Tiru Uncle

Dr. Salim Ali : Eventually more famous than Tiru Uncle

Before we had watched Dr. Brady Barr and Steve "Crocodile Hunter" Irwin; before National Geographic issues brought into our homes Jane Goodall and Diane Fossey; even before we had read anything about Jim Corbett and Salim Ali, long before we were old enough to spell 'conservation', we the tiny tots of Bharuch knew what it was all about. 

This we owe to the legend of Tiru Uncle.

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In a small town like ours, legendary status was tough to obtain. People met each other all too frequently on the streets and knew of each other's most embarrassing secrets all too well for that to happen. But the mind of kids was a different matter. A professional snake wrangler was pretty much assured of super stardom.

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This was all I knew about Tiru Uncle, whom I had never seen, a myth whispered from child to child and it was enough : that he was a cowboy hat wearing swashbuckler, the one to call in case a snake showed up in your neighbourhood. Correspondingly, I also knew that it was wrong to kill a snake, no matter how poisonous and 'evil' and slithery it looked. 

Because Tiru Uncle was watching and would swoop in to take it away. 

After a pit-stop at Tiru Uncle's Deer Park, where he collected his stats and made his notes, it would be set free in a jungle to live happily ever after.

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One day on a summer afternoon long ago, a snake, long silvery and radiant, which this many years later I still can't identify, came wandering into a construction site near our neighbourhood. Not being  blessed as far as eyesight goes, it thought it could camouflage itself amongst some bricks. 

Bad choice.

Besides many others, I spotted it too. While I was struck by how beautiful it was, a mob gathered, determined to *finish* the *problem*. 

I felt shattered for the snake and my powerlessness. I was just a shy little kid. Neither could I stop anyone nor did I try to. This was well beyond my powers. I could only pray.

Just at the brink of angry words turning into corresponding actions, the legend came true. Rushing in, seemingly out of thin air, came Tiru Uncle, armed with only a gunny sack & a hooked rod. He fenced off the crowd merely by some tough words and went on to deftly solve the situation. Snake inside his sack, he eventually calmed tempers too, putting human and non-human creatures at ease.

At that stage of my life, I was an ardent fan of the (now) corny 1960s Batman series re-runs on TV. That last minute rescue of his appeared to my impressionable mind no less than a real life version of Batman rescuing Robin from the unnecessarily convoluted death planned out by the Riddler. 

I distinctly remember wondering what Tiru Uncle's Bat-signal equivalent would be? The silhouette of a cobra hood raised?

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Impressed as I was, I noted with some dismay, he wasn't wearing a cowboy hat the one time I saw him and that he was balding. It did ruin just by a little bit my Indiana Jones image-by-imagination of him.

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It is National Park Week in the US from the 19th of April to the 27th, a time for all nature (and history) lovers to rally behind all that is precious but has no price tag. Conserving nature in all its glory is a relatively new idea. Most of human history we have spent planning how to conquer it.

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As long as there are people like Tiru Uncle bustling about, locally 'world famous' and dedicated, in remote corners of the world, we stand a very good chance of preserving what we have left. We are lucky to have some wonderful roommates on this planet of ours and some wonderful human beings who fight for them. 

Most importantly, these people are symbols; that one man can make a difference, by his work and by his image, spiced up a little by casual creativity though it might be.

After all, if there is one place where the wild & free have a permanent place, it is inside the child in us all. 

Once that flame of wonder is sparked, there's no shutting it down.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2014/04/tiru-uncle.html]

True HD

Harley Davidson (Photo credit: Moyan_Brenn (back soon, sorry for not commenting))

Nomad. Drifter. Escapologist.

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Stillness means death. Purpose ruins pleasure. Escape, shed some wheels.

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Often times, I had noticed the signal passed between two of a kind passing each other on twisty little roads. A little upside-down 'V' with the fingers and an acknowledging nod of the head on both sides. Ride safe or welcome to the brotherhood, what it meant I was really not sure.

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On a beckoning September weekend, I was freed. Sure there was still gravity, always ready to bring me down at a moment's notice. But there was also the caressing wind. Sure, there were those that rolled their eyes at the folly of picking two wheels over four. What good could possibly come of it, what logical reasoning? With every twist of the right wrist, the sticky swamp of logic fell further behind.

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The motorcycle by its very existence angers the sorry school of "But is it necessary?" No, it is not necessary and for that very reason, necessary. For it is freedom, for it is flight, for it is fantasy.

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The backroads of Massachusetts were haunted by more madmen of my ilk on that weekend and I did not lose any opportunity to flash the sign or reciprocate. The thrum & the roar of the engine, the delicate balancing act between hero & zero and the persistent excitement with which the world is experienced astride this cure of all cures. Those car guys? The sorry saps don't know what they are missing.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2014/04/true-hd.html]

Jogi

Mahendra Singh Dhoni at Adelaide Oval (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

"[Insert swear word], isko kyun bowling de diyaa?"

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It was year 2007, a bad year for Indian cricket fans already. A first round exit from the World Cup in the West Indies, to be followed by a poor decision. Mahendra Singh Dhoni was a weird choice for captain of this new cricket variant called the T20. The senior pros Sachin, Dravid and Ganguly had decided to sit out and let the kids play this kids' World Cup. Why not Yuvraj Singh, I had asked?

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Then came the final over of the final with Pakistan a boundary away from victory. Dhoni turned to a terrified looking Joginder Sharma. That was it. I was convinced. What a disaster this new captain was!

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As it turned out, Misbah-ul-Haq committed hara-kiri. Sreesanth was waiting to pick up the death certificate. Of course, we were overjoyed in that moment, the trio of old school friends who danced the Russian Cossack dance out of sheer relief in front of the TV. How lucky was MSD to get away with that! Winning helped temper down too much criticism. It always does.

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Soon we were to learn that our new captain embodied Kipling's

"If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same" advice to the E.

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And he kept getting away with a lot more. The most stressful job in all of India did lead to the greying of his now trimmed hair but as far external signs were concerned, that was all. Because nothing it seemed could shake MS Dhoni. Victory did not make him exult, defeat did not make him whinge and anger could not escape whatever dark prison it finds itself imprisoned within Dhoni's inscrutable face.

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We the Indian cricket fans, the loudest, the most rabid, most passionate sports fans in all of the world are a better nation because of it. Dhoni is the kind of captain that India needed but did not know it did.

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The IPL investigation has opened up a can of worms destroying permanently that image of Dhoni's perfectness. I would still like to believe that it was solely because of the corruption indulged in by his boss, Srini that Dhoni finds himself in the mess that he is in. I also understand that facts are not always in sync with what I would 'like' to believe.

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What cannot be doubted that Dhoni is a player with only specific and limited cricketing talent. What also cannot be doubted is that what he had achieved with that talent is extraordinary, an inspiration for everyone from the Joginder Sharmas to the Virat Kohlis. Effort and hard work, he just cannot be faulted on.

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7 years later, another T20 World Cup final is at hand but the world has changed a lot since. On current form, India is almost expected to win and with that will grow the whispers of how India's victories tie in closely with Srini's toughest phases of legal trouble (Pssstttt... fixing).

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Dhoni is a hero in my book, Srini is the criminal. Justice is blind to past achievements so sad as it makes me to say it, in case of any wrongdoing, Dhoni must pay his dues. The Indian cricket team is my team because it is India's team, not Srini's no matter how much he tries to bathe himself in reflected glory. The team of 11 players is still going to put themselves on the line hoping to bring temporary joy to those insatiable fans of theirs.

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Victory today should not drive the issues of the rot within the BCCI to the background but unfortunately it will. Defeat will most likely result in people gleefully cheering for Dhoni's downfall and clubbing him with miserable lowlifes like Srini. Neither outcome is to be celebrated too enthusiastically in my opinion.

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Despite the efforts at finding a balanced approach, I find myself wearing my "lucky" Indian team jersey from the 2011 World Cup final today. Despite knowing the darker side of politics in cricket, I want to focus solely on the next 40 overs as we take on an able & oft-seen rival in the field. Despite all my rationalizing and eulogizing, this is still my team and this is still my country.

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"Jeeteygaa bhai jeeteygaa, India jeeteygaa [Repeat]"

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2014/04/jogi.html]

It wasn't even April

David Attenborough 1 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The scene was, as the cliche goes, idyllic. Rolling meadows of green blending into the even more picturesque White Mountains. Stunningly beautiful horses- jet black, chestnut brown, almost silver - roamed the hillside, surely aware of how lucky they were to live on a farm like this, especially on a perfect day like this.

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Said Byron , "Do ya notice something odd about these horses?"

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Not being an expert on the subject, I could only shake my head. My interest was piqued. Animal facts are usually awesome.

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He continued "Notice how the right side legs, front and rear, of the horses are significantly shorter than the left side legs. This is so that they can easily graze on the steep hillsides of New Hampshire."

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My mind was *blown away*! Hurray for evolution! What an awesome fact!

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There are no nature documentaries on the Granite State that I can think of. Yet in my head I heard David Attenborough's British voice say "Deep in the mountains of New Hampshire, horses have developed a special adaptation..."

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The look of wonder on my face must have been pretty evident. Because Byron started shaking, slightly at first, before spilling out into all out laughter like a madman.

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It wasn't even April but boy, was I fooled!

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2014/04/it-wasnt-even-april.html]

Wenga Boys in Blue

ARSENAL!!! (Photo credit: rohan-04)

Two teams disturbingly similar. Two teams that you cheer for and fear for. At exactly the same time. Sometimes I wonder what life is like for fans of 'winningest' teams like the Australian cricket team or Manchester United. I pity those fools.

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Being a sports fan is all about being completely emotionally invested in the fortunes of a team or player, yet having absolutely zero control over it. Ups and downs, high-fives and stabbings which one needs to put up with for no reason at all. Emotionally investing in Australia or Manchester United is as exciting as watching paint peel. Yes, every 10 years, a flake or two will fall off but do you really want to keep your life so short of drama?

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For drama, triumph and tragedy, we must turn to Messrs. Indian cricket team and a little football club in North London called the Arsenal Football Club. A common criticism amongst their detractors of whom there are many is that they lack 'guts' (in foreign conditions/in high stakes matches). For them, sports is all about the numbers, wins v/s losses; a cold, dry mathematical anything-goes-to-get-a-win way of life. For the second time within the same blog post, I pity them.

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Sport is more than just mathematics. Mathematics tells us what happened in the end, not how we got there. It's like watching only the final scene of "The Matrix" where Neo flies off into the sky and claiming that was the only part worth watching. There is beauty in the passes, there is magic in the flowing drives, there is sweet redemption for the mercurially talented - all lost to the numbers obsessed "Winning is all we care for" mafia.

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India, as always, steps into a World Cup tentatively, its fans unsure of what to expect, if anything at all. Arsenal play Chelsea tomorrow with the Stamford Bridge boys likely to put their all behind staying on top for the final few games. 

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In India's case, my favourite Indian captain of all time has a lot of pressure piling onto his overworked back both on field and off. Despite everything MSD has done for India, to his less-than-sharp critics, he will always be 'lucky'. I only wish him more 'luck'.

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In Arsenal's case, the future of a brilliant man hangs in balance, a man committed to the strangely idealistic notion of nurturing his own talent. Arsene Wenger is the reason behind Arsenal's 'beautiful' football, not gutsy enough for some, not realistic enough for others. But his brand of football is what makes Arsenal Arsenal as we have known for the past 20 years.

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Will it be glory? Or will it be gory? I should have been used to this feeling of hopeful despair by now. But I guess I never will be. It's not like I haven't been here before.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2014/03/wenga-boys-in-blue.html]

Illusion

Quiet Please - Sheepcote Street - sign (Photo credit: ell brown)

Silence is an illusion. No matter how quiet it gets, it is never perfectly quiet. Complete silence may be a possibility in the depths of outer space but since I have never been there, I cannot confirm.

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Waking up in the dead of the deadest night, I can still hear the tick-tock of the wall clock as it goes about its dreary duty, the rubbery sound of car tires returning home after a long night out or a train's distant whistle. In remote corners away from civilization, there is still no escape from the world of sound, the crack of a distant twig, the burble of a flowing stream or even the sound of my own breathing inside the sleeping bag always punctuating the wild domains of the moon and starlight. The camper may be in search of peace but there is always sound surrounding his world, albeit of the more pleasant kind.

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Silence is a deep tide continuously flowing in, seeking to cover in all its wake yet allowing the smallest of objects to bob up. At times, the flotilla overwhelms the surface making us forget the power underneath. As the world goes to sleep, one bedroom light at a time, it becomes the primal force roaming our deserted streets and parks leaving us, the nervous sound-makers strictly in the minority.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2014/02/illusion.html]

#ThankYouSachin yaa #EmotionalQtiyapaa?

Sudhir Kumar Chaudhary, an ardent fan of Tendulkar who earned the privilege of tickets to all of India's home games (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Weren't most Indians being too sentimental about Sachin's retirement? Well... we once made a super-hit movie out of a plot which involves a rockstar's mom sacrificing/electrocuting herself on a rigged electric guitar to save her son, who will then avenge her death by winning a disco dancing championship (Mithun's "Disco Dancer" is the movie... before you lose my respect forever by asking). Yes, the bar for sentimentality is set kinda high for us Indians. So... no, we are like this only!
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Why did he think himself to be bigger than the team, bigger than cricket, bigger than his country? After close to 25 years on the international stage under the full glare of media hawks, spent with generations of team-mates and opponents on and off the field, let's total the number of complaints that players or ex-players have made about Sachin Tendulkar's unbearable ego-mania. Zero. Sorry, but votes from armchair based mind readers don't count. 
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What kind of a legend is he, failing like he did in the World Cup finals of 2003 or 2011? Isn't the greatness of a player defined by his performances on the greatest of stages? Let's start by completely ignoring the fact that India was in those two finals only because of his performances in the preceding matches. That would require just too much logic. His centuries against Australia, England, Pakistan, West Indies and South Africa don't count for anything because *derisive chuckle* he scored centuries against Bangladesh, Kenya and Zimbabwe too. Apparently the 'true' greats have a golden "Don't score centuries against minnows" rule which was violated by our ordinary Sachin.
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Still, isn't the non-stop hero worship and the tiring over-use of God in every fan quote about him nausea inducing? Consider this... Sachin did not bribe the fans who first carried the famous "Cricket is my religion, Sachin is my God" banner to do so. Here was a batsman who really meant that much to his fans - from the neighbourhood panwallah to Virat Kohli. Yes, it is somewhat unfortunate that the majority of his fan base has struggled to come up with any original compliment since but hey, that's not Sachin's fault. He has never run around demanding to be called God. If anything, it's the opposite. If anyone has anything to learn about respect for the game and fellow players, it's from Sachin.
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All well and good but any Ram, Deepak and Hari would agree that he had lost his touch. Why the struggle to play on? Wasn't this all about him being record-hungry trying to play his 200th test somehow, just like the sorry drama around his 100th hundred? India lost *so many* matches because of his *greed* for hundreds. Why yes, it's obvious that having 100 runs less on the board would have helped India win the match! *Sarcasm*
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Quitting the only life he has known, adored by hundreds of millions and playing a game he loves, should be the easiest thing. The extraordinary self-belief that he has used to keep out the madness of expectations and design the monument that is his cricketing career can be turned off like a power switch. Easy peasy. Wonder why he seemed to find it so difficult? Must be because he is self-obsessed. Can't be because he is only human. No. Just can't be. 
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I must at this point confess to being a very rabid Sachin fan though I may have dropped some hints in the paragraphs above. My first clear memory of Sachin is of seeing him walk back forlorn to the pavilion after one of his brave but futile efforts as part of the reliably unreliable early 90s Indian cricket team on a television set which was about 10 years older than me at that point of time. My mom was talking to him through the television, consoling him "Shonaar cheley! Shonaar cheley!" ("Golden boy! Golden boy!" A Bengali mom's way of telling her son to keep up the good work)
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From that day on, Sachin, about the same age as my elder brother became part of my family. As I am sure, he was adopted by millions of Indians as their son, grandson, brother or friend in similar circumstances through the decades. In our country which had just opened its doors to the wild and somewhat scary international market, Sachin was our world class export.  In his niceness and humility, we saw our perceived Indian character retained and in his unquestionable talent, we found confidence that we had more than enough skill to stand strong in the big boys league.
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More than 3 months have passed since Sachin retired and I have spent all this time trying to zero in on the perfect words to describe what his presence on a cricket pitch meant. I had wanted this piece of writing to bring unfiltered feelings of joy to Sachin fans and reduce his critics to crying crumpled balls of shame. In the end, I have realized that for better or for worse, most people who know about Sachin have already formed their opinions about him and there is not too much I can do to change them. I can only speak for myself.
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I will miss the unmistakable roar of the crowds no matter which Indian stadium he walked out into bat. I will miss the compact distinctive guard he took at the crease indicative of the perfection to come. I will miss the solid crack of the bat as the perfect straight drive, flick or cover drive was executed, never to be seen in a competitive cricket match again. I will miss the look to the heavens as yet another milestone is reached and the joy that his time at the crease brought his fans, a heady dose of artistry in otherwise ordinary lives. 
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I did not watch his farewell speech live. Being an old school guy, that stinging feeling behind the eyes would have been mightily embarrassing. I did watch him make his last walk to the Wankhede pavilion after his dismissal for 74, on a television set in a far off country whose unpardonable crime is that it does not understand or appreciate cricket and therefore the true beauty of life. After due diligence and intensive racking of me brains, I have decided to plagiarize Sunil Gavaskar's words on commentary.
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Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2014/02/thankyousachin-yaa-emotionalqtiyapaa.html]