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.

Yorkshire de Tour - Part 2

Part 2: Donny’s big win

14th February, 2015: And so it happened that I was all set for another Sheffield Wednesday game after the previous week's affair (read here in my tour part 1), but owing to a tragic death on the railway line outside of Sheffield, the trains had to return to Doncaster. The news of a death had rattled us all in that train carriage – barring one very self-obsessed young-adult whose idea was to “scoop the remains up and let us through. It’s my birthday and I’ve got a dinner reservation.”

Back in the world of common sense, I alighted at Doncaster and quickly decided to make my way to the Keepmoat Stadium, where Doncaster were due to play Yeovil Town in the Sky Bet League One. The stadium is actually a fair distance from the train station, so I had to catch a bus from the interchange just outside the station. But it’s really cheap at £2 return. It’s probably more expensive to drive over I think!

The bus was fairly filled with Doncaster fans – and three Yeovil fans as well. In fact, the Yeovil lads were nicely chatting away with the Donny ones and it just goes to show football rivalries can really just be left on the pitch. It’s not all riots at 2pm before kick-off!

Keepmoat Stadium. Bit out of the way but a decent crowd

As you near the stadium, there is almost a sense that the area around it hasn’t been fully developed. Indeed, I got the feeling we were at a construction site, but for the fact that you can see the floodlights. The area is in the surroundings known as Lakeside, which also boasts a retail/shopping outlet.

But much like that day in Sheffield last time, you can again see the masses of fans walking over to watch an afternoon of football. I met a couple of fans who were happy to show me the way to the kop stand. Generally the vibe was quite friendly, and even the fanzine sellers were pretty jolly! The ticket office is located quite conveniently and the queues move very quickly. £23 it cost me to get a ticket for the kop stand, two less than that at Sheffield Wednesday.

The Keepmoat is a much more modern-looking stadium than Hillsborough, it has to be said. From the inside, the first thing that hits you is the crowd of course, but then you see the concession stands and families waiting for kick-off and it’s rather different from the old-school feel at Wednesday.

Doncaster do have a proud history going back to the 19th and 20th centuries, and they take pride in showing off the highlights on walls inside. As with most clubs in the UK, war has affected Rovers, but it always leaves them stronger, which is probably a learning for life itself.

The football pitch area, you’re hit by the colour red but it’s a very pretty sight indeed. Unlike at Hillsborough, I was closer to the goal here. And it’s a completely different experience I have to say. You get a real feel of how fast and physical the game is – more so at League One, where the skill levels may not be as high as say the Premier League. However, what you also get from this vantage point is the full might of the breeze! Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it, though there were spells of sunshine which at least made the action look a bit cheerier.

The Doncaster fans were happy. It was a comfortable 3-0 win, and Yeovil never really got into the game. Doncaster even have a big screen in one corner where replays of each goal are shown, which is quite nice I think! I also managed to fulfil my half-time pie desire, a steak one since you ask. And I also had a pint of bitter. Both were decently priced at £3.20 each.

Close to the action at the Keepmoat

In the end, as Rovers sailed to their second big win in succession – they beat Crawley 5-0 in the previous weekend – I called it a day about five minutes before the end, but only because I was freezing and I wanted to start walking about. Thankfully, there was a bus available not long after the match ended and I was quickly on my way back to the station. I did get a chance to have a post-match pint at a pub not far from the station, which was also showing the Liverpool-Crystal Palace game. Half-time there and I finally got on the train back to Goole. What could have been a waste of an afternoon, turned into a jolly one after all.

Ratings:

Matchday costs: 6/10 Tickets not perfect at £23 considering it’s League One. Stadium doesn’t sell out. Pints and pie perfect at £3.20

Stadium – 8/10. Modern stadium, plenty of facilities and good concession area.

Football – 9/10 comfortable 3-0 win. Dominating performance in both attack and defence from Doncaster.

Overall matchday experience – 7/10

Yorkshire De Tour - Part 1

Part 1: Sheffield Wednesday's nerves of steel
7th February, 2015: Having found a rare Saturday off, I decided the best use of it would be to travel down to Sheffield. Yes, it is really travelling 'down' as Sheffield lies in South Yorkshire and was once the heartland of steel in the UK. Quite a nice city to start off this Yorkshire tour then, given my Jamshedpur and TATA Steel roots. Today, Sheffield boasts a huge university, a vibrant music and theatre scene, and two historic Football League clubs. I was off to Sheffield Wednesday versus Cardiff City, two former Premier League clubs in fact. A few people from my office support Wednesday, otherwise known as the Owls.
I paid £12.30 for a return ticket from Goole to Sheffield. The Northern rail service takes you through Doncaster and into Sheffield. As soon as you exit the station you can see the Sheffield Hallam University buildings. I, of course, headed out for a pre-match pint at The Sheffield Tap, which is attached to the station, and which was insanely busy.

Pre-match entertainment is always standard!

Regardless, I then made my way to the tram stop at the station. I met several fans on the tram, and everyone seemed to recommend getting off at Hillsborough stop. The reason was revealed when I got off at the stop, to be greeted by a massive Weatherspoons pub. Clearly a pre-match favourite haunt.
A massive big-screen projection of the early kick-off, the North London derby between Tottenham and Arsenal was being played. I just about managed to make my way to the bar through the crowds, as you can see in the pitcture, and had a lovely ale to begin with.
I also met James, who told me he had been born and brought up in Sheffield, but had been living in Grimsby for the last eight years. He was there for his first match in two years.
We eventually decided to head to the stadium together, as he knew the shortcut to the Kop, which is a colloquial way of describing the stand where all the hardcore fans sit - or stand for 90 minutes! The stadium itself is just a short 10-minute walk from the pub and you can see the many hundreds of fans making their way as well. It really is a sight to behold at times, when you feel a country as a whole is making its way to football stadia at 3pm on a Saturday. For many it's a release after a week of hard work. You can understand the tribal mentality that comes with such an enterprise.

View of the Kop at Hillsborough from the outside

Almost a world apart from the likes of Old Trafford, which I've visited on a number of occasions, the Hillsborough stadium is very old-school actually. Across a barrier from the kop stand, but still within the stadium premises, you can see the crowds gathered to smoke and have a pint. This in the day of so much health and safety laws is a refreshing throw-back to simpler times! But the actual safety is never compromised, which is a far cry from the tragedy that took place at this very venue.
Anyway, I paid £25 for an adult ticket and took my place way up in the kop stand. You get a seat number assigned but nobody really checks that. I was easily able to sit in a random seat.
It was also the day Wednesday's owner Milan Mandaric was signing off and he gave a rousing speech which the crowd really appreciated.
The match was fairly exciting. The pitch wasn't very good by the looks of it, and it obviously made passing difficult. But there were a fair few chances, not least for former Southampton and Sunderland forward Kenwyne Jones scoring early on with a header.  To their credit, Wednesday were only down for a bit. Came back with a few attacks of their own. The Kop was showing plenty of support including people with drums and bugles. It can get only slightly annoying! But you appreciate the spirit shown by fans who pay upwards of £20 week-in week-out. What you perhaps shouldn't appreciate is rowdy behaviour, with one fan I saw being spoken to in no uncertain terms by the stewards, for being abusive towards another fan. In an age when so much is reported of abuse going unchecked, it's good to see some places are able to monitor and root out such behaviour.

I wanted to cap my matchday experience with a half-time pint and a pie, but sadly the sheer crowds that gather in the smoking/pint area means I'd have ended up waiting well into the second half! But the crowd again shows the passion people have for simple pleasures.All hail the Great British Pie!
There was only a smattering of away fans in the far end, as I guess it's quite a long trek up from Wales. But they had plenty to shout about of course. Thankfully, for the home support, Wednesday earned a penalty in the second half and Will Keane scored the spot kick. Keane is actually on loan at Wednesday from Manchester United, so that's certainly a good sign for us Red Devils! Despite the comeback though, Wednesday were unable to find a winning goal. But it was a draw, which keeps people relatively happy.
Again, much like 3pm, the sheer number of people making their way out onto the streets at 5pm is amazing. Unsurprisingly, there was a sizeable police presence dotted from the ground up to a few tram stops away. It is not unheard of for trouble to break out at football grounds in general, and I have to say I felt much safer seeing the police cars.
I made my way back to Sheffield Station, stopping at a pub along the way of course! And it was easy to catch one of the many trains heading back up towards Goole.
All in all, it was a very enjoyable experience and I am glad I took the plunge. Next week, hopefully, I will bring you a matchday report of another of Yorkshire's older clubs Doncaster Rovers, as we continue this off-beat Tour de Yorkshire.

Ratings-
Matchday costs - 8/10. Ticket Prices just about right considering it's the Championship, pints not too bad.
Stadium - 7/10. Old-School which is refreshing, but not enough toilets!
Football - 6/10. A draw so can't really give anything seven and above sadly. 
Overall Matchday experience - 8/10. 

Rant 97: We're on Facebook!

At long last, I have taken the leap and created a facebook page for the photos that I take and love. If you're of a generous disposition (!) then please do take the time and have a look around.
I have been taking pictures as a very serious hobby and passion for the last six years and I hope to continue that for the rest of my life. I will try and post at least one photo a day (hopefully more) and I do hope everyone enjoys them as much as I have enjoyed taking them.
These photos are to view and enjoy. If they do catch your fancy beyond the usual, and you would like to purchase a high-quality version - digital or print - please do get in touch via the Facebook page, and I will be happy to oblige!

The Archaeological Park in New Delhi has some fascinating sights to behold. But for these kids, a swimming and diving session into a Mughal-era pool was all they wanted! It is true the best things in life are, quite simply, free!

Rant 96: My Dynamic Shift

It's hard to find ways to kill time sometimes, especially when you're unemployed (enforced). However, it gives ample time to experiment with different types of photography, as well as different types of post-processing.

On a very bright and sunny day.
Perhaps best to leave HDR for sunrise
or sunsets?

Now HDR, or High Dynamic Ranging, was something I had always shied away from. Not for the degree of difficulty, but for the insane amount of unrealism that has creeped into this school. Just google for HDR Photography and you almost feel like you're going through the storyboard for Avatar. Even the online tutorials on HDR make you feel like they're describing marmite, "you either love it, or you detest it".
But thanks to the magic of unemployment, I decided to take the plunge. It almost began on a lazy level, in that I simply crawled out into the backyard and attempted my first HDR composition. And while I wasn't exactly happy with the result (see left), I wasn't wholly disappointed with it either. Didn't look too bad for a first attempt. My next attempt, however, I hit upon a method that worked for me! The problem isn't how you take the picture in the field, but how you compose it in Photoshop later. Layer masks, paintbrush tool to begin with. Leaves and trees create their own challenges, one I solved by toning down the opacity of my paintbrush tool when painting (with Black) in certain areas of the respective mask. All in all, I ended up with a very appealing result, a picture taken literally 20 metres away from my house.
The bench (see right) provided a very nice division between the foreground grass and the sky in the background. It also provided the sense of isolation that I was feeling in the area. It's a place called the Howden marshes and is almost akin to a forest.
I got some really nice feedback off Facebook as well! Most importantly, though, I was given a second lesson in why the RAW format is king. For the simple reason that you can mess up maybe two out of your three frames, but if one is good enough, and it's in RAW, you've got a decent head start in doing your post-processing.
Speaking if Photoshop, I've used Adobe software for a number of years now. But I've been increasingly hearing of a software called Photomatix, which supposedly is good for HDR. I haven't tried it yet, mostly because I am quite comfortable with Photoshop. But who knows, all this experimenting on the field might just push me for experimentation off it!
Lastly, while HDR can be your friend on most occasions - the wow effect is simply addictive - it can be a harsh mistress as well. Use it wisely, else you may end up with an amateurish piece as I did with the one below, taken in a churchyard in Howden.