Shaolin

It's a wonder that I am even writing about that monster of a cricketing shot. Monster because it went a distance of 108 m and hit the top of the beautiful Dharamshala cricket stadium. Had it been a little more higher, the Yeti, the mysterious Abominable snowman of Himalayan legend would have come rushing down from his secret cave in the snows to beg forgiveness of Dhoni on live TV and ask him what he had done wrong to be assaulted with a missile like the one that was fired off Dhoni's bat on Irfan Pathan's bowling in the second last shot of the match. Monster because the shot came right after Dhoni had miscued a similar shot on the ball while needing 12 runs off 5 balls, being quite lucky to survive and get 2 runs as the ball fell into no-man's land. A failure to make those remaining 10 runs would ensure that my team, the Kolkata Knight Riders (KKR) would still have the slimmest of chances of making it to the semi-finals despite playing Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from one match to the next and Dhoni's team would be out of the tournament. It was not to be as Dhoni or MSD as he is also called put paid to any such wild dreams by tonking another six off Pathan's free-gift bowling to finish the match with 2 balls to spare.

The first six, the 108 m colossus, killed off my dream and the ridiculous dreams of millions of KKR which will of course be resurrected next season and should have made us scream out in pain but it was so breathtakingly awesome that it did not hurt any of us in that way. At worst, it might have numbed a few of us with its cold statement of fact "Your team did not deserve to make it to the semi-finals so here go your futile wishes, right to the top of the stadium, almost to the top of the Himalayas!"

MSD both as the Indian team captain and as a player has always been a study in contrasts. In his style of play and shot making, he is brutally aggressive but in his on-field manners and post-match presentations, he presents a picture of calmness and peace. He did punch himself after taking his team to the semi-finals that night, but it must be some extra supernatural energy that he had summoned which he had no longer need for and thought it best to let out on himself. To be able to pull off such a superhuman feat at such a critical moment, to have the coolness of mind and strength of body to perform that task and then later to see the picture (see above) of the uber cool M. S. Dhoni with His spiritual Holiness, the Dalai Lama led me to one uncontestable conclusion - a suspicion that I had long held and found confirmation on Sunday night in that super cricket innings in the lap of the Himalayas. Take a bow, M.S. Dhoni. No one knows which hidden away Buddhist monastery you trained in, which lush green mountains and forests saw you fight bandits before going into meditation again and which wizened old kung-fu master it was who helped you hone your extraordinary powers. But you are a Shaolin monk, if I ever saw one outside of the movies!

Rockstar

My Dad has a bit of a reputation of being casual on the financial front, almost gifting away money when it came down to mundane activities like bargaining and price-comparisons on the same product much to the frequently voiced irritation of my Mom. I too have taken up this trait to a very large extent but it took just one trip to the bazaar with Dad to realize how far behind I was in the game.

Dad had been away from Bharuch for close to two-three weeks on work assignments then and therefore kept away from his favourite activity of trawling the bazaars of our little town at the hottest hours of the day, shopping bag in hand, returning loaded with supplies of fruits and vegetables and meat and fish and whatever else may have been for sale on that day. Purchase of food items is the one activity that he never tires of and a whiff of an excuse for him to go towards his favoured Dholukui Bazaar sees him get ready in an instant, cap on head and feet ready to walk the crowded alleys of a typical Indian marketplace. I on the other hand hate all shopping (food or otherwise) although I have inherited my Dad's tendency of royal disregard for anything which looked like budgeting or bill calculations trusting the seller's original quoted price as the final word. I was rather irritated when due to certain pressing reasons I was forced to accompany him on this trip to his version of heaven.

Dad as I said was entering the bazaar after a long period of time and I could literally hear the buzz growing through the market as we approached. From near and far, vegetable sellers, fruit sellers, fish sellers, meat sellers, potato sellers, onion sellers be they men, women or children - all faces lit up with a big, broad smile when they caught glimpse of my dad join the milling crowds of customers already haggling on the bazaar's narrow streets. "Saheb, here! Here! Fresh cauliflowers", "Saheb! You won't believe how tasty this fish which came in is!", "Babu! I am sure you want the best quality of onions!" - The rising clamour of all the sellers shouting for the attention of one bazaar shopper must have made the other customers feel rather ignored. Dad strode about waving and smiling to all, a benevolent king back in his kingdom after a couple of weeks of being away at war. Before then I had thought that I had seen all that there was to see about my Dad. Little did I know that I was the son of a rockstar!

A case for dirt

Since I bought my laptop from the now defunct CircuitCity store in Taunton sometime in early July 2008, it has seen a lot of action. An infinite number of Netflix movies, hours of Mafia Wars clicking on Facebook, social networking and blogging on a scale that its HP designers had not envisioned in their worst nightmares, and a plane journey from the USA to India - all were part and parcel of my laptop's past history. All the complaining it ever did was popping out the 'F' letter from its keypad once every week or so, probably wanting to scream the 'F' word at me! I'd pop it right back in and ignore the lack of maintenance activity that it was begging for.

Since that day when it left in a cardboard box from the store and came out into this grime filled world, it hadn't seen a physical cleaning operation. Food stains from my various experiments in the kitchen while I lived alone in the US, a permanent thin layer of dust, and finger marks all over the LCD display were all milestones from its close to 2 years of existence. The wipe-up of my grossly over-utilized machine was always on my things to do but I never really got around to it until yesterday. That I used Colin, a glass cleaning liquid to restore it to a pristine, shiny, new condition may have something to do with it but within a couple of minutes of my cleaning up operation, my lappie stopped working. I had to restore it to some back-up condition from 4 months ago. For a few minutes, I did think that it was lost to me... forever. I was reminded then of the current ad slogan of a very popular clothes washing detergent which keeps playing on TV. "Daag acche hai!" a.k.a "Stains are good!"

Priceless

The main line in large capital fonts went "DISTANCE CREATES LOVE". I spotted it on the rear bumper of a mini-bus running through the busy bazaar roads of Beliaghata in Kolkata on the way to office today. A statement sufficient in itself and something which would be sacrilegious to further explain.

Before I could completely absorb the deepest implications of that bit of philosophical advice, just below it, I saw that in a significantly smaller font of running handwriting, for those who had missed the finer message of the first line and still had come really close to the bus, the rear bumper repeated "Obey traffic rules". Priceless, just priceless!

Been there, done that

This Friday as I walked into a school in session for the first time in 8 years, I was swept over by 'deja vu'. The school in question was Kendriya Vidyalaya - I in Salt Lake, Kolkata and I was there to collect some papers from the tenant in my grandmom's flat who is a primary school teacher at that particular KV. To meet her at her classroom, I had to take "Principal sir's" permission, the watchmen instructed and as I stood behind the fluttering curtain which separated the Principal's office from the cool, dark passage outside, time rewinded itself at incredible speed.

Outside the Principal's office was where we frequently found ourselves in our school days, though in our case it was a stern looking Sister who would take us to task rather than the stern Mr. Mohanty who was the one I approached with totally unnecessary timidity on Friday. Mr. Mohanty asked me a few Principal like questions like:

"What do you want?" [Permission to go inside the school, sir!],

"How long will you take?" [Less than half a minute, sir!],

"Why do you ride a motorcycle?" [??!!, sir?],

"Leave your helmet in my office" [Yes sir!].

Maybe behind the servile respect shown was my previous experience as students at the Principal's office when Sister would put questions to us like:

"Who made Basu Miss cry?" [Collective guilty silence],

"Who broke the blackboard?" [It was really all of us engaging in on-the-spot WWF tournaments on the teacher's stage in between two classes so again 'Collective silence'],

"Who snipped the wire of the intercom in your classroom?" [We all knew who it was but frankly we were all tired of the never ending irrelevant announcements so this time 'Collective gleeful silence'],

"Who was playing cricket inside the classroom?" [The real question here was who wasn't :) so again 'Collective gleeful silence']

We knew that most questions like these were to be smartly not answered and the ones that we were compelled to respond to would have the most diplomatic and innocuous answers. In most cases a session with the Principal ended with Frank Sir, our PT and Sports teacher asking all of us to line up and stand with our right palms outstretched where a sharp slap with a blackboard duster would ensure even punishment for all concerned, irrespective of the level of involvement in the offence. One of the pitfalls of being in the most notorious class in school was that in between all the days of mindless enjoyment there had to be days when we all had to take the occasional fall... together.

I walked out of the Principal's office this Friday, my throat slightly dry but still smiling at the memories and made my way to class III-C of which our tenant was the class teacher. Along the way, I was amused to see all those typical things again. The harried looking teacher being encircled by 3-4 kids around her desk, the rest of the class engaged in total mayhem & noise as only kids can and yet the teacher focussed on the last bench "You... you on the last bench, sit down! I am telling you, sit down!" all in vain. Walking through the corridor I could distinctly hear a buzz in all the classrooms simultaneously, a bomb of excitement waiting for the right signal to explode. I could have predicted what was coming even if I were asleep! "Trrrriiiiiiingggg" went the long bell. Recess!!!

Kids came tumbling out of every classroom, in dozens and in my hyperactive imagination even hundreds! Some floated out in a happy daze wearing a smile of inner peace and some came out racing ready to bounce off the walls and hit the ceiling if need be, so thrilled were they at finally escaping the confines of their classrooms! Recess was a time like that throughout our school years. We had rapidly identified whose every-day tiffin was the most delicious and an unspoken signal brought us all together around him. A few seconds later with a grumpy look on his face, he'd be packing his empty tiffin box into his bag as the rest of us wore triumphant, satisfied smiles before hitting the school grounds.

I always think of our school grounds being unending, infinitely large. In that time it seriously felt like it. The steel roller on which we took the occasional joyride and sometimes served as makeshift stumps; the far end of the ground where the occasional six in that direction condemned the outfielder to traverse and fetch the ball from; the boundary wall that we jumped in our rush to get to the grounds even before the gates were opened; everything about spending the glorious recess time on that barren ground no matter how hot or cold it was outside - all occupy a prominent place in our most cheerful memories. If later on in the day, a "Free" period could be converted into a "Games" period by our continuous begging (Which happened a lot of times because every teacher was terrified of what we would end up doing if left alone for an entire period inside a classroom), that would be the icing on the cake, but the cake... we ate it everyday. Not to mention the continuous action inside the classroom with aping a teacher's mannerisms, Oscar winning performances at asking forgiveness on being caught, biscuit eating while the class was in progress, making the class monitor's life hell, inside jokes and what not! A never ending fun trip it had seemed like but like all things good or bad, that time just came and flew away!

The kids rushed past me and out into their grounds screaming and laughing. I got the piece of paper that I had come for but the real thrill was seeing that nothing, absolutely nothing had changed about school life and its wonderful atmosphere whether the school be in Bharuch or Calcutta or anywhere in the world. I got onto my motorcycle wearing a silly grin and was riding past the boundary walls when a miniature volleyball came jumping out over the barb-wire topped boundary wall. I pulled over and picked up the ball. A mischievous beaming little smile straining to look over the wall appeared and said "Kaku, please ek baar ball taa dao!" [Bengali for "Uncle, please throw the ball in once!]

It cut like a knife to be called a Kaku instead of a Dada [Bengali for "Bhaiyaa"] but considering the age difference of 13-14 years I'd be rather pleasantly surprised at being called Dada by such a young kid! If I were 11-12 years old again and was looking at some 25 year old outside my school boundary, I daresay I'd do the same and secretly laugh at the ridiculous set of self imposed rules that his life was now bound by considering that he was all grown-up and supposedly 'free' to live his life. So all I did was toss the ball back in and I heard the shouted out "Thank you" as the little guy raced away not wanting to waste another second. All I could've told him was this "It's OK, kid! Been there, done that! :)"

Bird-hit

It's an unusually hot April in Calcutta and I have even more than usual reason to complain. My motorcycle, the Pulsar in all its electric blue glory is demanding an unfair share of my attention every weekend. It's parked inside my low roofed garage typical to houses in Central Calcutta and the constricted dimensions of the garage make it the inside of a pressure cooker on summer days like today. I like spending time with my bike but only when I am riding it. As of now I spend a lot of time cleaning it. And it is all thanks to some as yet unseen birds (very likely to be crows) which have developed a taste for bombarding my ride with well aimed discharges of a disgusting nature.

Normally aeroplanes are the only form of motorized transports which need to be wary of birds as one of their feathered co-flyers could easily bring a plane down if the plane was at flying speed. But of late, my Pulsar seems to be the target of airdrops from the feathered air forces that patrol Calcutta's skies. Even though 99% of the time my bike stays inside my garage or inside my office parking lot, in the remaining 1% of the time when say I am inside an ATM, or inside a roadside shop, some avian miscreant in a perfectly timed fly-past manages to make a mess on my mobike's seat or right on the front wheel guard where the 'white' on blue really stands out. I never really saw the event with my own eyes (Luckily yet for me because that might lead to more laundry for me apart from the chore of cleaning up my bike) but whenever I come back to the vehicle, sure enough on one occasion every week, the crime is already committed and the perpetrator has literally flown the coop. Consequently, every weekend I find myself sweating, huffing and puffing in the confines of my garage wiping away the traces of another undeserved, discriminatory attack. Now if only my motorcycle could carry an umbrella!

As clear as glass

This one came as a real shocker for me especially since this came under the rule of a lady who specializes in building multi-crore monuments to herself, hosting multi-crore birthday parties for herself and wearing multi-crore garlands made of 1000 buck notes, all the while waving her "Dalit ki beti (A Dalit's daughter)" card and blaming everything under the sun on "manowaadi tatwa (Rogue capitalist elements)" conspiracies. The BSP government in Uttar Pradesh headed by Mayawati fired 18000 policemen hired during the previous regime of Mulayam Singh Yadav on charges that there was something fishy in the way the written exam was conducted and selections were made. So... I thought now they'll be replaced by 18000 policemen who toe Mayawati's line then.

Surprisingly and gladly enough, I was totally off target. The written exam was re-conducted for close to 26000 candidates this year and the answers were on an OMR (Those black circly exam sheets that never caught my fancy) sheet. One copy of the answer sheet was submitted and one duplicate was taken home by the candidate. The results were then published online with a scanned copy of the examinee's mark sheet and a sheet with all the correct answers. In the physical tests for police entry, there is a 10 km run for men and 5 km run for women, for which biochips were placed on the candidates to accurately note performances and prevent to a very large degree, bias towards a particular person and manipulation of figures.

Whoever was in charge of doing this in the administration (IAS/IPS etc) must be a miracle worker! Sure, it's not a foolproof method of police selection and I doubt that there will ever be one but none can deny this is a massive massive jump towards transparency and fairness. Most importantly, it's a finger stabbed into the cynical eyes who say that nothing of merit is ever possible in this country, spoilt to the core by the worms of corruption and nepotism. Like it or not, India is moving up the ladder. It might not be the surge that jingoistic political leaders who promise to turn Mumbai into Shanghai fib about but someone somewhere is working their magic in small but significant ways. Through a small clear section of the otherwise muddy glass, we are getting glimpses of the wonderful world that lies beyond!