elani during agni natchathiram; innovative auto drivers mocking the west; deadly kosus and omnipresent household disgusting pallee's and the non perishable karapaans/paatchaas.......
"I remember a place...a town, a house like a lot of other houses....a yard like a lot of other yards...a street like a lot of other streets. And the thing is....after all these years, I still look back...with wonder." Wonder Years.
Happy B'day Chennai! I truely love you. I dearly miss you. I promise and pray with great hope, my last breath will be in your arms. Your loving son, Kaevy
P.S This post comes after a long hiatus. Not that I wasn't writing, but its just that I dint feel like posting them. I shall try to be more regular.
Tickets from Chennai to SFO for 2: 130,000 Rs. Flight tickets to Buffalo for 2: 5000 Rs Ride on the maid of the mist cruise: 1500 Rs. Watching my parents become children again: Priceless.
There are some err... many things money can't buy, for everything else there is mastercard.
Masters Degree! 6 years of hard pointless education in a field which now I think is not suited to me and to celebrate that huge Fiasco they dress people like clowns(as shown left) in gowns(irrespective of gender;unisex, one size fits all cap... COOOOOLLLLLNESSSS) that would make any clown proud and make the whole world laugh and smile with you. May be that happy moment to all those who are watching(parents, friends, significant other, roadside stranger) makes the 6 damned years of 'bits and bytes' worth it. If you think that's a cynical view, you may be wrong.
My parents were glad to see me all Gowned up and pretty like a historic Greek Parliamentary Chick. Nice innit? Few of those clowns who thought they can contribute to the society in a small way and felt they still have some passion for their realm, made this beautiful innovative app for Orkut. Its called Ortist. Its something like MS paint. It lets people share scribblings. Those constant notebook scribblers and caricaturists like me would love that. It can do a bit more. It will let the receiver see the sequence of strokes the sender had made to create that final image. They do this with a 'play' option. One of my close friends helped Ortist become a full grown adult application with his insatiable enthusiasm. If you are in Orkut, you can try it out and am sure if you have little creative juice in you, you will love it.
I have lots of thoughts pending and I have very little time to write about it. They are getting lost in my brain. Hopefully that will change and I will blog more frequently in the near future.
"What's the most you ever lost on a coin toss ?" - Javier Bardem , in 'No country for old men'.
Anton Chigorh, a psychopath serial killer, from the oscar winning movie, posts this innocuous question to his victims, before he kills them. It would have been definitely nerve wrecking, if the victims knew that their life was at stake. Seeing them, knowing that they would die if they lost in the coin toss, was a saliva swallowing moment.
Chance has this effect on men. Not being in control drives us nuts. To take a ride on a mule, through a very narrow path, with gorge on one side, overlooking the river and the steep hill on the other, scratching its beard, winking its eye majestically at the moksha seeking soul, on the way to see the source of ganges, the Gaumukh, the old pilgrimages have their heart besides their molar, bulging through their cheek. Why? Of course, of not being in control of the mule. We humans are hysterical about taking things in control. The greatest of drivers squeamishly squirm when they are the pillion riders. Some people like this adrenalin pumping, no holds barred, purely luck driven outcomes. Hence, Las Vegas.
163,000 American Dreams at stake. What? - The number of people seeking work visa(H1B) in USA in the year 2008 has surpassed the set upper limit. 163,000 applicants. A computer-based random number generator(albeit, a pseudo one, unless their random function takes as input a truly random input such as stray radio signals coming from cosmos) will choose 85000 applicants, who will get to stay in US (legally) with a work visa.
If (you_hate_math == true) { gotothe_paragraph_after_this; }
else { //read
Its a career deciding lottery. My career is at stake too. Take an envelope and a pencil and lets do some basic probability. The 163,000 applicants will fall in to 2 categories: "masters" or "graduate" applicants and the "open" quota. Students like me who has gone through 2+ years of graduate school hell in US, will fall under the masters quota. The rest, namely the people who happily forward cute pictures of cats and babies sitting in the cubicles of Infosys, TCS, Wipro etc, will fall under the open quota. Masters has its own upper limit of 20,000. According to USCIS, they have received 31,200 applications. The people who do not get through this lottery(i.e choosing 20000 from 31200, leaving 11,200 master students) will be spilled over to the open quota. So the open quota lottery becomes choosing 65,000 from 143,000. So for a masters quota applicant to get rejected, he/she should be left out in both the lotteries. So if we do the math right it should point to a golden value of 0.2301. }
the_paragraph_after_this: I have a 77% chance of getting that visa.
There's a leeway for certain companies, which are registered under USCIS in a certain program(E-Verify program), where in employees of such companies who do not get their H1, can legally stay for 17 more months in USA as a student and hence apply for H1B the following year. Unfortunately some companies do not register under this program. More importantly mine hasn't.
So, my American dream (if any), my career, my way of life, will be decided by a stupid algorithm (How cynical of me to call a PRNG algorithm stupid, esp being a computer science graduate). I'm all but frustrated. In fact I'm excited about it. Looking forward to the lottery. If I do not get it, I would be a tad disappointed, but that can wait. I can blame it on fate and leave home for good. I have a beautiful car. Its well maintained and pristine, just as new, used only for office commuting..... err... even the craigslist advertisement can wait. For now its the wide eyed me, looking for the lottery result. I have already delegated to many people the task of calling upon their super powers, their prayers. I need that badly. I need it to shine on me like a crazy diamond. Thanks a lot folks. I'm so excited I even spewed out this:
Its mundane and mostly insane To load 0's and 1's in vain
Occasional geeky satisfaction At the cost of free mind and passion
To be honest, I like my Job I must warn, I do lie like the mob
What my life needs is some spice As I speaketh, I'm done by the dice
Sad ain't it. I meant the poem. My life just got a bit interesting. I thought I would share it with the world.
P.S I actually do not hate my job, I wanted a cheesy poem thats it. I do hate it though, when I compare it to other jobs like, the person who is paid to watch videos in youtube and filter the porn or the one who tastes chocolates and rates its taste. I actually day dreamed the fictionary youtube job when I was at work asleep, google must have a cheesy algorithm for filtering I bet!
Being a rock music lover, I do follow Indian rock and its products. They come and go like lightning. There is Parikrama(probably the best of the lot), Sceptre, Moksha(Lead vocals passed away, Leon- RIP), Brahma, Pin Drop Violence(Nu, death, trash, contemporary metal), Thermal and a Quarter(again a mallu band, but vocals in English though, comprising of 3 mallus and a guy whose grand pa is a mallu and hence the band name; thermal ~ 3 MALlu, quarter- grandpa is 1 full mallu, dad is .5 mallu and the grandson is quarter mallu). I haven't heard any indigenous Indian rock band that vocals in their vernacular. There is a Tamizh rock band called Kashmir stones from Malaysia which had a good number or 2 and they faded into oblivion just like every other small band. Then, came Avial, from the God's own land. Musically sound, supposedly deep well written lyrics and very professional in their approach. I have been addicted to their music. Nada Nada was my first love but Karukara takes my cake, a beautiful composition. Though not a mallu, I feel extremely proud listening to them. I hope they are here to stay. We just have to wait and watch/listen. BTW I might get their Album this May. Thanks to Cassius.
Moving to silly things. My parents are flying this summer for my convocation and I'm already nervous. I almost brushed my teeth with my facial wash cream and the vice versa almost happened today morning. My mom was right, I can even forget my own ass at times. I remember this quote from my best friend's apartment watchman and it goes like this: "Manushanukku rendu idly; 1000 rooba note irundha, oora(soak) vechu thinniduvaya?". Funny and intellectual, I thought it deserves a place in www. There's this girl, who makes my heart beat faster everytime I see her, though not very often. Just like it happens when I see Shirya on the screen, only this is just a bit more intense and real. She isn't the dancer chick referred in the prev post.
I 'm not a big fan of tagging but I think this time I would give it a shot as I keep forgetting the thoughts worth blogging and time has become so scarce suddenly. Brat tagged me, but that wants me to be honest and I need an Ipod and it seems like its time consuming, so thats for laters. So I'm going to oblige Macadamia the nut. Here goes :
Last Movie I saw in theatre: "21" worth watching
What book(s) are you reading? Fountain Head and 'The name is RajiniKanth' The latter is badly written and if not for the content, I don't think its worth the 1000 Rs shipping cost i spent on it. The former is lovely so far.
Favorite Board game: Dhaaya kattai - the ones you see in mahabharatham. Miss those summer family fun times.
Favorite magazine: Reader's Digest Miss it in a way.
Favorite smells: Mun(sand) vaasanai aka the smell that rises up from the soil, right after the first few rain drops. I think I haven't had it for almost 3 years now. Smell of Amma's rasam.
Favorite Sound: when i call home and my mom goes "vijay chella kutti... eppidi da irukka?" apparently she also bags the most annoying sound when she screams vijaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay to make me stop playing in my terrace and come back to do some home work.
Worst feeling in the world: Serious: The feeling "I'm going to die", when I for sure thought wouldn't come out alive out of those rapids of Ganges, in Rishikesh, May 28th 2006. Silly and Gross: You think its a fart and you let it go and it is actually shit. Shit!. My 'upset-tummy-24X7' days are gone, thankfully.
First thing you think of after you wake up? Hope its 7 30, hope its 7 30... ah crap its 8 30, Not again!
Favorite Fast Food : Kai yendhi bhavans (street side shops) of Chennai. Cheesy Fiesty Potatoes(i hope i got that right,i miss it every time) from taco bell.
Future Childs Name: If its a girl, its Amudha. Boy, haven't decided (@self: get urself a gf first u dickhead!)
If I had a lot of money I'd.... try to find a 1000rs bill, when soaked in sambhar tastes like idly!- courtesy Srinivasa Apts watchman. Have some and donate the rest, very realistic don't you think.
Do you drive fast ? Depends on the music I'm listening to and the mood. If its 'Fuel' or 'Motor Breath' by Metallica or 'Highway Star' by Deep Purple.... i go 'gimme fuel, gimme fire, gimme that which I desire'
Do I sleep with stuffed animals? seems like I have to in the near future. 23 yr dry patch.
My first car? Toyota Scion Tc '08. My second love. First Love is my Mac.
Storms - Cool or scary? Cool
Favorite Drink Water, closely followed by Kaapi.
If I had the time I would... {day dream, dance, sketch, play cricket, blog, read}.
Do you eat the stems of broccoli? This Q is, IMHO, aimed at 'cho-chweet' girls. Supposedly very random and cute. My foot!
If you could dye your hair what color would it be? Though I have substantial count of gray hair(i'm 23 and not 43), I wouldn't dye for life. I need to have something very big at stake to force me do such things. Like 'if you dye, Actress Shriya will date you' then I would probably think about it.
Name all the cites you have lived in. I'm answering with the same hope an 'on-site' wannabe "Americanised desi" would answer this Q. Thiruvallur, Chennai, Chicago and now Sunnyvale.
Favorite Sports to watch. Oiled women wrestling, Oiled women wrestling, cricket ... in that order
One nice thing about the person who tagged you. My fav blogger friend, who happily agrees to disagree and as the name says, a humourous wierd nut.
Whats under your bed? An incomplete pencil sketch, 20 odd pencils and a putty rubber.
Would you be born as yourself again? Of course. If any change, it would be me minus my lizard phobia.
Morning Person or Night Owl? From a morning person to a night owl, now I have become the Afternoon Hyena.
Over easy or Sunny SIde Up? Sunny Side Up
Favorite place to relax. Kabaleeshwarar Temple, Mylapore, closely followed by marina beach.
Favorite Pie. None actually. Pi is more like it! BTW belated Pi day wishes.
Favorite Icecream flavor. Dulce De Leche all the way!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Of all the people who you tagged who is more likely to respond first. Mirror mirror on the wall Who's the vettiest of all... warm sea.
People I tag Umashankar Vamsee
P.S You owe me a post with my blog name on it! Yeah 'you know who'!
"If I could tell you what it meant, there would be no point in dancing it" - Isadora Duncan
We were driving along foothill express heading North, when S almost carelessly rammed his car into the median following a left turn. He was pre-occupied with something. Thanks to his cognition, resurrection of his senses and some timely "not-so-loud-i dont-want-to-panic-u" alarm from his co-passenger, S lifted his head in time and cried "&^%#" with a much needed steering away from the median. A few deep breaths later we were at Roble gym, Stanford University, were we learned "swing". Swing as in dance and not as in what Sir Wasim Akram would associate himself with.
Swing, is a ballroom dance of sorts mostly to jazz music and has many variants. Men usually lead while women usually follow. For couples who do not think straight this may change.
Its an ideal medium to communicate. A treat to your senses. You see, smell, feel, listen, smile, think, count and communicate all at once. All overlapping. Synesthesia !
I didn't find it vulgar or arousing. I'm single. So definitely not vulgar or arousing.
Its romantic. I'm single. (read romantically challenged) So its definitely romantic.
Its already on the bucket list, to swing with that special lady, my better half.
We had a girl in mind. She had a simple smile. Genuine and elegant which applies to her dancing too. We changed partners every 5 minutes or so, so as to promiscuously promote flexibility in partnering. So we knew how every lady in the room looked like and danced like. Sometimes even how they smelt like and vice versa. In short, we clearly knew whom we liked.
The previous class, I had decided to ask her to be my dance partner, if she had plans of taking her swing skill further. I told this to S and he had a liking for her too. So, we being good- friends, good-Samaritans and half baked computer science wannabe geeks, decided that FCFS i.e "first come first serve" was a good way to elect the winner. So if one of us ask her the other should back off. Keep in mind that this is not equivalent to asking someone out, this is asking someone to learn dance with you. To feel the chemistry and hence be able to enjoy the dance better.
The dance class started, luckily S had her as the first partner and I was right besides him so if he missed I would hit her next, when we switched partner one place to the right. We agreed upon a 'sign', (as in a gesture) which meant S has nailed it and I had lost and vide-versa. He missed it, then I missed it and it went on for a while. Understandably we, or at least I, was engrossed with fox-trot and jitterbug tips that our tutor was explaining. Also being this 'courteous gentleman' to your partner, took more CPU time than the dance itself (especially for people like me who are inept at being overtly courteous).
The class was about to get over and with time we moved apart within the hall. When it was over, we were at diametrically opposite ends. I was standing with this beautiful old lady who danced better than most of the other ladies in the room and S was with her. S started talking to her, when the tutor started his farewell speech. S got her email Id. I got the gesture from S. S won and I lost.
For some reason it never bothered me, which was surprising to me. My ego was intact and unhurt. But 4 weeks earlier, during the first swing class when there was exactly one less lady and I was 'randomly' chosen to stand alone until a lady joined the class late and I stood for 5 minutes ALONE, waiting for a illusive latecomer. It almost made me cry, mostly because it was the first valentine's day I looked forward too; It was indeed a great improvement to be unhurt. S had the balls, and he swung them well. For me its fate, luck, destiny et cetera. A weird feeling swept through me. It was exactly half way through "happy" and "sad" and its very hard to explain in words. If I could tell you what it meant, there would be no point in dancing.
When you are taking pictures, you neither want it to be too bright nor too dark. You want the picture to feel soothing to your eye, like 18% grey, so to speak. Its something I have learned over the years. Any walk of life, demands balance. Its about striking the right grey scale. I love grey. My little scribbling so to speak..........
so, here he is, a specimen of modern day fad, a victim of lifestyle, doin that thing he does Or rather doin that thing everybody does. Dressing up in clothes that do not suit let alone fit, throwing up an attitude that a five year old would identify as faked, twisting the tongue, probly the only movable muscle in his body, to try and pronounce the simplest of english words to sound "english",failing of course, Misearably. How long has it been since people have stopped living as themselves n started living to lifestyle or whatever??
It's pretty common these days to see people picking up everyday statements to brighten up their personal profiles. But at what point is it going to occur to them that everything thats there need not be taken home. May be this would be a good one to start with, everybody's pocket pet. A gazillion people own mobile devices that can take pictures apparently, play recorded music, off late record videos and a whole lot of other not so important crap.Now, im not against "capturing cherishable moments", supposedly, but hello!!, once all those clicking and saving happens , in most cases,I see what appears to be a picture, with blips of light here and there, looks more like the negatives of yesteryear. When finally you gather for a nice evening or chill-out session , out comes Mr.i-can-take-pics. Somehow when one dude comes out theres like this mating call and bam!! before you know everybody's out. I don't understand what kinda fun this is supposed to be although I should confess, after a loooooot of resentment, guess what, i joined the club. Because beyond a point people stop paying attention to you because they are busy taking pictures and posing for one at the same time.
next stop. FASHION. Somehow this has to be updated four times a year or probly more for some. The truth is chennai's summers hit 40+ and takes up like 4/5 ths of a year ,Ms.winter however visits jus for the heck of it. well except for last year. But the big names all have spring and autumn collections. for what???. doesn't it sound weird that when you dont have the season what ya gonna do with the closthes for it. If they dont have anything to do with the season in chennai why don't they name their stuff something like "the kathiri collection" for summer wear, or the "pot hole wardrobe" for stain free winter denims??..wont they be remotely appropriate??. Also, Why dont people stick to clothes that actually suit them. Everybodys wearing pants that cling on to the latter half of their butts. For Some it really looks cool. But its hilarious in most cases. Women have lost it too. Its true you wear what you like and to hell with everybody else. But it takes taste and sense to know whats good on you and whats not.After all aren't you selling yourself. You do wanna be an attractive package dont you. Unnecessary flamboyance for coffee shops and movies. Oh My God. Since when did attractive start to mean make-up for walking your dog. Do you realise thats its his "shit" time and you might be stealing his thunder.
And these are just a few obvious things. Its sad people dont appreciate their self anymore. Everything has to be done for everybody's sake. Its actually frowned upon to admit my favourite eatout is a small platform shop in a not so known corner of the city. Somehow your not so "happening" if you not doin the "in thing".Its been long since I stopped caring. But it certainly doesnt feel good with the air of artificiality all around. Phew!!!!!
THIS IS A LIFT FROM CASSIUS'S BLOG. Please encourage this good blogger by commenting on it. I'm a bit busy with life and work and both at times, so I thought I would rather post something I would have liked to write, sensible, humorous and from a person who is a friend for many lives! 'cASSisus', may the ass in your name be not filtered in a highly spam secure website! A small blessing from ur comsky(comp sci) geeky friend!
Review: Actor Sam Anderson and Miss No-Name have together produced, easily the most mind boggling video ever in the history of mankind. A trillion thanks to my friend Ifthikar Ali Talha to have found this. Sam Anderson- undoubtedly a look alike of Thomas A. Anderson aka Neo in the 1999 blockbuster The Matrix- has panache and charisma equivalent to that of Keanu Reeves. The song takes you into a trance state. I was making Jim Carrey's, Me Myself & Irene mpd transition face, only this time without me realizing it. Trinity besides him, if not for the leather suit and a police sunglass, matched Carrie-Anne Moss. Carrie-Anne Moss, though stylish wasn't as cute as this dame. She has perfect features(pause at 2:40 and see it yourself). Shankar has allegedly complained to Sony Pictures for not letting him replace Aishwarya Rai with Miss No-Name in the upcoming Rajini flick Robot or rather iyandhira(tamizh for robot). She has done homework with her looks, she even has tan on her biceps!
Lets not forget the music. If only Yanni can understand such profound music. Female vocalists supposedly sings in frequency beyond 20K Hz, which has led to dolphins swimming mad in the pacific ocean. Dance is well, contemporary. It transcends cultures; swing, cha cha, tango and aerobics dominate in duets, while a subtle touch of facial gimmicks and body turns dominates the solo. A new school of dance indeed.
Highlight: Sam's close up shot and a smile (1:11, how apt? its the nelson!) which some critics say divine and babylike while others say surreal. South Indian villages have printed out color copies of this still and use it to drive away evil forces.
Best Moves: Duet - Tree breaking hand swing with camera man using first of its kind, mirror technique. Solo - Miss No-Name has done side-moonwalk to perfection (Michael Jackson withdrew his patent for moonwalk on seeing this) , following it up with few hot gestures and ending it with a blushy, cute and a cho-chweet move(2:04 to 2:18).
Best Costume: Red Van Heusen Shirt and a black low hip Gucci Khaki, white Puma running shoes to add icing to the cake.
Sincere thanks to: DMK party for the costumes, L'oreal for her dry brown cute pony, Malar Hospital Heart Foundation for providing the director an artifical heart through out the shoot (apparantly he left his original heart in his bedroom where he conceptualized this magnum opus) and last but not the least Turakhia to provide 50% off on power lenses and glasses for all the viewers.
Why God why? This not only emphasizes the downside of cheap camcorders, without which they couldn't have created this but also underlines the need for high precision surveillance satellites hovering over Bihar(for its Bhojpuri videos) and Tamil Nadu, to detect such shootings and nuke'em immediately. He has surpassed Jithan Ramesh, JK Ritesh, Agtor Udaya, Pravin Kanth, Vijay's Cousin Vikranth, Jai Akaash, Perarasu, TR with ease and has reached unseen popularity.
P.S I lost my sleep over this video. I became mentally disturbed, esp on seeing the tag "hip hop" for this video on youtube. I thought I would rather spend the night making a blog post out of it. I'm not jobless, trust me!
Look at this for a shot. Brett Lee bowled a pacy bouncer into Sachin's body, Sachin sways back to avoid it and in the final moment of the ball passing decided to push it over the slip cordon, off the meat of the bat. This is why Lara is just a wee bit below Sachin in my books, Lara never adapted, was never consistent, nonetheless a genius by his own standards. Sachin is sheer Ghee!nius! Blissful.
P.s: 3rd Test, Perth, Jan 16th 1st day, Sachin was unfortunately given out on 71 which looked too high on the replay. India were 296/6 with Dhoni and Pathan at the crease at stumps.
One song I have been hearing a lot these days is this. Its the background score in the movie Guru, when Madhavan lip locks vidya balan. Just one of those very romantic scenes, which are very rare these days, that makes a lasting impression. Maniratnam is indeed the best in India. This piece of info is neither bloody nor shitty. Just a random thing.
Ok this post is about a exotic rare (read as, not to be found any where in the sacred WWW, my way of showing the middle finger to google) recipe.
Its called Puzhi-Illa curry(sans-tamarind curry), a misnomer, its actually a kozhambu(sans-tamarind soup/gravy). I think it has its origins somewhere from Tirunelveli district, mostly from(guessing) Ambasamudram, a small village in the Tirunelveli district, in the southern part of Tamil Nadu, India. I learned this dish from my mom of-course, but it has my improvisations. You won't get these even in any of the south Indian restaurants. Quite possible to find in the messes of Tirunelveli (Just a guess).
Disclaimer: I'm an amateurish cook, albeit passionate one. The recipe is normally spicy, spicy by Indian standards. The final product that comes out is totally yours and I take neither credit nor liability for the same. I'm just a way to get there(author smiles divinely!).
I like my food to be spicy. To be succinct, I like it when I feel the need to drink more water, but the dish is so good I do not want to drink and fill my stomach. Absolutely horrendous for your bowels and your skin and to your health in general but who cares if the taste is worth it.
Ingredients:
Whole Black pepper(3 to 4 tsp) Whole cumin seeds (as much as peppers) Red Chillies (4 to 6 bulb shaped ones / 6 to 8 long red chillies) Unsweetened shredded coconut (8 tsps may be) Ghee to saute. (no butter wont do good!)
Some oil to saute. mustard and cumin for sauting (pinchfull) onions 1 (large sized) tomatoes 2 (medium sized) Green Chillies (3 small) vegetable of your choice (I would recommend capsicum or brinjal [1 no.]) Turmeric powder for taste. Garlic paste (1tsp/ 3 garlic slices) coriander powder for taste (optional)
Moong dal (1 cup) SALT TO TASTE.
Method:
Boil the moongdal in a pressure cooker with enough water so much so that its a thick syrup when beaten. While that cooks.....
Take a pan, add ghee, let it melt and then add the pepper and cumin seeds(3 to 4 tsps each or may be 5). Follow it with red chillies. When these become sauted, add the shredded coconut. Bend down and smell the pan, you should smell ghee and coconut oil. If you don't, then add the corresponding ingredient until your nose discerns both the flavors distinctly. Do not over saute!. Let it cool when its done.
While its cooling, cut the onions, tomatoes and the elective vegetable. All diced. Slit the green chillies.
Grind the sauted spices in a mixer. Add water like you add a solvent using a burette, slowly and only when needed. Grind it neither too course nor too fine(too fine as in flours). Adding too much water will make it a fine paste and that is not what we want. I like to stop when it resembles a sand and water mix.
Now to saute the cut vegetables. Add mustard to the hot cooking oil, wait for it to splatter, then the cumin seeds. Follow it up with green chillies. Add the garlic paste or the mashed garlic slices. Then saute the onions. Once the onions turn sorta transparent (if its red onion) or golden brown(if its a white onion), add the tomatoes and the elective vegetable. Then add the coriander powder(2 tsps). My mom wont add this. Nor she would add the garlic. Cover the pan and let it cook it simmer. Mix occasionally. Cook until the raw smell of the ingredients goes away.
By this time, the moong dal would have been done. Open it, beat it and transfer it to an cooking bowl. Add the possibly half cooked vegetables to the dal. Add the ground paste. Mix well and let it cook, until the elective vegetable is well cooked. ADD SALT TO TASTE. Add water if you feel its too thick or let it boil if you feel its too watery. Its usually much thicker than the standard Sambhar. It looks a dark brown thick grainy liquid. Edible though.
This serves 3 to 4. Depends on the spice consumption capability of the devourers.
This is best served with boiled rice and a curry/side dish with a tinge of tamarind in it. I add tamarind water to the curry when I make it along with this exotic dish.
I prefer brinjal curry with this. Unbeatable combo! Have fun eating it.
Follow it up with a serving of curd rice or lassi (chaas). You will need it, lemme tell you that.
This is neither bloody nor shitty. But the thing that comes out next day morning sure is both!
Hence my title. Tada.
P.s I make it spicy, you can play around with the green chillies, pepper and red chillies. I want you all to enjoy this and not consult a gastro-blah-blah-ist. So please try it and lemme know how it turned up. If you feel, the title is not so apt, yay, that was my intention, hide it from google! May the most patient food lover searching for the most rarest exotic south Indian dish ever, get to read this. Of-course you are a lil more privileged!
What is he? Is that a bat or a chisel that Michelangelo held? Is his mind as strong as that of Gandhiji's? Is it a straight drive or a stroke of a painter wielding his brush making his magnum opus? Is he the greatest sporting hero ever one could see in a life time? Am I the one of the gifted people to have seen him all my life, covering all his career? Does he hold the happiness of millions of hearts world over? Is he a genius ? Is he a legend? Is he human?
YES.
To watch his 38th century live on the internet over a poor connection, swearing comcast, more like a screen saver than a video, I bow in submission to this one guy alone for what he has done for the past 19 years.
The numerous goosebumps, the saliva swallowing moments when the heart skips a beat or 2, the euphoria which makes the eyes a little wet, I owe a lot of great moments of my life to this one man. The banner in SCG said "Commit your crimes now, because even the Lord his watching when Sachin's playing" and another one said "SCG : Sachin Cricket Ground" rather than Sydney Cricket ground.
I have never fallen love with someone, so I never understand the magnitude when I hear poets go gaga about their love on how they have gone 'speechless', 'lost in trance', 'short of words'. If I'm right, that is the exact feeling on my mind.
I'm just waiting for the article from Nirmal Shekar, sports editor for The Hindu, who worships Sachin. I remember his words, when the whole world was unjustly -a cliche, stereotypical homosapien trait of being cynical, Freud would call it mob mentality- asking him to retire, he explains the 'Potterisation' of this little maestro in this poetic article. If only you lowly souls can understand and feel the essence of his words. When I said I was gifted it entails/includes my ability to read Shekar's mind when I read that article. Yeah I'm bragging alright, but who cares, if only you could understand the euphoria that this genius little man brings to my life.
I potterise him. I have fantasized him to play innings he himself wouldn't have fantasized and that's were he transcends the boundary of being a 6 sensed human and becomes a God. The potential to remotely evoke extreme thoughts in the minds of people is what fuels him past that boundary. Every time I finish my excursion in to those fantasy lands and get my foot firmly planted on the ground, my scientific mind spits some rationale in to my imaginative mind, screams that this 5' 6" desi with few extra pounds is 'Yet another hydrocarbon' and not a God(whoever that is), that's when I truely understand his ingenuity. He is just a human. That's why he is a genius. If he were god, I would be booing him for his unfair potential. No, he is just another simple human being. His success is a symbol of love like the Taj mahal, for me it is bigger and beautiful than the 'Mughalian' monument. He is just another guy who loved playing cricket. If you think the poetic, legendary/cult movie Forrest Gump was an exaggeration of emotions and story telling in general, you are wrong. I was wrong. There are people who do things like him. Like the old man who weaved those baskets for 8 years straight, like the old man with a self woven dhoti drove an empire away, empire where the sun never set, like the normal human, who became the 'chosen one' because he loved trinity, like the guy who ran for 3 years and 6 months straight for no reason and who loved Jenny 'unconditionally'. This 'Yet another hydrocarbon' who became the chosen one because he truly loves cricket more than anyone else. Period.
Lets go back to 1995, Aprilish time. Just when the school starts usually. This was my 5th std. There I was a newbie to school and excited as I was seeing a lot more kids than I was usually used to. My 4th std was in a school where I was the only one in the class. (Read it twice, thrice, yes its true , more on that on a different post). The one before that was in a villagish town called Thiruvallur, scarcely populated and schools were pretty small with 15 at max in a class and if I remember correctly they din't have walls separating the rooms, and to digress, I remember Radha's small pox vaccination on her shoulder and I cried out "miss, Radha has a poochi (insect) on her shoulder miss". So yeah, my excitement on seeing lots of children of my age group, was justified.
I was very shy back then. I will only ask for a leak if its truly a bladder burst situation. And on that particular day, If I had to wait for another minute, I would have died of internal urinage(a la haemorrhage). I popped up my hand, with my little finger pointing skywards and the 'miss' said, "go quickly". I will have to appreciate her observational skills, urgency was apparantly apparant on my face and the body language. I was literally stamping my feet in tandem, 'march past'ing in my place.
And yeah, I ran like Forrest gump. That was the first or second day, and the first time I'm using that particular toilet. Because of the urgency and the less intuitive, bad interface, I was walking down uncharted territories, namely Girls Toilet. Doors where shut as I was walking by each one of them. All the while stamping legs. 3rd door was ajar. I slightly pushed it open, following which was easily one of the most embarrassing situations in my life. I see my classmate Dimple, pulling her pants up(first few days, we were allowed to wear color dress and she wore a barbie doll jeans that day), and thankfully her panties in place. Then I make the eye contact, she had this 'i-shit-on-my-undies' look, I was having the 'breathe-breathe-push -push-i'm pregnant' look with my hands in my crotch (just in case). I ran out, found the boys toilet, pissed off. Pissed off. The relief briefly overtook the feeling of embarrassment. I walked out, knees trembling, looking forward to a possible 'shortest dismissal(chucked out of school for premature promiscuous behavior)' in the history of Indian schooling. And she was standing, lean and tall(easily taller than me by 3 to 4 inches) and cute and angry all at once.
Dimple: I will complain to class teacher *knodding her head to mean 'u r dead baby'* me: hey sorry, I thot it was boys toilet. Dimple: ... me: I'm new to school. Dimple: what did you see? me: just the jetty(panties) Dimple: Promise? *lends her right hand* me: promise. Dimple: *wash your hands moron!!* ok. *smiles*
We walked back in silence to class, and we tacitly agreed not to tell this to anyone. The agreement was intact, until this post.
This is like a politician making a true promise to the people. That's how rare is the occasion of me writing a review on a novel. For starters the book is easily the best novel I had read so far. That brings the next question, how many have I read and what are they ? Its countable using fingers and mostly recommended by bibliophiles who recommend them, authentic in person review and not forcible coaxing. This was amn exception though, I picked it up at landmark as I was happily jay walking with my friend during summer 06 in Chennai. You should also know my reading traits. I have read the first 2 chapters at least 15 times, before completing the book. I took 1.5 years to finish the book since it was bought. I like to savor every bit of what's been said. If I ever so feel uncomfortable in while reading, due to the gap between the reading sessions, I start from the beginning. This one unfortunately had many such breaks. Okay, lets get to the book.
The book is about 2 children, Siamese twins, to be precise. Rahel (a she) and Estha (a he) are the characters, who are absolutely adorable in every way, especially their childhood. Arundhati Roy is indeed the GOD of small things. The attention to detail is mind boggling. Not like green door, yellow wall kinda stuff, but in a beautiful way. These are things I like in a book: How succinctly an emotion is presented? The language used, I like it when it defines its own language and keeps it that way through out the book. The book by all means has its own language, quite remarkably different from anything I have read and to say that I have fallen in love with it is an huge understatement. The screenplay is different, in the sense that, in a semi-random way, the story moves back and forth in time. The story telling, which in my view, includes the language, the depiction of emotions, depiction of scenes and the screen play, easily gets it a 6/5.
The story takes place in Ayemenem, a village near Kottayam. Revolves around one incident that changes the lives of the 2 children. The book has its moments, plain embarrassing at places, some would call it gross but I wouldn't. The story as a whole is tragic and to shoot a small surprise it would easily qualify under 'humorous' genre. There are places where its very touching, vicarious emotions (I almost teared up in few places, if not for the masculine shell) and more so frequently funny. Funny as in a wide grin and not as in ROTFL.
The book describes in detail the characters in a way that's very realistic and conceivable. Kochu Maria, Baby Kochamma, Velutha, Ammu, Pillai to name a few. The book touches every aspect of Kerela, from communism to climate to the accented language.
It got the booker prize in 1997, reason behind which becomes obvious at 1/4th of the book. When I reached the end, its a mix of the disappointment of the book being completely read, the nostalgia I felt, the satisfaction of being able to feel and empathize with the characters and their emotions.
If you like this book like I do, then we should make really good friends.
Verdict: If you read, not to get to the end of the book, but to cherish the reading, you will most probably love it. Arundhati Roy is the real God of small things. If you get to read this book and love it, you will become a Deity.
Recently (read as within a span of 2 days) I have come across incorrigible stories. Three stunning stories, from my Motherland. Alas. Here goes the first one.
Synopsis: JALPAIGURI: A 36-year-old man married his teenage daughter and made her pregnant, justifying his perverse act by claiming he had divine sanction for his incestuous lust. What's even more galling is that his wife was the prime witness in the nikah of her daughter to her husband. Full Story.
Damn, is it just me or can somebody perceive what's happening. When I first learned about the concept of homosexuality, I have wondered, how on earth such feelings even existed in some. Now I have come to terms with it, I assume they are genetically different in their brain wiring and its not like Newton's 1st law which everyone can understand and appreciate. But this is beyond blasphemy. For christsake that's his daughter. The guy got released with no charges. She is 15 years old, wasn't that an offense? This is polygamy at its extreme. Killing in the name of god. We have come to terms with it. Polygamy, pedophile and incest in the name of God. Here's a logical question: the kid they are having, how will he/she call the bearded man, dad or grand dad? His wife is now a Aunt as well as a grand mom. These are, usually funny, except that this is an exception.
Here goes the second.
Synopsis: CHENNAI: Smalin Jenita (23), a seven-month pregnant girl from Tiruchi in Tamil Nadu, is fighting brain injury and multiple fractures in a Chennai hospital after being allegedly pushed out of a moving car in the US. The reason, according to the girl’s father Sebastian Antonysamy, Jenita discovered an incestuous relationship between her husband Christy Danius and his mother Chellam, even as she was being harassed for dowry.Full story.
Sad is an understatement. These type of characters, I thought only existed in mega serials, extremely wicked villains, the ones who walk down the long regale stairs, always well made up with shiny lipstick and grand silk sarees (Sorgam villain). Yet again I'm wrong. To do such a deed, you have to be a psychiatric patient, something like a serial killer. I don't want to talk about other details, that the story touches. I don't have the words nor the courage.
3rd is a funny one.
Synopsis: MADURAI: A 33-year-old man in Sivaganga district of Tamil Nadu has married a dog in a bid to ward off the ‘curse’ of a canine couple he had killed 15 years ago. Full Story.
They get married. Then they drink the "aphrodisiacal" milk. Then Sit and watch Scooby doo all night? Wake up and he would say "waadup dawg?" and then break ghost myths. (I would like to get into the shoes of Kushwant Singh, but I wont spoil my blog for it.) This would be a teaser to feminine activists, who fight to protect the ill-treated wives. The guy can call her 'bitch' as often as he wants and feminists cannot even say a word about it. Cost of running the family is less. Just old rusk and some chicken bones. He can have homosapien mistresses and yet 'she' would be loyal to him. The poor thing doesn't even understand what has happened. Someday the dead dog couple would talk to this dog wife, and they would seek revenge. Dr. Dolittle, we need you!
Somebody said marriages are made in heaven. Heaven doesn't seem to be a nice place. God save India. Please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Walk a busy street, meet a million faces. Some tickle your hormones, some befuddling, some bring sympathy and almost always feeling felt is not apathy. Some, we watch regularly, on a daily basis. But they aren't just there, they sneak in your agenda, your life, without your permission. They not being 'there', transforms your eyebrow into a 'tick'.
I remember million such people, perfect strangers. One such strange old man who used to sit in the platform selling his hand made crafts. Almost for 8 years, he was just there. Just there. All the time. In the night, under a torn motor bike water proof cover, the closest he got to shelter, the only possible private times. But yeah he was there alright. Mind you he was easily in his 70's, very lean, pathologically lean. Diseased.He was shirtless, his bare brown skin, butter papered, un-ironed, white hair wisdomed and hid the phlegmy balloons which expanded noisily to a size which would be surprising to a first year med school anatomy curious student. He sold hand made baskets made of those thin plastic wires, mostly. If I think long and hard, I have seen him once in those 8 years,with a customer. He wasn't in the top ten richest in India, never became one, FYI, this is not an inspirational true story blog post!. If there were 11 humans grouped together and him being one, 99 out of 100 times he wouldn't rank in the top ten richest. In fact he defined poverty. Sadly he isn't quoted for it in the reference section of Indian census.
He had his moments. 1130pm mega serial mami, boasts her philanthropic deed, "neythikootanjoru"(yesterday's mix vegetable rice) shouting. When a thoughtful stranger gives him a free pair of slippers, which he sold after polishing for 10rs(not to be found in craiglist!). When a small kid walking, pulled too fast by her mom, turns back and smiles at him, and he would smile back as though saying, 'life's like that, fast and un-understanding'. Other wise, his life was focused on that coir basket he was making, meticulous and diligent. He was 'perfect' alright. I never knew him by name and he did neither and hence 'perfect stranger'. tada.
My dad, said he never knew a man who is more dedicated to his work than that old man. A casual statement, heartfelt albeit, but defintely not meant to penetrate my cranium. Probably the best 'good thing' he could have taught me, it just went thru me. After those 'diwali-prostration-money' spent, some remained, as though for a cause. I needed a lunch basket. So the next day morning, I walked by the platform where he would sit, and buy one of those baskets, mostly to appreciate him, help him. He wasn't there. Weirdly he chose the previous night to inspire, retire and expire for good.
He was not to be seen. The cobbler, untidy women who was never sober and was always paan mouthed, who sometimes sits besides him, said 'poitaaru' (he's gone). Blues. He was Martin Luther King's ideal basket maker.
“If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.” - Martin L King
I have always wondered about him. What he thought when he made those plastic baskets ? What motivated him to work like that ? What was his goal ? Did he have any ? May be some people are just born to inspire, by sheer existence. I'm too human to attribute this to 'vicissitudes of life'.
Back in 2000-01, IIT coaching classes were abundant. L.V or L. Venketaraman was the Professor. He seemed like a genius, who did every problem that existed using progression - AP, GP and HP. Me and few other big losers used to attend his classes. It was close to diwali, he persisted that we attend his class regularly. I knew I was no good for IIT, lost hope and was wasting time and money there, warming those benches. So I bunked one, went to buy new attire. Next class he called me up and said "I know why you bunked... you were not ill.. its DDiwaaleee DDiwaalee" stressing on D and ee. What did I do, smirked, blushed in embarrassment, surprised by his ESP and amused by the way he said DEE- WAAA-LEE twice.
I don't remember clearly what happened that diwali. The usual potato bonda, idli with gatti chutney and of course sweets and savories for breakfast. My moms cherubic smile when she says "sooper" on seeing me in new attire. Crackers then. The usual ritual of going to my aunt's place must have happened. Mostly I would hesitate to go, to stay with friends in neighborhood but the good food and the 100 Rs pocket money I would receive on prostrating in front of my aunt and uncle was irresistible. 12 std was not like your 12 std, were you might have had a hero honda or at least a kinetic honda, well... I just had bonda. My dad thought 'mentally' I never matured. I felt I never matured(be it physical, mental and spiritual). Pocket money was almost nil. He had a reason, he was a doctor. He knew mentally unstable people are not supposed to have cash.
me: Appa, 10 rs.... my dad: edhukku? (for what?) me: hm.. er... summa (just like that) my dad: hmmm adhu summa yen purse la irukattum (let it be 'just like that' in my purse)
A whole 50 Rs was like cheese to Jerry, a whole 100 Rs was like soccer world cup victory. So I would eat the amazing food my aunt had cooked, meet the other aunts and uncles, get embarrassed, make other cousins blush in embarrassment. Fight for the hard earned (in 3 seconds of prostration and letting some real estate in my forehead for lease to my aunt and uncle for the viboodhi - sacred ash), elusive money with my dad on our way back to my house...err.. my dad's house in the Auto, sitting on that side bars, with my butt(if any) protruding outside. He wouldn't budge. So did my butt. He would probably give me 20%. Not cheese, not the world cup but some 'eese' n the 'world'.
Then see the Rajini movie on Sun tv (mostly, almost all the time baasha), watch Prakash uncle and his family burst the crackers in our flat/apartments terrace during the news interval. Get back to the movie, come back to terrace to see the Chugani family burst some crackers as their diwali just started and continued until the next day night. Go back home and sleep. Every diwali back then was not comforting. It was a weird feeling. More like a boy sitting in wet jeans in an excursion having a ball shouting. Fun was omnipresent but the occasional feeling of the moisture, cold and irritatingly uncomfortable.
Nov 7th, 2007. 3:30 pm pst, Palo Alto, VMware - I sit in my cubicle, bleeding c++ code. Intermittent pondering on things - when exactly is Diwali, 9th or the 8th ? The damn thoughts. Googling resulted in nov 9th. Later realized and thought of Chugani family who always celebrated diwali the next day - me and other southies have it on ettaan thedhi(8th), north Indians - onboaadhey! (9th). With that insulting revelation or rather a painful self realization I headed to the gym around 5pm. Frustrations and the happiness shaped hole in my universe, MADe me spend 90 mins in the gym. Head back, had a 6 inch sub in the omnipresent subway. Called up home, My dad was boasting his Kurta and his jeans, his other son had bought him, un clear due to the potatoe bonda in his mouth, my mom bragging about her 4.5K silk saree paid in pounds using a plastic card by an aspiring neurologist aka my brother. Called up my aunt and uncle. They said they missed me, they wished that they handed me that 100 Rs and paint my forehead.
100 Rs is not world cup victory (time with family is). Fun is not omnipresent(subway is). Happiness is hard to earn these days. Miss the embarrassments. Yearn for the enthusiasm I once had. Regret the physical and mental maturity that has spread into me like the tea from the tea bag. 3 years of DDiwaalee outside India, away from home will show up, show up like a pop-up in IE7. It has left a scar. One of many lessons that Prof. Life continues to teach. Its ingenuous. HopefullyI will be with the my family for the next DDiwaalee.
To quote Andy Dufresne "Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies"
This is the plot.It was 1997. I was close to 138cm high(do the math, converting to feet and inches is too embarrasing) and I was this brown, very thin kid doing 8th std/grade. Prodiguous! mostly due to my size and appearance-so small that a 4th std kid would be temped to rag me. It was music class, for some reason that class room was inside chemistry lab! A physics lab would have made a cent's sense. At 4th grade, anything other than games was boring and carnatic music was 793rd on the priority list. My good senseless friend named prasanna walks by me with a smirk which I can still remember with very high resolution. He says "XYZ loves you da, she told me so".
Now for the 'Bond' part. We used to have this 'cycle test' for 20 marks. It happens roughly 8 times in a year. By the time the year was about to close, my math teacher Mr. Pandian who also happened to be our class teacher lost his mind and called Miss XYZ and read her cycle tests math marks thus far.. it went somehing like this 0,1,0,0,1,0,0,1 all out of 20 marks. He said "like James bond 007 you are Miss XYZ 001. For all those who pity her, please do not, she wore a smile and though I was only in 8th grade, I could pick from her reaction that she felt absolutely no shame and that smile was infact a proud one. She liked the attention I guess.
Now for the tragic part. "No matter what a proposal is a proposal#"(scroll to the end for a deviation). I clearly remember in 8th grade, for some reason, all the girls in our class if not most started behaving abnormally. 9th grade biology chapter "human reproductive system" clearly showed the reason. Because of the harmones acting up they started pairing up with "well built" guys in class. "well built" back in 1997 meant "anything but Vijay Kolappan". So being the poor side kick, I was a spectator in awe and I among with few other 'wannabe complan boys', we were the audience these 'heroic couples' where catering to. They loved being envied, we loved the 'thrill' of seeing a live Kollywood romance scene. Miss XYZ caught the harmone swing, so bad that within a year she had proposed (albeit an Indian version) to 15 other guys. Being the 'bond girl' she had to let go of the 'well built' constraint. My guess is that I was the 14th or 15th victim of hers.
Back then it was nothing. Its summer time now, CHI town is overflowing with half naked chicks. Mostly lip locked with 'abercrombie and fitch' vested guys. The same thrill of watching a live romance is no more. It hurts these days. 22 years of 'single' mindedness has its effects and thinking back about the bond girl, being the 14th now hurts like a low blow. The fact i heard that from a guy named Prasanna is a 100 mph bouncer.
P.S not intended to hurt anyone. If you are the 'bond girl' I'm sorry I can now in a way empathize!
Been there, seen that, done it! Kaevy
#There is this difference in the interpretation of the word proposal. In India it means saying the sacred 3 words " I Love you" irrespective of the language you speak. The guy from bhopal who only listens Bhojpuri songs would with an accent say "hey gulabi, I Love you" and then go on to repeat it using any of the synonyms ishq, pyaar etc. So would a premamathil shikkiya mallu or a Kaadhal vasapatta Tam. Rest of the world thinks proposal is asking someone to be one's life partner. That is asking someone to marry him/her.
The Potterisation of a gifted sportsman — in popular perception — robs him of his essential humanity, writes Nirmal Shekar
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.
— Bob Dylan
Great athletes feed our illusions, fuel our fantasies. They unleash the romantic in us, liberating us from the mundane pragmatism of careworn adulthood and let us become dreamy-eyed, innocent children all over again.
Of course, this is not on their agenda. It is hardly their objective as they step into the cauldron to tackle monumental challenges head on. They may not even be aware of anything as seemingly far-fetched as this. Yet, they end up aiding us in our myt h-building mission because we want them to do it; it has more to do with us than with them.
Hard-wired
Man is a myth-making animal; to keep existential anxieties at arm’s length, we have been hard-wired by nature to create fables, to seek out comforting myths, to revel in them, to celebrate them, to cherish them. It’s in our DNA. Great athletes are merely the instruments that set the process in motion.
In Indian sport, perhaps no other athlete has allowed us to feed off his genius to construct myth after myth after myth as has Sachin Tendulkar. In millions of cricket lovers’ minds, he is a James Dean figure drinking forever from the fountain of youth, an infallible superman whose consistent heroics connect to some deep emotional terrain, a lovable wizard who almost always makes sure that our dreams and reality are magically inter-changeable, that they are one and the same.
This sort of Potterisation of an athlete — in popular perception — robs him of his essential humanity. J.K. Rowling can conveniently key in the ending she wants to let handsome Harry remain the master of wizardry. But, at age 34, after 18 long summers in the most demanding era in cricket, no human being can re-connect to the magic of youth — not even Superman Sachin.
For sport — as indeed all of life — is subject to the laws of nature, something that best-selling fiction can conveniently bypass to take care of our primordial hunger for fantasies, to let us lose ourselves, however briefly, in a magical world of the supernatural.
Human quality
If sport accommodates a range of talents, from the average to the good, the great and lastly the few geniuses, then the laws apply uniformly to all of them. Genius is very much a part of nature; this is precisely why it is a human quality that is so highly rated.
This is also the reason why you don’t need a super-sleuth like Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Irregulars to solve the mystery of Tendulkar’s struggles of the recent past. It’s elementary, my dear Watson, the legendary detective might have said.
Age, of course, is more than just elementary in sport. It is the master’s master. It ruthlessly holds a mirror to the greatest of them all, at once exposing their human, all-too-human frailties.
Five years ago, after a shock second round loss to a Swiss journeyman ranked well outside the top 100, one of the greatest sportsmen of all time slumped into his chair on the No.2 court at Wimbledon. As Pete Sampras bit into his tongue idiosyncratically and stared blankly in disbelief, he suddenly looked twice his age. Wimbledon’s greatest champion would never play again at the All England Club.
Of course, the great man made me eat my own words three months later when he won the last of his 14 Grand Slam titles in New York, beating his friend and archrival Andre Agassi in the final. But most great sportsmen find such fairy tale endings out of their reach.
At Nottingham over the weekend, or maybe at The Oval in two weeks’ time, Tendulkar might very well come up with a gem that would silence his critics — a tribe whose numbers are increasing with every tentative prod of the Tendulkar bat in the Test arena — but it can only be a temporary respite, at best.
End game
For, the end game is the toughest game of all for every top athlete, however great he/she is. Eyesight, reflexes and confidence are not quite what they used to be as the 30-something athlete soldiers on on dodgy knees with patient, hungry vultures (read critics) hovering overhead under leaden skies.
It happens to the best of them. Kapil Dev, who recently took a swipe at Tendulkar on television, captured 33 wickets in his last 16 Tests with a best haul of three for 35. The Mumbai maestro’s sequence of runs in his own last 16 Tests might well compare favourably.
Yet, this is not quite the point. The truth is, most great sportsmen have struggled a bit towards the end of their careers. They would not have been human if they had not. But, when the toiler in question is the Harry Potter of Indian cricket, we are shocked, devastated.
We shouldn’t be, even if our cherished superman myth has been disturbed. For, it might be unwise to maintain the fiction anymore.
A free mind. In that its got few strings pulling its skin, painful yet with a purpose it pulls away. It perpetually thinks. Seizing to think, it knows, will make it not learn any more. Confused, and in an ironic way is the only very clear and simple fact in itself. It likes people and probably not the whole society. For it thinks that society is one of those strings. But ironically it looks upon people like a curious kitten wanting to be killed by a black Mamba. Life , Love, Universe, Truth have simple meanings. For it, its the only purpose of anyone's life. To seek the meaning of such simple yet profound words.. err concepts. For it is my mind.
