Rant 101: Plane and simple - the story behind the picture

It's funny how many of my pictures that evoke emotion in me are actually tapping into emotion from my childhood. A previous story-behind-the-picture piece I wrote for this blog looked at my childhood love of playing tennis alongside a photograph taken more than two decades on. You can read it here.
Today, I talk about aircraft.
My wife, son and I visited the Yorkshire Air Museum today. It was my son's first visit, though Kirstie and I have visited several times before. It is a fascinating place full of history, and filled with winged technology to enthral people of all ages.

Gritty, robust, and classy - all at the same time

This picture you see on the right was taken in a huge hangar at the air museum complex, and is of an
aircraft propeller. It looks antique, some would say ancient! But that's exactly what attracted me to it. The elegance, the craft, the engraving on metal of "Scott" filled with blue, the wooden blade with their own two respective markings at either end, the metal bits stained by years of being worked on, repaired, used, and then repaired again. It was as if whatever workshop this aircraft came out of, I could smell the hard work and effort that went into making one of these. Then again, perhaps this "workshop" I speak of is not too much in the realm of fantasy.

And this is where my childhood comes in. As with many children, I too fell in love with aircrafts and the wonders of flight. I never took my first flight till the age of 16 but as a child, I had a friend from school whose family were big into aircraft. They owned several businesses, and had interests in the aircraft business as well. What that translated to for my friend was that he and his brother were huge fans of model aircraft. Not the frilly, dime-a-dozen, plastic-feel kind you get these days. His were gritty, robust, and classy all at the same time. They made a lot of noise, sometimes emitted smoke (which we all agreed was both a good and a bad thing) and when they flew my heart would leap with them. Funnily enough, I never saw their planes actually fly more than a few times. In fact, my best memories of them are just all of us sitting down and watching my friend's brother work on it, fix things little by little, add a bit of fuel here, tighten a screw there, and just focus all of his energies for that period on this model aircraft. It was like watching an artist at work.

So, in a very simple way, when I saw this propeller set at the Yorkshire Air Museum, I was - as with my tennis session - taken back to a simpler time! I must apologise as I don't actually remember what kind of aircraft this belongs to. Reason being that I was so taken in by the propeller and its looks and the memories that I forgot to have a read of the information board. 

Rant 100: Why I love tennis - the story behind the picture

I’ve often thought about doing a full blog post about the pictures that I click and share on my photography page (click here if you want to have a scroll). For one reason or another I’ve never been able to. But this being my 100th Rant, I thought I’d take the plunge.

So, to set the scene - I’d finished work at 7pm, and was torn between going to the gym or playing tennis with a friend. As it turned out my friend was not available to play. And so I ended up on my own at the tennis court.

And suddenly, I was a five-year-old again!

Tennis in the Twilight (location: Goole Tennis Centre)

Flashback to the early 90s in Jamshedpur. My father decided to enrol a four-and-a-half-year-old me in tennis lessons. Now, growing up in India, with cricket as the unofficial national sport, I was a bit bemused. In fact, I even resisted. Why would I want to play something like tennis, when I could instead be out playing cricket with my neighbourhood friends? Everybody played cricket, literally everybody. Whether it was at school, or at the local park. Still, my father persisted, and took me on his little green-yellow lambretta scooter to a local recreation centre called “United Club”. Among things like showing movies, food, swimming pool, they had two clay tennis courts.
I can remember it very clearly now, the first time I stepped on to a tennis court. My father was introducing me to the coach, but I was lost in a different world. Somehow, by some stroke of luck, I was transfixed by the court. Red clay, with pristine white lines, and with a net across the middle. It was mesmerising, it really was. And that’s part of the reason why I remember those first few steps so vividly. From then on, I was hooked on tennis.

Tennis is an individual sport, and in many ways it suited me perfectly. I’ve always had my own rebellious streak so perhaps a team sport like cricket or football was not best suited. In tennis, I work for my own win, mistakes are mine to bear, and my creativity is mine alone. I can be as crazy, or as subtle as I want. At the moment of hitting a ball, nobody can tell you how to play the stroke - you play it, and be it on your head. I loved it.

But tennis is also different. And this goes back to the fact that not a lot of people played it - at the time - in Jamshedpur. I was taught the basic strokes, but I would regularly struggle to actually play much. My coach and his colleagues Tillak Sir, Ganesh Bhaiya and others, to their immense credit, seemed to love that I loved the sport so much, and would therefore basket-feed me about 200 balls every day. But that was about it. At the start I was not good enough or old enough to play a proper match against them, though it never stopped me trying, and none of my age-group peers played tennis. I was on my own. And still I played and loved.

In fact it came to a point when even ball-feeding from the coaches stopped, given I used to be the only kid who would rock up every afternoon - couldn’t blame the coaches. But still I came, and grew to love the game even more.

One reason - because even when the coaching stopped, even when the coaches did not emerge from the clubhouse in the 40-degree heat, I continued to play. I would be dropped off by my father at around 3pm - on his way to work - I would be given a tennis ball by the coach, and I would stand at the court baseline and hit against the perimeter wall. I was playing against myself. I would play games of my own. How many shots could I do in one “rally”? How many volleys could I do standing closer to the wall? How many tap-ups could I do in a minute? The stats, as it were, eventually became irrelevant. What mattered was that I was gaining valuable experience of my own limits; I was learning a lot about the proper grip on a racket - the coach would sometimes observe and give a few pointers - I improved my agility and balance, and my movement around the court area. I am still a predominantly baseline player and rely on a strong top-spin game. Basically, those years spent banging against wall, I could do whatever the heck I wanted in that time without being troubled by parents or siblings or friends, and without being judged for it as well.

It helped me find myself at a very young age.

And so I found myself again… 24 years later, on a brisk but sunny evening in Goole, East Yorkshire, nearly 6,000 miles away from those sun-baked courts in Jamshedpur. I stretched, jogged, then started hitting the ball on my own, swung some forehands, some backhands, smashed some serves.

I learned.

Rant 99: My English is apparently very good

There are various ways of being an immigrant these days. You could be seeking a better life, more money, seeking love, or maybe fleeing war and persecution. But whatever label we put on ourselves - or, rather, whatever label society chooses to put on us - the language I speak and how I speak it has had an impact on how I am perceived.

Take English for instance, purely on a basic level. Here is a conversation I have had on several occasions since moving from India to England in 2011.

Other person: “Are you from India?”

Me: “Yes.”

Other person: “Your English is very good.”

Me: “Err… thanks.”

*resists temptation to say “so is yours” *

Now, unless you were my English teacher, or the one who marked my exam papers, I have never really needed validation of my level of English. Case in point, my journalism professor in England once said my spoken English was “impeccable”, which led to an awkward silence in a classroom mostly filled with British students.

I grew up in an English-based school, in a country that is arguably one of the fastest developing in the modern world, and with parents and friends who spoke more English than Hindi. India has embraced many parts of western culture and one of those is certainly the language. Also bear in mind the education system in India is largely a product of the British colonial presence pre-August 1947. Hardly surprising then that the vast majority of urban and suburban children in India grow up with better English than Hindi - or any other regional language. To put it another way, if I had to choose a language to save my life, it would be English. My English is not perfect - no way would I describe it as “impeccable” either - but it does the job for me.

So why do the aforementioned feel compelled to compliment me? I suppose in the case of my journalism professor it’s part of his job, which makes it okay to an extent. In the case of the ‘other person’ - the captain of a village cricket team I was part of - it could be the need to feel superior.

That is my theory as to why somebody feels the need to point out how good (or bad) my English is - dominance. Is there a perception that an immigrant, or in simpler terms a foreigner, must surely be in a state of perpetual struggle with his new environment and culture? And is there a case that this applies only to foreigners/immigrants from the developing or third-world countries? I’m still searching for a complete answer, but perhaps there is some merit to be given to anecdotal evidence. Why else would somebody feel that he or she must comment on the language of a foreigner, bearing in mind I have never heard the same being said by one Englishman to another? Ah we are of this country so surely we speak our language best, and the fact that you grew up in another country means you can never be as good as us.

Could another theory be that it’s simply ignorance? That the cricket captain - like many others who think my English is “very good” - is just not as aware of the wider world? It feels weird writing a statement like that in the 21st century, but perhaps that is also part of the truth. It doesn’t make it acceptable in any case.

I do not feel that speaking/writing good Hindi is the sole preserve of Indians. In fact, Hindi can boast Sanskrit (central Asia) and Persian influences so who am I to assume that someone in Tajikistan or Iran does not speak impeccable Hindi? Or that if someone from Tajikistan or Iran speaks Hindi to me, that I must make sure he knows how good his Hindi is?

He probably knows how good his Hindi is so, you know, thanks but no thanks!

Rant 98: Born in the wrong country

Identity
I’m not the first person who when asked “where are you from?” falls down a mental black hole of uncertainty and insecurity. I’m also sure I’m not the first person who feels their identity is in a constant flux.

And so the question raises itself again: Where am I truly from?

To clear the basics: I was, I am told, born in the state of Orissa in the south eastern part of India. I am told it was in the summer. I remember growing up in Jamshedpur, in the state of Bihar (now Jharkhand) in eastern India. So, surely, I must identify with that place?

However, a mixture of insecurity during childhood, peer pressure, social embarrassment, bullying, failure to achieve expectations, and a general desire to see the wider world forced me to reject the place I grew up in. Jamshedpur is still the place that I know best - geographically speaking - and it is still the place where I have spent the most amount of time at a single stretch. But I am not from Jamshedpur.

To continue the basics: I did my basic bachelor’s degree in Manipal, in the coastal belt of south west India. I rejected an opportunity to study in the United States and packed off to a university known more for its party scene than its academic prowess. I spent three years doing a degree I had supposedly wanted to do. I made some friends, had some adventures, and eventually scraped through with a degree. However, among the many regrets was the fact that I had wasted three years of my life indulging in forms of excess I had not expected of myself. Add to that more social exclusion, being generally bullied, and rejected in areas of love. All of these add up to more bad memories, more regrets, and more feelings of shame when remembering the past. I am not from Manipal.

I spent the next two-and-a-half years working out of Mangalore, which was just an hour away from Manipal - again on the coast. Here, I found myself professionally. I became good at what I did. I made two very good friends, had some amazing experiences, found love, then lost it, then indulged in excess and then found my future wife. And yet, I do not identify myself as being from Mangalore. This one I am at a loss to explain why.

My then-girlfriend-now-wife had been visiting from England. We fell in love and I eventually came over to the UK to do my Master’s degree. There was a great deal of excitement about being in a totally new country. And an equally exciting prospect was leaving India behind. Not just the land, but all my bad memories. I had resolved to change myself. I had resolved to run away from all that I hated about India, all that I hated about my association with India. I was of the opinion, that if I separated myself by vast oceans and thousands of miles, India would never catch up with me. My past, I hoped, would never resurface. And thankfully, there has never been a major occurrence of that so far.

And so I resolved to change myself. I tried, and I still am trying, to become British. It’s a weird moment in my life when I admit to myself, that I need to begin a new identity. Secret agents perhaps have it easy when changing identities, as it’s part of the job. They don’t necessarily choose having to become someone else. They are required to. I’m choosing to change my identity.

Since late 2011, in fact, I have consciously tried to change my habits, my way of speaking, my way of communicating, my way of cracking jokes, my way of watching television, heck even my way of drinking water.

I do not know if what I am doing is correct. It’s difficult to integrate into a culture that is so vastly different from the one you grew up in. Even in the multicultural world of 2015, there are some things I can just never hope to be; or some things that you just can’t choose into being. On a day-to-day basis, "being British" - or whatever I am doing is called - isn’t easy. I’m sure there are many Brits who say the same thing.

It’s difficult. But I am trying.

I am not from England. But from November 2015 onwards, a part of me has officially staked claim to being from England. A part of my identity has been reborn. And this time, I get the feeling it's the right country.

Rant 94: A radical slip of the tongue

Brett Lee once discovered to
his annoyance how bloody
dangerous fielding on the
ropes is

Ever watched a cricket match, and wondered which was the most important fielding position? I would wager the majority probably doesn't, myself included. After all, there is no guarantee of where the ball will be hit. Well, unless you're Chris Gayle, in which case the best position is probably with the chana wala outside the stadium.
But I'm talking about a position that is used only in certain periods of the match. Not always like a wicketkeeper, not always like point, perhaps, or even not as frequently as fine-leg. I'm talking about the slips.
There's no doubt that the three slip positions (and possibly the gully) are the most used only in the first 10 or 15 overs, when the ball is at its most menacing and the fast bowlers are trying to get movement. An edge to slip is arguably the most common method of dismissal in the first five overs of any game (no opener worth his salt will try a heave in the first five and risk being caught out by early bounce). And leg slip provides valuable deterrent when the spin-led middle overs come by.
Now, I've always wondered about the fielding positions that fast bowlers are used in. If it sounds like I've taken off somewhere else, bear with me. The most common position fast bowlers are put in is on the boundary. Seems logical, perhaps. They have good arms from years of turning it over; good pace from years of watching Shoaib Akhtar; and a good eye from years of trying to hit the correct spot on a pitch. Plus I've heard it said that it's a lazy job, that you're standing around doing nothing for a lot of the time - unless you count drinking Gatorade as a form of exercise.
But I've always been struck by how easily it can go wrong for a fielder at, say, deep square-leg, or maybe deep cover, or even third-man in those nervy middle overs. Putting in the yards to stop a boundary has inevitably led to some body part taking an unnatural position in the climax and there's an injury. Plus add in the fact that the swift release and pacy throws from the deep are, no doubt, hell on the arm. And in the death overs, do you really expect batsmen to not be going for boundary shots?
So my argument is, why not stick them in the slips? Why is it necessary for a player, whose main job on a cricket field is basically to run really fast and turn his arm over six times in a few minutes, to then have even more running and arm slinging to do?
It does sound very radical, I agree, and not traditional at all. I'm a fan of the traditional (given my hatred of Virender Sehwag's penchant for playing like a cow on steroids), but I'm learning to adapt. Bowlers are being given very little incentive to bowl faster and with better swing. Bouncers were reduced, fielders have been brought in, and the concept of free-hits (for f***s sake). The least I would want my bowlers to do is reduce their own workload slightly. I wouldn't even consider putting them in the short positions (short cover, short mid-wicket, short mid-off etc), because you're exposed to (a) a lot of short sprinting, and (b) risky dives on the training pitches.
The slips, in my opinion, are the best for them. It requires, possibly, the least amount of work. And requires much less bending than the keeper position (in case anyone wanted that argument). In addition, bowlers with long arms are perfect for that agonisingly wide edge that fat-man Sehwag couldn't be bothered to try for (I couldn't give a monkey's fiery posterior about his cuticle being damaged - catch the bloody ball!!).
Anyway, that was an idea that came to me today, and I've posted it out there now. I'm sure my minions in the BCCI are hard at work at rectifying this "oddity". I look forward to a strongly worded letter from N Srinivasan - and a lawsuit or two - to arrive any day now.

Rant 93: Brainstorming before the Big Bash

As most working individuals will agree, shift duties on a rolling rota basis are never an easy task, especially those that involve ungodly hours. In the last seven days, I have entered the office here at 6am on five occasions. It's perhaps not very healthy but I know which side my metaphorical bread is being buttered on so needs must and all that.
One of the ways to keep sane when the "weather outside is frightful" and sleep threatens, is have lots of coffee and watch early morning cricket. Obviously it was not very pleasant watching the drubbing meted out to India recently, but today it was the Big Bash league that caught my attention - for more reasons than merely staying awake.
It's cricket that makes you go, "what the fratch dude?", not for the usual T20 madness but for things like the Umpire cam, and those red lights on the bails that flicker every time they're touched. The latter reminds me of Ice Hockey for some reason, while the icing on the cake is perhaps the flying camera. I wonder if at the planning stage, the chief organiser gathered his minions in a dingy room inside Cricket Australia headquarters and went:-
Head Honcho: "Right boys, I'd like a list of all your favourite action movies, and the awesome gadgetry that went with them".

Minion1: "What about Liz Hurley?"

HH: "As a cheerleader?"

M1: "No, as an awesome piece of gadgetry that flickers every time you touch it."

HH: "I like your style, but I think Shane Warne's already got an exclusive patent for that."

M2: "How about a camera that flies? IPL's got a Spidercam, we'll call ours Supercam! hah! and let's have it dramatically tear its plastic cover off the front every time we switch it on."

HH: "Excellent, and I can take control of the camera no problem. I like to keep track of all aspects of our league. On a different issue, can we make it a law that all women must wear low-cut tops at the games, for...err...safety reasons?"

M3: "I think that happens anyway boss."

HH: "Oh good good. I really like keeping track of boobie...I mean safety. What else can we do to jazz up this league? I can't have that Srinivasan fellow guffawing at me every time we meet at the annual Cricket's Biggest League Leeches Awards dinner. If I have to hear "our parties are better than your parties" one more time I'm going to snap. Can I help it if all our players and spectators are already so drunk while playing that they lose the stamina to actually party when the need arises?"

M3: "What about little lights?"

HH: "This ain't Diwali mate. I'm all for cultural diversity but I don't think a candle's going to cut it. Have you seen the size of the MCG?"

M3: "Hear me out boss. You know how everyone has a problem figuring out whether the bails have been removed from the wicket?"

HH: "Err...don't they usually fall off quite easily? I've seen Virender Sehwag's huffs and puffs after walking a single that have forced them off."

M3: "Well yeah, but I was thinking more for run-outs and stuff. I was watching Mr India last night and was quite taken by the multi-coloured lights in Mogambo's lair attached to his various instruments of doom. I mean come on, he was about to blow up a city with a bomb, the least he could do is have a bit of variety in the buttons eh? So anyway, I was thinking, if we fix two red lights on the bails which are touch-sensitive, then we'd know the exact moment they've come off."

HH: "Excellent! Very Roger Moore James Bond-like as well. Oh man, little lights on bails, flying cameras, I don't know how we're going to top this."

M4: "A camera on the umpire's cap, boss?"

HH: "Ooooh! that's very futuristic. Tom Cruise can suck it. I mean this will completely take our ratings to a new level."

M4: "Shouldn't we spin it so that it looks like we're doing it to help TV umpires?"

HH: "Yes yes sure whatever! I'll make sure the media get a picture of me posing with a flag that has the words 'I stand for correct decisions' emblazoned across it. But think of the ratings. Everytime we switch to the umpire cam, it will look like an earthquake is taking place. People will rush to their friends and say 'OMG like there's an earthquake taking place mate! switch on the telly', only to find out it's just the umpire cam. Then they'll sheepishly laugh at themselves before watching the cricket. Hence: Ratings!"

M4: "Yess Bosss! 

Despite the mockery, I actually think that flickering-bails technology is a good idea, as is the umpire cam. But  it will need a generational change before the BCCI think of allowing it in their backyards.
till then, enjoy the cricket!

Rant 91: Pitching camp

Too often we hear the phrase “…hit the panic button…” as a reference to a cricket team suffering a major collapse of wickets after a prominent batsman’s exit. It’s an easy way for outsiders to sum up a failed innings with the bat.

Seldom would you hear it in the build-up to a Test.

However, India seem to have taken a comically large hammer to that panic button ever since messers Cook and Compton sauntered through the formalities of scoring 57 to win the second Test in Mumbai. The bewildered Wankhede public wondered how they would fill time on the fifth day that would never be. Analyse Monty Panesary’s one-dimensional but effective spin? Graeme Swann’s variations? The fact that Sachin Tendulkar seems a mere shadow of his old self? Well they may have done so in their own heads whilst enjoying a nice walk down Juhu beach.

The BCCI, however, chose to focus on the issue of pitches. The euphoria of the Ahmedabad victory being a spin-led affair made choosing a rank turner at the Wankhede a no-brainer. MS Dhoni even “asked” for it, thinking it would lead to an even quicker victory than the one at Motera. How viciously that backfired.

In the build-up to the third Test at the iconic Eden Gardens in Kolkata, the board have been in a tizzy, causing a saga that has all the hallmarks of Bollywood drama.

A BCCI representative was sent over to “assist” in pitch preparations, alongside groundsman-in-chief Prabir Mukherjee, a grizzled, 83-year-old veteran, who last year had a verbal spat with Dhoni. The Indian captain criticised the Eden pitch, despite a 95-run ODI win over England, as an “ugly wicket” to which Mukherjee responded, “pitches don’t score runs, batsmen do”.

Dhoni’s fresh calls for a turning surface caused more consternation with Mukherjee, who bemoaned: “This is immoral because you (organisers) are selling tickets for a five-day Test. On a square turner, there's every chance of a match ending in three days. Why rob people of two days' play?” The groundsman then refused to come to work, reportedly for health reasons, but has since been persuaded by the board to continue supervising preparations.

Utpal Dutt, moustachioed like the pitch
curator he should have been!

I can well imagine Shahrukh Khan playing the role of MS Dhoni, trying to keep his charisma going whilst an enraged Amrish Puri (aka any BCCI chief honcho) tries to seek revenge by sending his right-hand-man Teja to manipulate things at the ground level. All along, curator Utpal Dutt has been gagged and bound to a chair, but who anyway refuses to work with that “upstart” Teja.

Within all this, the real reason for India’s capitulation was never sought by the board. Was the furore over pitches deliberately caused to avoid talking about India’s faults with bat and ball? Could well be, considering the secrecy around match pitches and conditions of the practice pitches. Or is it a case of looking short term, i.e. win the series here to gain revenge for last year’s drubbing?

Whichever way you look at it, the BCCI seem to have their heads in the sand. As if the mere presence of turning wickets would have been enough to secure a series win. It is, unfortunately, the same argument we have for including failing players, who may have been stalwarts in their time. I will not include names for betraying the fan part of my sporting soul.

But is it too much to ask our players to try and take the pitch out of the equation? To repeat from last year, teams that are truly great learn to adapt in foreign climes. We failed spectacularly in this respect last year, while England have learnt admirably from their mistakes.

If this were war, the full-blown clamour for favourable pitches (and nothing else) would take us back to the trenches of World War One. Dig one and you can be relatively protected from the enemy’s bullets, maybe even win a skirmish or two. However, as we saw in Mumbai, the enemy has advanced its technique. It has taken stock of the type of soil that lies beyond the trench and clambered out – it took risks and won rewards. In the next five days, it will take stronger steps towards our trench.

We seem to have stopped questioning our own ammunition and unfortunately, once the bayonets are mere inches from the heart, the ground below will matter so little.

Rant 89: The most important sportsman

The lights shone bright on the green surface some hundred yards away from where I sat. On the surface, individuals from a certain sports team I favoured were battling it out for top honours against their rivals. The tension was immense and threatened to overshadow the excitement of watching the title clash unfolding in front of me. The crowd – which had packed the stands to breaking point - had been waiting for what seemed like ages. Some, like me, stood transfixed by the action, unable to move; others had closed their eyes in silent prayer; still others were singing their hearts out for that extra piece of inspiration to surge the team onward.

At last, just as all hope was lost, the winning moment arrived as my team’s captain pulled off a spectacular strike to send the packed house into delirium.

Replace team with either the Indian cricket team or Manchester United. The strange bit is perhaps the fact that there is not much by way of differences to compare. Perhaps this is because both sports occupy the primary position of following in their respective countries.

Sudhir Kumar Chaudhary (right)

Fans of either team, or even just of the sport itself, are a curious brand of patrons. It doesn’t matter whether you’re spending more than eight hours in 40-degree heat to watch India pull off a world cup win, or spending two hours in minus-four-degree cold to see United see off noisy neighbours Manchester City. The sheer amount of passion and dedication employed by both sets of fans is the same.

Chacha Cricket

For thousands, a match is more than just a result. Days, sometimes entire lives, are based around following their team. Take the case of Sudhir Kumar Chaudhary,  who was awared an honourary ticket for all of India’s home matches, or Pakistan fan Chaudhry Abdul Jalil lovingly known as chacha (uncle) insert picture or the Portsmouth fan, who legally had his name changed to John Anthony Portsmouth Football Club Westwood to show his dedication for the south coast side.

John Westwood

The fan following has a curious effect on the rest of the populace, at least in the case of India and Pakistan. The two nations may be at odds over several political issues, and border tensions may be high, but Chaudhary and Chacha are guaranteed recipients of match tickets and travel visas when the two sides meet in their respective backyards. As a result, entire nations can shake off political differences.

It just goes to show how sport can transcend borders, and as Wanderley Luxemburgo, Brazil football team’s coach in 1999 said: "A player who conjugates a verb in the first person singular cannot be part of the squad, he has to conjugate the verb in the first person plural. We. We want to conquer. We are going to conquer. Using the word I when you're in a group makes things complicated."

The true sports fan is the 12th man for any team, and will perhaps be the first to speak the aforementioned words.

Rant 88: I miss you

I am about to embark upon a new chapter in my life. It will take place in a foreign land. I will be taking on an educational challenge that will define my career, meeting new people, building on some acquaintances, and continuing a very special relationship. I cannot begin to describe how excited I am about this new chapter. (For brevity's sake, let's assume: I am excited).
However, I will leave behind some incredible memories and:-

1) The culmination of perhaps India's most revolutionary time since the Emergency. I do not have an opinion on the cause that "team Anna" and the government are at loggerheads over. However, the buzz about anti-corruption seems to have reached a frenzy and god help me, I might just miss that.

2) The first ever Formula One Indian Grand Prix. Like it for its thrill-a-minute excitement or hate it for the extreme waste of natural resources, the sport will gain a huge amount of attention once the five red lights go out at the Buddh International Circuit in Delhi. I will miss being a part of the action.

3) Metallica's first Indian concert. I fell to the peer pressure tactic of listening to heavy metal back in my high school days. And while I've discarded most of the bands that I thought I liked back then, Metallica remains a band that I still enjoy very much. I probably cannot tell my E flat note from my B-Major-extended-then-drop-it-down-two-notches-before-using-your-thumb-on-the-E-string chord, but the acquired listening taste towards ear-splitting music is well worth the intense neck pain from a night of drunken headbanging whilst rapidly air-guitaring. I will miss doing that on the national stage.

4) Sporting revenge. After all the back-slapping/public flogging about how England thoroughly beat the flying shit out of India was over, we realised that England probably had the upper hand thanks to home advantage. Well, among several other reasons I'm sure, but let's keep the home advantage tag for argument's sake. Well Sir! you'll find that India are top dogs in our own backyard as well! Come October and England visit India, so bloody hell, I'm going to thoroughly miss the sight of our Men in Blue exacting revenge.

Rant 87: Do you vomit Blue???

And so at last the bubble has burst. After months and months of self-aggrandisement, it has finally been proven that simply waving a flag, "having the best batting order", and the most "cunning captain in the world", cannot save a cricket team from being absolute s**t when the situation calls for it.
To all the media hacks and Ravi Shastri who claim that our batting, bowling, selection policy and Kris Srikkanth's slurred ramblings are the best, you are wrong!! Because as we all know, the hard-working Indian cricket fan is the world's greatest batsman (arrey front foot pey khelo saale bhadwe!!!), the world's greatest bowler (round the wicket pphekega toh swing karega dekhna!), and of course selector (abey woh west zone key against biased hai isliye nai choose kiya mujhe).
And so I decided to explore what the paying public had to say about the damning humiliation that has befallen our cricketers in Jolly Ol' England. The article itself does not matter too much. It could range from "Dhoni should employ more spinners" to "My grandmother with Alzheimer could have played that shot better".... I picked out the aptly titled: "Why Team India is in a state of free fall" .
The points made were astute I guess: reasons for the defeat, our under-preparedness, our selection policy, our batting, our bowling, our dinner break, and topped off with the poignant conclusion that "hah! Ganguly could have done a much better job. I told u so, but forget it, I'm off to have some misti doi"
And as predicted, a plethora of comments ensued. SK clearly had the measure of things in terms of coaches as he sounded a warning to the BCCI by claiming: "I hope this is the clear sign of lossing a GARY KRISTAN." Clearly, the players are not focused enough because we seem to have lost any memory of a coach called Gary "Kristan". Presumably Mr Kristan was the interim coach after Gary Kirsten resigned from his post.
VCjob took on the task of speaking for all the grumpy-old-men of India's middle-class, who never return the cricket ball when it lands in their front yard. We lost the match "because cricket is a freaking game of chance and Indians are wasting youngster's talent and time on this worthless game." Well said Sir! Mr Malhotra from house no. 42 will visit you soon and gift you some barfi as soon as his afternoon siesta is done and he has taken his meds for the day.
Charudatta Lamaye, in his infinite wisdom, outlined a 12-point programme for the resurrection of our fortunes, where the phrase knee-jerk reaction at last had a champion, and pearls such as "cannot judge Munaf as he did not play" wreaked havoc among the BCCI elite! This author would like to add that we also cannot judge Parthiv Patel, Ravindra Jadeja, Sunil Gavaskar, my neighbour, my neighbour's daughter and the alleyway rascal who keeps sending her rude letters, as all these characters did not play the match either.
A teary-eyed Anand Bhagwat recalled the old days, and keeping small matters like grammar and coherence completely out of the equation, bellowed: "India should play aggresively...If Ganguly is caption the were different, Indian team doesn't have face their...Its look like India is not playing there...we are Missing Sourav's agression." Quite why Ganguly would want to be the "caption" for the sorry picture of Indian cricket is unclear.
Jay, having flipped through the entire rulebook of cricket, promptly threw it out the window and concluded that cricket, after all, is a one-man game. And not just any man, but somebody who's literally broken his back for the love of the game. Yet, the immediate reaction demanded by Jay was: "Tendulkar should quit playing Test cricket as an apology to the nation." According to rumours, a visibly shocked Tendulkar later issued a press release where it was his precise intention to speak during Parliament's winter session, donate a million gallons of milk to his local temple, and whip himself dry while wearing a pink tutu and asking himself: "have I made it large??"
Ashish, fresh out of Harvard Business School and having watched his girlfriend deliver a sexy report on NDTV Profit, attempted to explain things a little more scientifically. And of course, being the financially astute gentleman he is, his analogy referred to the US and its ongoing problems. "its just one of the bad patches," he remarked. "just like the downward spiral of the Dow Index as SnP downgraded US from AAA to AA....its something similar. Kind of a jolt, nothing to be worried about. Team India still has the substance, just as US gives good returns despite being AA."
So there you go! Bums on Seats are what make our country the fine democrazy it is, and our cricket team the best damn actors to grace the Kingfisher 2011 Calendar.
There are several of us however, who worry about the real problems facing this country, and Tapan Kumar's comment at the very bottom of the page highlights concerns that I'm sure each and every one of us faces at some point in our lives.
"If appears that bengalis might have f..ked you under someones consent that's you are nervous about permanant erection."

Rant 84: A day in the life of body art

If you've ever walked into(/gate-crashed-because-you're-hungry) an Indian wedding, then apart from the great quantities of food, there is perhaps no other element that characterises our love for exuberance than dresses and accessories. Gold jewellery worn as if we've run short of dresses to cover ourselves, sarees sweeping around in a sea of red, and if it's a modern Indian/NRI type pphamilee waaley, then perhaps a virtual catalogue of the latest mobiles (with so many mega-pixels thrust into them, our poor DSLRs cower in shame!)
And yet, there is one such accessory that I find is a lot more subtle. The Mehndi. Wholly traditional and much more beautiful than all the jewellery you can buy, I feel.
This simple application of Henna paste is perhaps the cheapest form of beautifying yourself, and yet it makes for some interesting times. The entire clan gets involved. The official "artist" is always somebody known to the family and is the only one who does all the decorating. However, the need to get ones hands painted is endemic, as one after the other, the women clamour to have these intricate and beautiful designs done, and in a sub-conscious way, each wants it done better than the last person's (be aware, though, that your's can/should/will NEVER be better than the bride's).

(Clockwise from top: the making, the finished product, the drying)

It also adds a different touch to how we attempt otherwise perfectly normal things...

And once the paste has dried off....

Voila! your palms are officially ready to bless the happy couple!

Rant 83: What is real beauty?

Beauty is a grey area...there is no black and white...or is there? Maybe India has a few answers to the questions of absolute beauty that my camera and I have been searching for.

Real Beauty is...

...our religious uniqueness?

...our History, as fresh as the flora that adorns it?

...the adventures of a middle-class upbringing?

...the value of simple memories?

...perhaps of a simple meal?

...our resourcefulness?

...enshrined in a fundamental right?

...the power to take a stand against injustice?

...the joys of a national passion?

...the joy of losing yourself in the moment?

...perhaps it is the realisation that the search for answers is endless?

Rant 66: The page that wishes it understood the true meaning of freedom

Independence day celebrations

From the darkness of subservience..came a new dawn

At offices and schools across the nation

Unfurling the flag

Salutes all around

None is spared...statue or street vendor

The freedom to sell...How many steps between a flag and the nation itself then???

Rant 64: Azad Hind Blogpost

Ok so my Friday nights are getting weirder by the day....BUT!!!!!!!
this is the limit
NOW,
I pride myself on the number of documentaries and movies I have seen on the second world war. Indeed, I can probably give a very informative Rant on Hitler's military moves during this period. However, among the many renditions of this futile war, there is one movie that just ticked me off.
As an Indian, I am proud of how much my earlier generation fought for the freedom but to see it condensed into THIS piece of bollywood influenced K-serial-esque DRAMA SHIT!! is just pushing it.
honestly! the movie Bose: The Forgotten Hero is perhaps the crappiest WW2 movie I have ever seen. I have only one sentence to describe it.

It is nothing less than a drama-induced Wikipedia article!


Basically, a fallen hero's life condensed into a 3 hour movie that jumps so fast, an olympic gymnast would be ashamed at the speed of it.
DO NOT WATCH IT! EVER!!!!!!!! you would do better to spend your time in a moth-infested library, researching Subash Chandra Bose's life

PS: I know I am being a tad hypocritical by linking wiki articles here but it's basically to prove my point....If you can't GET it ...then sadly you need to think harder..or maybe watch this crappy movie