Sore loser

As far as losers go, I am at the top of the heap. All the comfort mantras that are intended to soothe the pain of defeat like "At least I tried", "There is always a next time", "Will this matter 5 years from now?", "Win as if you are used to it, lose as if you tried it for a change" etc - they form the core of my philosophy of existence. However there is one activity in which my defeat is almost always guaranteed and it never fails to rile me up every single time, that being defeat at chess.

On the face of it, it's just another board game with 16 pieces pitted against each other on a 64 square battlefield and calls for extraordinary presence of mind and common sense (qualities that the powers-that-be have been stingy about while doling out my share). Defeat ordinarily means that the vanquished leaves the table and lets someone better take over. I wonder then why for me every loss feels like someone has sharply kicked me you-know-where. Maybe it's because there is nothing I can attribute my loss to except for a basic lack of intelligence on my part. There is no physical prowess involved here neither is any secret move which cannot be predicted. Every knight being slaughtered, every rook being mowed down, the queen's death - all assume levels of personal tragedies for me. And victory, ah victory, I can't even begin to describe the extreme happiness.

Things have gotten so bad that the only person I would play against was my 7 year old nephew (who was unfortunate enough to come to me one day chess set in hand and request me "Kutush Mama, teach me how to play!") in Calcutta and even overcoming his challenge gave me a thrill. He was getting sharper by the day though, and I am glad that I skipped across the Indian and Atlantic Oceans before the inevitable day when he would say "Checkmate". I am sure in the past one year, he has sharpened his skills and is waiting for his "Shakuni mama" to return so that he can get his vengeance.

My laptop has chess in it but I have played it only once on the lowest level of AI and defeated the computer. Since then, I haven't touched it again for fear of spoiling my perfect win-loss record against my faithful laptop. If someone were graphing my happiness over the past 25 years, a peak point would be in my 3rd year of engineering during a winter evening. I was up against Raveesh and was getting thrashed every single time for maybe 5 games in a row. On the last game before dinner, I was once again left with nothing but my king and Raveesh's troops were moving in for the kill. Then I discovered that I was in a 'stalemate' position where any movement of my lone king would have moved him into a check position thereby earning me a draw. Oh, the joy of not losing that game being in that helpless a position and the smoke coming out of Raveesh's ears as I laughed myself to death - what an incomparable feeling of success. Need I mention that I never challenged Raveesh to a game of chess again!

Periyar

Too much choice is definitely a bad thing and so is having no choice at all. But the latter situation was a reality in pre-liberalisation Indian TV yet very few thought ill of it (given that most of us weren't aware of any other way of existence). There were only the Sunday morning National Geographic documentaries on TV and the cartoon shows like "The Jungle Book" and "Disney Hour" for us the younger 'uns and we'd find something else to do for the rest of our hyperactive hours before being glared into going to sleep. We had only one TV channel and try as I might I can't figure how we did spend our hours when something interesting was not on, which was like 23.5 hours a day. In fact, even the single channel, the national carrier DD-1 was not on for 24 hours, with the colourful VIBGYOR no program signal staying on for a major portion of the day.

Fortunately there were a few programs which my parents would watch with us and not roll their eyes at. Remember the show "Surabhi" of Siddharth Kak and Renuka Shahane fame, the only window to the strange and exotic places within India? We as a family were devoted to the show, bitten as we were by the travel bug, each and every member. Unfamiliar places came alive within our drawing rooms, like the village where the residents spoke only Sanskrit and other such real life Wonderlands. At the end of each show, they'd put forward a ridiculously simple question the answer to which was to be sent on a 2 rupee 'competition' postcard to an address in Andheri (E). Whatever happened to the competition postcards from which the Postal Services minted a lot of money over those few years? Every week we'd send in the right answer but never would our postcard be pulled up from the golden urn from which the lottery was drawn.

The prize of a 3 day, 2 night holiday package to Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary remained an unfulfilled dream for us and especially for me. The images of the elephant wading through Kerala's waters while a tiger watched warily as Siddharth Kak's voice announced the winner's name in the background was a reminder that there were locations in the world like this where the extraordinary was commonplace far removed from the cultivated regularity of the homes where the program was being watched and from the studio where the program was being shot. I have wanted to be in those kind of places ever since those days: in Ranthambore, in the Sunderbans, in Ladakh, in the Serengeti, on the Andes, anywhere whose name causes my heart to skip a beat. Periyar came to be the first name that I associated with an existence more adventurous, the others followed as my ability to retain names and places grew. Today I was sampling a fish pickle bought from an Indian store in Attleboro at lunch and no prizes for guessing where it had been packaged. "Periyar" the name sparked up bright and clear, fizzing with unspent potential and the promise of a life less ordinary.

Dharmendra in Ghana

I know the title sounds like a corny B-grade flick something on the lines of "Tarzan in New York City" but my time in the USA has led to many such strange encounters. My barber here is Joe, a guy from Nigeria and like all barber shops, it is the world headquarters of all casual conversations. A couple of days ago while I am getting my wild hair trimmed to domestic proportions in walks Rashid, a recent immigrant from Ghana. Talk is initiated on the grounds of soccer and how dumb Americans are not to follow such an exciting game.

All of a sudden, Rashid has a brainwave and asks me, "You are from India, aren't you? Isn't Amitabh Bachchan like... the Prime Minister of India?" I almost decide to give him a lecture on the rather significant differences between the Indian Parliament and Bollywood, but settle for a terse "No. He probably could have been but he never really did make it to that post." My barber and his friend seem quite taken aback from this revelation. Rashid adds that he had always liked Dharmendra better. "Dhormendraw!! Great hero! My favourite hero!" says he in a visibly excited state, "and Hema Malini! Wow, most beautiful woman in the world!" And the unlikely Bollywood fans almost go into convulsions of joy as they discuss movies like "The Burning Train" and "Dus Numberi", about childhoods spent in memorizing every word of Hindi numbers without understanding a single one and of thrilling afternoons spent in the darkness of cinema halls.

My new friends say that Indian culture (or what they perceive to be Indian culture from our movies) is much closer to African culture than any others as far as family life, society's rules and a general attitude to living went, which is why Bollywood movies were huge in Africa. I had always heard stories of Bollywood mania in the lesser known countries of the world but here I am witnessing for real the impact that our far-from-reality movies have. As I walk out with a lighter head for more reasons than just a hair cut, a question hangs on the tip of my tongue unanswered. How would "Kuttey! Kaminey! Main teraa khoon pii jaoongaa!" sound in a thick African accent?

Trippy

I wonder if there is a scientific phenomenon to explain this but I am pretty sure that walking through museums makes me trippy. It is in fact inseperable from the other highest states of intoxication that I have frequently experienced from more conventional means like alcohol. I stumble around in a daze, not talking or wanting to talk to anybody and all the little notes which describe the object on display begin to read like utter gibberish. It does not matter if it is an Egyptian mummy I am looking at or a Polynesian ceremonial boat, a beautiful landscape splashed across the canvas or a hypersonic plane. I find myself so absorbed by the significance of the object: say a prehistoric monster's bones, a toy played with by a child from 2000 years ago or the first practical motor car that I frequently lose my bearings of time and space. A casual observer couldn't be faulted for notifying the museum security of a runaway lunatic if he/she has the patience to observe how I can remain motionless and expressionless for minutes on end in front of a display that I take a special fancy to. Till someone invents a time machine, this is how I get my highs.

This is not a bad development at all speaking from a personal perspective. No bartender's bill and tip to take care of, no next day morning hangovers, absolutely zero chances of being handed a DUI (Driving Under the Influence), not to mention the exercise to be had wandering through massive dimly lit halls are the first few advantages that come to mind. I am sure there are plenty more. And like in all other cases of being buzzed, I have only the faintest of memories of actually having been there and done that. A really good excuse it turns out for doing the same ol' trip, again, again and again!

Costumed clowns

There are only a few things from my childhood favourites which I've had the maturity to outgrow and at the top of the list is my former devotion to 'pro' wrestling. WWF (WWE in its more recent avatar) was a craze for almost every young one with a TV back then and names like Stone Cold Steve Austin and the Rock were right up there with the Sachin Tendulkars and the Zinedine Zidanes. Why well built actors playing out scripted roles on an unusually violence prone stage was so likable and almost up there with real sportsmen in terms of popularity I don't know but it was and it still is going strong judging by the "sports entertainment" categories unflagging popularity.

Early on in the days of cable TV, I used to walk down to my cable operator's house in the hot summer sun and pick a fight with him only to have Star Sports/ESPN re-instated amongst the handful of channels which could viewed at one time. Then I'd run back to my house to catch Summer Slam, Royal Rumble or Monday Night Raw as the toothpick chewing Razor Ramon, the coldly impressive giant Undertaker and Shawn Michaels went about their rehearsed business of jumping off ring corners, dropping knees into abdomens and other methods of bone crunching physical retribution.

Evenings would turn into late nights as friends would gather debating who was likely to win that vengeance re-match complete with steel cage and a room full of hazardous looking fight props. We were ready suckers for it all: the drama, the trademark entries (like Austin's shattering glass, the Undertaker's gong and Rock's "If you smeyallll...") and the choreographed violence performed in the most outlandish of costumes. If a real wrestler were asked to wear it, he'd probably be too ashamed to even come out of the dressing room. But no, not these guys! They drank in the crowds appreciation and the fawning crowds loved them back even more. As if falling off ladders, falling through tables, smacking someone's head with a chair while parading in fluorescent pyjamas were as natural an activity and as essential a function as breathing air. I am sure there were definitely more educational and practical programs on other channels at the same time but we sure as hell weren't watching, mesmerised as we were by what was nothing more than a circus of costumed clowns.

A cruel choice

I was on my tour coach heading back to the glitz and garishness of Las Vegas. It was nearing the end of the day but a more awe inspiring day I had rarely seen. I had spent the day on the hauntingly picturesque South Rim of the Grand Canyon and I was doing my best to retain the serenity that had lodged itself inside me during the course of the day. The excitement and the vibrancy of the last 2 nights spent in Las Vegas were completely supplanted by a hermetic peace of mind, a mature wise ruler deposing the cranky passion driven prince.

As the sun started to approach the limits of its westward March, the endless desert spread on both sides as far as the eye could see. Brilliant colours fostered by the dying sun were splashed across the skies interrupted fleetingly by the outlines of the rare desert shrub and by hulking silhouettes of rocks in the Arizona drylands, backstage men hurrying to get out of the stage limelights. No one on the bus spoke a word. Nature it seemed had decided on setting up the grandest possible conclusion to our day of wonder.

Then the bus driver rifled through his stock of DVDs and put on "No Reservations" on the coach's TV. This quite ordinary movie about two master chefs (From the little that I can remember of the story) was blessed with an quite so extraordinary presence - the divine beauty of Catherine Zeta Jones. Her pouts, her smiles, her laughs, her perfectly curly dark hair, every syllable of her honey syrupy voice, every glimpse of her ivory skin, every frame devoted to her heavenly perfection - all of them were acknowledged without exception by this rapt admirer.

It wasn't the best of situations to be in. To have to pick between Nature's breath taking bounty inside and outside but my decision was made. Today I can only speculate that the sunset that evening may have been stunning too. It was already pitch dark outside by the time I had looked through the window again.

A childhood unexpected

Kulti is a little town in north west West Bengal close to the Bihar/Jharkhand border. During the early decades after Independence, it was a place bubbling with enthusiasm and energy with a steel plant and all the auxiliary government infrastructure that comes with it. A major portion of my dad's childhood was spent in this town, my grandfather being a government officer was posted here for a significant number of years. We had grown up listening to stories of the house where my dad and his 3 siblings had spent the formative years of their life but had never had a chance to see it yet at least not within my first meaningful memories. My cousin's marriage a couple of years ago afforded me an oppurtunity to visit this marker of my dad's past.

During a vacuum in the marriage proceedings, we as a family managed to sneak out of my uncle's house and drive a little down the road and up the hill where the house of childhood legend was located. When we got there, it was evident like the rest of Kulti this house too had seen better days. The paint was peeling, the garden was overgrown with weeds and the beauty of the spacious verandah was blighted by strings laden with drying clothes - all indicators of the less than ideal economic circumstances of the family residing there now. We didn't venture inside the house leaving it to its most recent residents and hoped that all the families that had lived in it and left since the 1960s when my grandparents moved out had found peace and happiness within its old walls. I looked upon the road below the hill which was quite some way down from where I stood on the path leading to the garden and the house, and contemplated some things which had never occurred to me before.

It is really easy to imagine mom as a child because like all women she is given to very visible displays of emotions, call them little displays of immaturity if you will. The pampering of my mom by my maternal grandparents right up to their last days gave me a clear enough picture of her as a child. The amount of time invested by moms in bringing up their children provides enough time for the kids to understand enough of their mom's nature to consider the possibility of her ever having a childhood.

But to think of the cheerful but notoriously stable guy who set out on his daily office trip like a man on a mission in the same uniform and in the same frame of mind, of having any other avatar was quite difficult. My paternal grandmom however had passed away before I was even born and my first memories of my dad's dad are those of a genial but painfully restricted and bed ridden old man. The only real display of my Dad giving in to emotion I can remember is when he let his stubble grow for a week's time on my grandfather's death, an unprecedented event in my dad's disciplined life.

To stand here on this ground was to discover a new image of my Dad's life. Of a kid who used to leap out of the back windows of the house when being punished by being locked into a room for some misdemeanour, the boy who would spend too many hours playing out in the sun with the family's pet Alsatian, Tiger pausing only when scolded back into the house at the end of the day, of a guy smitten by the huge American cars that plyed the roads those days and eager for any chance he got to ride in them, of the cycle trips that he and his classmates would undertake in what was then the wilderness of Kulti - all those much heard stories danced around me with vivid life. A child who I had never really thought existed was standing beside me and grinning.