Picture this- a new moon day, rather night; the sky is filled with stars- wherever the eyes can see; it is pitch dark outside. I'm driving a bolero and mine is the only vehicle on the road for a good 80-90 minutes. There is absolutely no vegetation outside- but for a few shrubs here and there.
Welcome to Kachchh- again. (For the lucky uninititated ones- here's the link http://ajithessence.blogspot.com/2008/08/earth-is-flat.html )
Never before have I witnessed silence so beautiful. Was humming Jagjit Singh's "soona" as I was driving. I remember, in one of his concerts, Jagjit Singh, while singing this, gave us his own take on soona-pan. He talked of physical soona-pan, mental and emotional as well.
This place is truly lonely.
I was also fortunate to visit Ahmedabad during this trip; I managed a visit to the Gandhi Ashram at Sabarmati- thanks to my friend Nidhi. The place is absolutely peaceful. Consider myself blessed to have visited this place- so close to Gandhiji's heart and of course, a result of his own heart. We saw a stream of school kids visit the place- excited and bubbly and following in tow was the teacher who had the unenvious task of bursting the bubble once in a while.
I guess, when one is a child and takes in whatever is taught in the schools, one tends to believe that Gandhiji is God himself- as he is portrayed in our books. As one grows up, Gandhiji may become Gandhi and by the time one is in the teens, one may totally dismiss the views and philosophies of Gandhi. And then, maybe, one does come across certain events in life wherein Gandhi becomes Gandhiji- again.
I guess, I'm living phase #3.
Back to the drive- even as I was humming soona... these words were playing on in my mind... Godwilling, this will be complete some day and the song shall be sung- someday....
Under these shining stars,
Amidst the marshlands that surround me,
I can hear a melody.
I drive on- on this lonely road,
No trees around, no people to see,
The melody I can hear and it overwhelms me.
After a few minutes I reached the railway station in Bhuj- back to the "civilized" world. Hopefully, the song shall be sung someday.
The Melody lingers on,
The rhythm has set in,
The song remains unsung...
Friday, February 27, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Inspirational Aspirations...
Till y'day you were my aspiration. Today, you are my inspiration."
So says one of K Balachander's characters in a yesteryear movie when he realises that he cannot marry the girl of his choice.
A couple of days back, I had the privilege of listening to some elevating music in Delhi. My good friend-Ajesh had taken me along to Siri Fort where some jazz legends were playing in the evening. He said it would be a good opportunity for me to get introduced to Jazz.
We went there without the passes and were lucky enough to get some spare passes from some DUdes (dudes from DU).
The pass mentioned something about commemorating the 50th anniversary of Martin Luther King's visit to India. As we stepped into the hall, we saw some celebs there- one could make out that it was an "important" concert.
Recorded music was being played. Ajesh enlightened me that these were black gospel songs. Then they played the speech... i mean THE speech...
... I have a dream... that one day, man shall not be judged by the colour of his skin, but by the content of his character... i have a dream today... i still have a dream....
This was one hair raising experience... What power...and what amazing articulation of dreams...
Fittingly, the concert began with a rendition of "We shall overcome" by Dee Dee Bridgewater and Chaka Khan. Martin Luther King III, who was present in the hall commented that to a large extent, we have overcome.
Then came the masters- Ustad Zakir Hussain himself... George Duke and Herbie Hancock. Ajesh says (I now know this also from the internet) that Herbie Hancock is a living legend...
I could sense why this is so true- during the 120-150 odd minutes.... Those moments, I cannot describe... those feelings i cannot describe... and when they finally played Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram, my eyes were moist...
A visit to the Russian market for a Tibetan dinner acted as icing on the cake (or sauce on the chowmein).
The theme for the evening was obviously dreams...and realizing dreams.
Incidentally, I've been reading this book- "the last lecture" and somewhere the theme in the book is rather similar.
All of us know our time here in this Janma is limited. But, if we knew that "X" is the number of years, months and days we have left to live, would we continue to lead our lives the way we do today? If we were asked what proportion of our aspirations have been fulfilled to our heart's content, would we have an answer? And what are we doing about these aspirations?? What am I doing about mine...
That dream to do this and this dream to do that...bahut nikle mere armaan... lekin fir bhi kum nikle.
Paush says, irrespective of whether we attain a dream or fail in the attempt, the attempt itself changes us for the good. I completely agree.
Well well well... I'll sign off on these thoughts. Have a concert to catch up with today at Nehru Park- Ust. Zakir Hussain and Pt. Shivkumar Sharma...
I still have a dream...
So says one of K Balachander's characters in a yesteryear movie when he realises that he cannot marry the girl of his choice.
A couple of days back, I had the privilege of listening to some elevating music in Delhi. My good friend-Ajesh had taken me along to Siri Fort where some jazz legends were playing in the evening. He said it would be a good opportunity for me to get introduced to Jazz.
We went there without the passes and were lucky enough to get some spare passes from some DUdes (dudes from DU).
The pass mentioned something about commemorating the 50th anniversary of Martin Luther King's visit to India. As we stepped into the hall, we saw some celebs there- one could make out that it was an "important" concert.
Recorded music was being played. Ajesh enlightened me that these were black gospel songs. Then they played the speech... i mean THE speech...
... I have a dream... that one day, man shall not be judged by the colour of his skin, but by the content of his character... i have a dream today... i still have a dream....
This was one hair raising experience... What power...and what amazing articulation of dreams...
Fittingly, the concert began with a rendition of "We shall overcome" by Dee Dee Bridgewater and Chaka Khan. Martin Luther King III, who was present in the hall commented that to a large extent, we have overcome.
Then came the masters- Ustad Zakir Hussain himself... George Duke and Herbie Hancock. Ajesh says (I now know this also from the internet) that Herbie Hancock is a living legend...
I could sense why this is so true- during the 120-150 odd minutes.... Those moments, I cannot describe... those feelings i cannot describe... and when they finally played Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram, my eyes were moist...
A visit to the Russian market for a Tibetan dinner acted as icing on the cake (or sauce on the chowmein).
The theme for the evening was obviously dreams...and realizing dreams.
Incidentally, I've been reading this book- "the last lecture" and somewhere the theme in the book is rather similar.
All of us know our time here in this Janma is limited. But, if we knew that "X" is the number of years, months and days we have left to live, would we continue to lead our lives the way we do today? If we were asked what proportion of our aspirations have been fulfilled to our heart's content, would we have an answer? And what are we doing about these aspirations?? What am I doing about mine...
That dream to do this and this dream to do that...bahut nikle mere armaan... lekin fir bhi kum nikle.
Paush says, irrespective of whether we attain a dream or fail in the attempt, the attempt itself changes us for the good. I completely agree.
Well well well... I'll sign off on these thoughts. Have a concert to catch up with today at Nehru Park- Ust. Zakir Hussain and Pt. Shivkumar Sharma...
I still have a dream...
Sunday, February 8, 2009
An when I'm grey and rocking in my chair...
For those of you reading this- would request that you read
http://ajithessence.blogspot.com/2007/08/e-pank-bar-and-dil-chahta-hai.html
http://ajithessence.blogspot.com/2007/08/breaking-news-e-ngaged.html
These would help you get a better context.
“Kal phir aayenge… kya mast thi aaj ki shaam”
One of them said this, as the 5 of them, hand in each others’ hands, slowly and steadily walked down the slope at the entry/ exit point of Puraana qila- supporting each other so that none of them slipped down.
The people in question were all at least 70 years old. Bodies frail, voices trembling- with age and the cold, faces smiling after an enlivening evening enjoying Hariprasad Chaurasia and Shiv Kumar Sharma create magic in the ramparts of Delhi’s old fort.
Seeing their camaraderie I was reminded of that old poem, “…. And when I’m grey and rocking in my chair…”. The context of the poem was love between a man and his lady; I thought it fit the bill for this situation as well.
The last few weeks have been a celebration of friendship for me. First, a visit to Kasauli with some very close friends- having the time of our lives doing nothing. They say familiarity breeds contempt; sometimes familiarity also gives you a sense that you are not really as familiar with somebody as you would have imagined. There are aspects of the person that you were completely unaware of; and you set off on yet another voyage of discovering the other person. I may have subconsciously known this- but this thought crystallized post my visit to Kasauli with my friends. I guess that is what makes friendship so special. I guess this is what makes the friendship between those 70 year olds so young.
The next was a visit to E’s house to celebrate E’s 1st wedding anniversary. Spent about 3-4 hours recounting the same old jokes, pulling the same legs- the same way as it has been these 9 years. Nothing has changed. Those anecdotes from our past seem to gain some new spice each time they get spoken about. Buzz, the grand old one remains as old as ever, E remains as infantile as ever, Doctor remains as Harsh as ever, Pank still can’t bend his knees, Bihar remains…well… Bihar.
Nothing has changed. Touché’.
This blog is dedicated to Sheetal and Vibha, the most recently inducted members of the bit@kmc family. This blog is also dedicated to my friend Doctor cha…
Some questions on friendship have crossed my mind at different times. I wonder, for example, can a man and a woman be intimate friends- just intimate friends? Maybe I’ll write a blog on this sometime…
http://ajithessence.blogspot.com/2007/08/e-pank-bar-and-dil-chahta-hai.html
http://ajithessence.blogspot.com/2007/08/breaking-news-e-ngaged.html
These would help you get a better context.
“Kal phir aayenge… kya mast thi aaj ki shaam”
One of them said this, as the 5 of them, hand in each others’ hands, slowly and steadily walked down the slope at the entry/ exit point of Puraana qila- supporting each other so that none of them slipped down.
The people in question were all at least 70 years old. Bodies frail, voices trembling- with age and the cold, faces smiling after an enlivening evening enjoying Hariprasad Chaurasia and Shiv Kumar Sharma create magic in the ramparts of Delhi’s old fort.
Seeing their camaraderie I was reminded of that old poem, “…. And when I’m grey and rocking in my chair…”. The context of the poem was love between a man and his lady; I thought it fit the bill for this situation as well.
The last few weeks have been a celebration of friendship for me. First, a visit to Kasauli with some very close friends- having the time of our lives doing nothing. They say familiarity breeds contempt; sometimes familiarity also gives you a sense that you are not really as familiar with somebody as you would have imagined. There are aspects of the person that you were completely unaware of; and you set off on yet another voyage of discovering the other person. I may have subconsciously known this- but this thought crystallized post my visit to Kasauli with my friends. I guess that is what makes friendship so special. I guess this is what makes the friendship between those 70 year olds so young.
The next was a visit to E’s house to celebrate E’s 1st wedding anniversary. Spent about 3-4 hours recounting the same old jokes, pulling the same legs- the same way as it has been these 9 years. Nothing has changed. Those anecdotes from our past seem to gain some new spice each time they get spoken about. Buzz, the grand old one remains as old as ever, E remains as infantile as ever, Doctor remains as Harsh as ever, Pank still can’t bend his knees, Bihar remains…well… Bihar.
Nothing has changed. Touché’.
This blog is dedicated to Sheetal and Vibha, the most recently inducted members of the bit@kmc family. This blog is also dedicated to my friend Doctor cha…
Some questions on friendship have crossed my mind at different times. I wonder, for example, can a man and a woman be intimate friends- just intimate friends? Maybe I’ll write a blog on this sometime…
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Yet Another Big Fat Punju Wedding
Have you ever driven to a marriage where the only person you really know is the groom. Not too many common friends, just a couple of old old acquaintances that you had met long years back- who you don’t know if are attending the marriage. You don’t even know if you can recognize them after these years and vice versa. But, when the friend has been so good, there is no way you can just walk into his marriage, say hi, wish him all the best and just move out.
As with most Punjabi marriages, there’s always this pleasure of watching some very pretty girls and some trying to look pretty. But, the fun gets lost somewhere in the absence of friends to engage in serious ornithological discussions. Despite being alone, I chose to pursue my favourite activity.
While scanning through the hall- bright with the light, rocking with the music, fragrant with the choicest of perfumes and of course, beautiful with the beautiful people around, my eyes stopped at this gorgeous lady with a charming smile. I’d seen her somewhere… (or is this the feeling that one gets after conducting Development centers and individual discussions with loads and loads of PYTs in different BPOs)…
This lady was my senior at school. Probably 2 or 3 years my senior. I think I was in 8th or 9th standard. To a boy from the (literally and culturally) distant Thiruvananthapuram, this lady was no less than an angel. This is typically an age in a boy's life when he really starts wanting/ trying to impress girls or just wants them to get impressed- just like that.
Shy that I was (scared, actually), never really mustered the courage to ever go and talk to her. Even as these memories were coming back to me, and amusing me, the bride entered the hall. In typical filmi style, the right songs were being played. The lights were dimmed in the hall, the bright light focusing only on the bride entering the hall, flanked by her folks, and the groom eagerly and impatiently waiting for his girl- passing on flying kisses in the air- for added impact. As my friend held out his hand to help his bride on to the stage, the DJ played “mere haath mein tera haath ho”. To the quintessential south Indian reader, all this may sound exaggerated and loud. I can imagine the scandal it would create if any of my cousins or friends in the community (or even me sometime in the times ahead) were to break into an impromptu jig before garlanding the bride- as my friend did.
Even the groom and bride settled down for the photo sessions, my eyes started scanning the attendees again. The lady was missing. (I couldn’t meet her through the rest of the evening/ night). I’d missed the chance to ask her name at least. I console myself saying that such memories feel sweeter when a name is not associated with the memory and the face.
Eddy, my friend- the groom, had warned me, that the principal of my college for undergrad studies might come in. And I ran in to him at the wedding.
It was like…old sparks flew… lightning struck… thunder bolted…
His eyes looked at mine and mine into his.
Circa November 2000. The time is one- one thirty in the wee hours of midnight. A bunch of students have gheraoed the Vice Chancellor’s office in Delhi University over an issue close to their hearts (and pockets). The passions are running high.
The professors and the powers that be, trapped in the office are desperately trying to use their rapport with their students to let them out. Out comes the princi, looks at me and beckons me to come to him. Here’s the conversation as I remember it.
“Humko ghar jaane do. Humaare bachhe humaara wait kar rahe hain”
“Sir, humaari baat maan jaaiye aur phir hum aapko ghar jaane denge”
“Gharwaale wait kar rahe hain”
“Sir, humaare bhi”
“Beta hum ghar jaayenge. Rok sako toh rok lo.”
“Sir, main toh aapko rokoonga nahi. Par jo mere saath hain, unka mood zara theek nahi hai. Wo shaayad jaane na de”
I smile at him… like Nana Patekar smiles at Manisha Koirala in Agnisaakshi.
He looks around and senses the anger and beats a retreat.
I smile triumphantly at my mates like Kapil Dev did after lifting the world cup.
We had plenty of such showdowns over the next three and a half years.
Circa, yesterday.
I could guess he remembered the same moment as I did.
Two to three uncomfortable seconds of silence later, I touched his feet, shook hands. He said he was happy to see me. Thankfully, he didn’t know/ remember my name.
My next brush was with an ex-boss of mine. To his credit, he still remains in touch and is as courteous and friendly as anybody I have seen. It was a real pleasure meeting him and spent some very nice minutes with him. Also, thanks to him, I had company for dinner ( I had thought that aaj toh akele hee dinner karna hoga). More so, for he had friends there and he could sense I was alone.
To the quintessential southie, the biggest difference between our kinda marriages and the ones that happen here is that ours happen in the mornings. Here, but for a few select sects, they have it from evening to late in the night. Also, in south, typically the food comes to you- typically in my community, it is served on banana leaves. Here, it is a buffet. There is a different charm about each of the systems I suppose.
As I stepped out of the wedding yesterday night, that scene from the film- “Gandhi” flashed before my eyes- where Kasturba and the Mahatma enact the saptapadi (saat phere) to their English friend and explain to him the significance of each of these.
This one is dedicated to my good friend Eddy and his lovely wife, Nidhi who got married yesterday. I have known Eddy as a gem of a guy- gentle, intelligent, sensible and sensitive. I pray you have a great life together Eddy and Nidhi.
This one is also dedicated to all my other chums who lose their bachelorhood/ spinsterhood this month.
Amongst others, to Varsha, my friend since class 11th, who gets married later next week. I’ve known Varsha as a very simple, yet elegant lady; very modern, yet with a bharatiya naari touch. Wish her a great married life.
And to my friend Shefali who is getting married in a few days from now. One of the more mature individuals I met at D-school, Shefali also happens to be one of the most sincere people I’ve known and a person of extraordinary emotional strength. Wish her a great married life.
PS- The definition of a spouse as my friend says “She, who stands by you through all the trouble which would never have happened, but for her”
As with most Punjabi marriages, there’s always this pleasure of watching some very pretty girls and some trying to look pretty. But, the fun gets lost somewhere in the absence of friends to engage in serious ornithological discussions. Despite being alone, I chose to pursue my favourite activity.
While scanning through the hall- bright with the light, rocking with the music, fragrant with the choicest of perfumes and of course, beautiful with the beautiful people around, my eyes stopped at this gorgeous lady with a charming smile. I’d seen her somewhere… (or is this the feeling that one gets after conducting Development centers and individual discussions with loads and loads of PYTs in different BPOs)…
This lady was my senior at school. Probably 2 or 3 years my senior. I think I was in 8th or 9th standard. To a boy from the (literally and culturally) distant Thiruvananthapuram, this lady was no less than an angel. This is typically an age in a boy's life when he really starts wanting/ trying to impress girls or just wants them to get impressed- just like that.
Shy that I was (scared, actually), never really mustered the courage to ever go and talk to her. Even as these memories were coming back to me, and amusing me, the bride entered the hall. In typical filmi style, the right songs were being played. The lights were dimmed in the hall, the bright light focusing only on the bride entering the hall, flanked by her folks, and the groom eagerly and impatiently waiting for his girl- passing on flying kisses in the air- for added impact. As my friend held out his hand to help his bride on to the stage, the DJ played “mere haath mein tera haath ho”. To the quintessential south Indian reader, all this may sound exaggerated and loud. I can imagine the scandal it would create if any of my cousins or friends in the community (or even me sometime in the times ahead) were to break into an impromptu jig before garlanding the bride- as my friend did.
Even the groom and bride settled down for the photo sessions, my eyes started scanning the attendees again. The lady was missing. (I couldn’t meet her through the rest of the evening/ night). I’d missed the chance to ask her name at least. I console myself saying that such memories feel sweeter when a name is not associated with the memory and the face.
Eddy, my friend- the groom, had warned me, that the principal of my college for undergrad studies might come in. And I ran in to him at the wedding.
It was like…old sparks flew… lightning struck… thunder bolted…
His eyes looked at mine and mine into his.
Circa November 2000. The time is one- one thirty in the wee hours of midnight. A bunch of students have gheraoed the Vice Chancellor’s office in Delhi University over an issue close to their hearts (and pockets). The passions are running high.
The professors and the powers that be, trapped in the office are desperately trying to use their rapport with their students to let them out. Out comes the princi, looks at me and beckons me to come to him. Here’s the conversation as I remember it.
“Humko ghar jaane do. Humaare bachhe humaara wait kar rahe hain”
“Sir, humaari baat maan jaaiye aur phir hum aapko ghar jaane denge”
“Gharwaale wait kar rahe hain”
“Sir, humaare bhi”
“Beta hum ghar jaayenge. Rok sako toh rok lo.”
“Sir, main toh aapko rokoonga nahi. Par jo mere saath hain, unka mood zara theek nahi hai. Wo shaayad jaane na de”
I smile at him… like Nana Patekar smiles at Manisha Koirala in Agnisaakshi.
He looks around and senses the anger and beats a retreat.
I smile triumphantly at my mates like Kapil Dev did after lifting the world cup.
We had plenty of such showdowns over the next three and a half years.
Circa, yesterday.
I could guess he remembered the same moment as I did.
Two to three uncomfortable seconds of silence later, I touched his feet, shook hands. He said he was happy to see me. Thankfully, he didn’t know/ remember my name.
My next brush was with an ex-boss of mine. To his credit, he still remains in touch and is as courteous and friendly as anybody I have seen. It was a real pleasure meeting him and spent some very nice minutes with him. Also, thanks to him, I had company for dinner ( I had thought that aaj toh akele hee dinner karna hoga). More so, for he had friends there and he could sense I was alone.
To the quintessential southie, the biggest difference between our kinda marriages and the ones that happen here is that ours happen in the mornings. Here, but for a few select sects, they have it from evening to late in the night. Also, in south, typically the food comes to you- typically in my community, it is served on banana leaves. Here, it is a buffet. There is a different charm about each of the systems I suppose.
As I stepped out of the wedding yesterday night, that scene from the film- “Gandhi” flashed before my eyes- where Kasturba and the Mahatma enact the saptapadi (saat phere) to their English friend and explain to him the significance of each of these.
This one is dedicated to my good friend Eddy and his lovely wife, Nidhi who got married yesterday. I have known Eddy as a gem of a guy- gentle, intelligent, sensible and sensitive. I pray you have a great life together Eddy and Nidhi.
This one is also dedicated to all my other chums who lose their bachelorhood/ spinsterhood this month.
Amongst others, to Varsha, my friend since class 11th, who gets married later next week. I’ve known Varsha as a very simple, yet elegant lady; very modern, yet with a bharatiya naari touch. Wish her a great married life.
And to my friend Shefali who is getting married in a few days from now. One of the more mature individuals I met at D-school, Shefali also happens to be one of the most sincere people I’ve known and a person of extraordinary emotional strength. Wish her a great married life.
PS- The definition of a spouse as my friend says “She, who stands by you through all the trouble which would never have happened, but for her”
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Saurav long live
It was July 2002. My dad had just had his bypass surgery. The previous month had been extremely stressful for me.
And then on 13th July, the epic Natwest final happened. I still vividly remember the scenes in Vikaspuri after that. People bursting crackers everywhere, dancing in joy. I remember being overjoyed too, for some moments, forgetting the stress at home. I felt extremely extremely good when dada did a salman khan that day.
Somebody who visited my dad the next day in hospital told me that one of the first questions he asked was what happened of the Indo-English match.
Now, these are moments in the life of an Indian cricket fan that one cannot quantify. Statistics will reveal that India won by two wickets with 3 balls to spare. Nothing on earth can quite reveal the joy Dada’s men provided us that day.
There have been multiple such moments where Dada has brought us infinite joy. Quite a lot of us actually believed that we could win the 2003 world cup. With Tendulkar- God himself- blessed be his name, Dada formed the most destructive opening pair in the late 90’s and the early 2000’s. We finally had our own (better version of) Haynes and Greenidge.
Lets go back further into history. Remember the Sahara cup in Canada, India v/s Pakistan. Wow what a series it was. One of first times I remember seeing India rout Pakistan so mercilessly. Dada was man of the match in 4 out of 5 matches. He excelled with the bat and the ball.
Remember Lords, 1996, Dada scoring that century on debut.
Remember that century at Brisbane.
Remember Steve Waugh’s last match when the Aussies were literally fighting to save their ***.
Remember those clean lofted hits over long on and long off…straight into the stands.
Dada would always be remembered as that guy who taught the Indian team to fight and win.
And then remember all those brickbats thrown at him. When that stupid egotic, Greg Chappell did whatever he did, we, as a nation, instead of standing by Dada, chose to speak Chappell’s language.
Remember those who said Dada’s career is over when he was dropped. The epitome of yellow journalism in India, the TOI, wrote a headline “has this man played his last match” with a snap of Dada walking back to the pavilion.
Remember that pepsi ad when Dada came and asked us if we still remembered him.
Remember the way he came back into the team and scored that 50 against South Africa. To me, that would remain the best ever knock he played. It is not easy to perform so well when so many question marks hover around your neck.
He scored so so so many runs after coming back. And yet, he was dropped. No cricketing reasons for sure.
What is it that made him Indian cricket’s favourite whipping boy?
Lets look at this further. There are people in our classrooms, in our offices, in our neighbourhood that we love to hate. Some for reasons genuine, and some, purely because of some insecurity we get by seeing them. Was this the case of Dada as well?
They say perceptions are hard to make and harder to break. My sense is that it is these perceptions that made Dada the favourite whipping boy. Some people just probably felt insecure with him around.
Can any sane person stand up and say that Dada’s cricketing days were genuinely over?
Dada and Tendulkar- God himself- blessed be his fame, are still better than any Tom Dick or Harry in the team. I aint getting into rhetoric. If you wanna debate around the stats or non-stats, welcome.
As a cricket fan, I feel I have been robbed off at least 18-24 months of Dada’s cricketing days.
I shall await the IPL season the next year to watch Dada in action again, thought it wont be half as good as watching him play for India.
When the history books on Indian cricket shall be written, Dada shall stand tall amongst the mortals. There will be only Tendulkar-God himself- blessed be his game, above him in this era.
Was a pleasure watching you play Dada. Privileged to have grown up in an era where you did all that you did.
This blog is dedicated to my good friend, philosopher and guide- my role model- Sir TP, the other Dada fan that I know. One sms of Sir TP sums up the spirit of the quintessential Dada fan. Once when Dada got out, Sir TP sent me an sms- “Dada has just sacrificed his wicket for the nation”.
Jiyo Dada!! Thanks for those amazing memories.
And then on 13th July, the epic Natwest final happened. I still vividly remember the scenes in Vikaspuri after that. People bursting crackers everywhere, dancing in joy. I remember being overjoyed too, for some moments, forgetting the stress at home. I felt extremely extremely good when dada did a salman khan that day.
Somebody who visited my dad the next day in hospital told me that one of the first questions he asked was what happened of the Indo-English match.
Now, these are moments in the life of an Indian cricket fan that one cannot quantify. Statistics will reveal that India won by two wickets with 3 balls to spare. Nothing on earth can quite reveal the joy Dada’s men provided us that day.
There have been multiple such moments where Dada has brought us infinite joy. Quite a lot of us actually believed that we could win the 2003 world cup. With Tendulkar- God himself- blessed be his name, Dada formed the most destructive opening pair in the late 90’s and the early 2000’s. We finally had our own (better version of) Haynes and Greenidge.
Lets go back further into history. Remember the Sahara cup in Canada, India v/s Pakistan. Wow what a series it was. One of first times I remember seeing India rout Pakistan so mercilessly. Dada was man of the match in 4 out of 5 matches. He excelled with the bat and the ball.
Remember Lords, 1996, Dada scoring that century on debut.
Remember that century at Brisbane.
Remember Steve Waugh’s last match when the Aussies were literally fighting to save their ***.
Remember those clean lofted hits over long on and long off…straight into the stands.
Dada would always be remembered as that guy who taught the Indian team to fight and win.
And then remember all those brickbats thrown at him. When that stupid egotic, Greg Chappell did whatever he did, we, as a nation, instead of standing by Dada, chose to speak Chappell’s language.
Remember those who said Dada’s career is over when he was dropped. The epitome of yellow journalism in India, the TOI, wrote a headline “has this man played his last match” with a snap of Dada walking back to the pavilion.
Remember that pepsi ad when Dada came and asked us if we still remembered him.
Remember the way he came back into the team and scored that 50 against South Africa. To me, that would remain the best ever knock he played. It is not easy to perform so well when so many question marks hover around your neck.
He scored so so so many runs after coming back. And yet, he was dropped. No cricketing reasons for sure.
What is it that made him Indian cricket’s favourite whipping boy?
Lets look at this further. There are people in our classrooms, in our offices, in our neighbourhood that we love to hate. Some for reasons genuine, and some, purely because of some insecurity we get by seeing them. Was this the case of Dada as well?
They say perceptions are hard to make and harder to break. My sense is that it is these perceptions that made Dada the favourite whipping boy. Some people just probably felt insecure with him around.
Can any sane person stand up and say that Dada’s cricketing days were genuinely over?
Dada and Tendulkar- God himself- blessed be his fame, are still better than any Tom Dick or Harry in the team. I aint getting into rhetoric. If you wanna debate around the stats or non-stats, welcome.
As a cricket fan, I feel I have been robbed off at least 18-24 months of Dada’s cricketing days.
I shall await the IPL season the next year to watch Dada in action again, thought it wont be half as good as watching him play for India.
When the history books on Indian cricket shall be written, Dada shall stand tall amongst the mortals. There will be only Tendulkar-God himself- blessed be his game, above him in this era.
Was a pleasure watching you play Dada. Privileged to have grown up in an era where you did all that you did.
This blog is dedicated to my good friend, philosopher and guide- my role model- Sir TP, the other Dada fan that I know. One sms of Sir TP sums up the spirit of the quintessential Dada fan. Once when Dada got out, Sir TP sent me an sms- “Dada has just sacrificed his wicket for the nation”.
Jiyo Dada!! Thanks for those amazing memories.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Khayaal-e-Kashmir
Its 11.30 in the night. I'm walking on a dark lonely road. This is one of the militancy hit places in the country. I can't think of anything more adventurous to do than take this late night walk. The clear night sky looks beautiful. There are twinkling stars strewn around- some randomly and some in constellations. And then there are some hiding behind the tall mountains, black in the night. And then there are those handful of houses on these mountains, their lights forming a pattern not different from the stars in the sky. Given the height of these mountains, it takes a while to differentiate between the stars and the light-bulbs. The river, blue-green in the morning, black-silver and mirror-like in the night, flows by silently. The cold wind caresses my hair, stings my face making me numb on the nose and the cheeks.
And then, for a moment, the lights go off. In the silence that pervades the night, I suddenly hear Aamir Khusro's words-
Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.
Welcome to Jammu & Kashmir.
My long awaited tour to Baglihar got over yesterday. There are some sights of J & K that words cannot do justice to.... for eg., the 15 minutes before the flight lands in Srinagar, the first sight of Chenab, standing quietly at Patnitop, the trek up Vaishno Devi....
For an outsider, it can be quite scary. You see army convoys everywhere. And you see bearded civilians in pathani suits everywhere. No offence meant to the followers of any religion, but it can be scary.
I spoke to quite a lot of locals there. They are very warm and cordial. They express surprise when a Keralite quotes Urdu couplets ("Thats India for you my friend"- a thought I did not verbalise)
A muezzin I met there best summed up the feelings- "Chayn se nahi jeene dete- na yeh na woh". I'd been warned by friends to not talk of the Indo-Pak issues with the locals. I could not resist the temptation. I asked the gentleman, "Hindustan se kya problem hai aapko". He replied "kya saab", smiled sarcastically, looked up towards the sky. I did not press further.
A Kashmiri Pandit, now at Baglihar, said, "Sab saale aurangzeb ki galti hai. Aur ab humaari sarkar bhi toh napunsak hai. Hum sab ko ghar se nikaal diya saab".
I'll probably not go deeper on this issue here.
As I drove back to the airport, I had memories aplenty to carry back. As I reflected back on the ironies of the day, Rumis' gem played in my ears- strangely, made popular in the modern times by Pandit Nehru and Sheikh Abdullah who jointly quoted this at Lal Bagh in Srinagar-
Mun tu shudam tu mun shudi,mun tun shudam tu jaan shudi
Taakas na guyaad baad azeen, mun deegaram tu deegari
(I've become you and you me,I am the body and you the soul
Now no one can say from now on,that you're someone and me someone else)
Afterthought: My good friend tells me that this post would be incomplete without this song that I quote often- "ye kaun chitrakaar hai" ... this i learnt from a very a special friend and senior.
For this good friend, and for you...here go the lyrix
http://www.musicindiaonline.com/lr/17/1139/
And then, for a moment, the lights go off. In the silence that pervades the night, I suddenly hear Aamir Khusro's words-
Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast,
Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast.
Welcome to Jammu & Kashmir.
My long awaited tour to Baglihar got over yesterday. There are some sights of J & K that words cannot do justice to.... for eg., the 15 minutes before the flight lands in Srinagar, the first sight of Chenab, standing quietly at Patnitop, the trek up Vaishno Devi....
For an outsider, it can be quite scary. You see army convoys everywhere. And you see bearded civilians in pathani suits everywhere. No offence meant to the followers of any religion, but it can be scary.
I spoke to quite a lot of locals there. They are very warm and cordial. They express surprise when a Keralite quotes Urdu couplets ("Thats India for you my friend"- a thought I did not verbalise)
A muezzin I met there best summed up the feelings- "Chayn se nahi jeene dete- na yeh na woh". I'd been warned by friends to not talk of the Indo-Pak issues with the locals. I could not resist the temptation. I asked the gentleman, "Hindustan se kya problem hai aapko". He replied "kya saab", smiled sarcastically, looked up towards the sky. I did not press further.
A Kashmiri Pandit, now at Baglihar, said, "Sab saale aurangzeb ki galti hai. Aur ab humaari sarkar bhi toh napunsak hai. Hum sab ko ghar se nikaal diya saab".
I'll probably not go deeper on this issue here.
As I drove back to the airport, I had memories aplenty to carry back. As I reflected back on the ironies of the day, Rumis' gem played in my ears- strangely, made popular in the modern times by Pandit Nehru and Sheikh Abdullah who jointly quoted this at Lal Bagh in Srinagar-
Mun tu shudam tu mun shudi,mun tun shudam tu jaan shudi
Taakas na guyaad baad azeen, mun deegaram tu deegari
(I've become you and you me,I am the body and you the soul
Now no one can say from now on,that you're someone and me someone else)
Afterthought: My good friend tells me that this post would be incomplete without this song that I quote often- "ye kaun chitrakaar hai" ... this i learnt from a very a special friend and senior.
For this good friend, and for you...here go the lyrix
http://www.musicindiaonline.com/lr/17/1139/
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Bismillah would have smiled
As I was about to enter the temple, I placed my hands on the temple wall and closed my eyes.
I could see Bismillah smile. I could hear the melancholy of his Shehnai. I could see him seated there- on the podium in the vice regal lodge at North Campus (where I first attended his concert). I could hear him say “roz subah” and chuckling.
"… Roz subah hum jaate the… aankh band karke mandir ke deewar pe haath rakhte the… aur fir riyaaz shuru karte the…roz subah”. An then he would choke and break into a child-like chuckle and then would re-emphasize “roz subah”.
He (Late Ust. Bismillah Khan) would say this at every concert of his (and I’ve attended/ helped organize quite a few). He would speak of his days in Kashi (Benaras) where he spent his entire life and the influence of Vishwanath temple in his life. During his concerts, I would seat myself as much in the front rows as possible, and as soon as his eyes would meet mine (or so I thought), I would say “Salaam” to him with the traditional gesture. He would acknowledge and smile back.
I was there at Benaras earlier this week, the world’s oldest town. That the town is old, hits you even as you enter the town. Or maybe its an emotional bias. I entered the town listening to Kumar Gandharva sing “Ud jaa- jaa, hans akela”, written by Kabir. These streets here have been graced by so many greats- some known to us and plenty unknown.
Adi Sankara himself stayed here for some time. Ramanujacharya, Buddha, Bharathiyaar were all here. Kabir lived his life here on these streets. Tulasidas wrote the Ramcharitmanas here. This was Lal Bahadur Shastri’s Kashi. So so so many greats... I was blessed to be here.
You need to have some sense of history or emotional association to like this place. The place is crowded and noisy. The shrieky cycle bells and the hoarse horns of vehicles can tear apart any iota of peace a traveler/ pilgrim seeks. The traffic here is bumper to bumper or rikshaw front wheel to rikshaw rear.
My friend Rosy and I set out on a rick to the Vishwanath temple- one of the 12 Jyotirlingas. The journey from where our car was parked- to the temple gate took us about 25 minutes- a distance of 1.5 kilometers. Rosy remarked “ye mandir yahin benaras mein hai na??”
We stepped down from the rick and were immediately approached by a self-styled Pandit who promptly gave us instructions on what to do and where to go (with him). I have never felt so ashamed of Brahmins ever. Being born into a Brahmin family myself, I’m ashamed that such characters exist. A Brahmin has always lived for others, not lived on others. The Brahmin was never a parasite. Especially somebody who proudly proclaimed, “hum mandir ke Brahman hai- aapko line mein khade hone ki zarurat nahi hai. Humaare saath chaliye”. These fleecers are a blot on the great sect.
Everyday, when I look at my sacred thread, I ask myself if this makes me Brahmin. Everyday, when I perform my Japas or the Sandhi-Aavandanam (the thrice-a-day prayer prescribed for those that wear the sacred thread), I ask myself if I am Brahmin. Do I become a Brahmin by abstaining from eating non vegetarian food?
Well, I may not be closer to the answer, but having looked at the behaviour of the self-styled Pandits at Kashi, I know why some look with great disdain at Pandits.
Rosy and I first went to the Dasha-ashwamedh Ghat, one of the the most pious ghats at Kashi- maybe due to its proximity to the temple. Each inch possible has been taken up by the Pandits, ever willing to perform Pujas. The water is much cleaner than I had imagined- only that the place is cramped. Dipping my feet into the Ganga river (Gangajee- as she is referred to here) was a pleasant experience. The water was cool; plus the feeling that so many greats had dipped their feet in the same famed ghat added to the experience. A few chants later, I was walking towards the temple. It is a different world altogether.
My friend and senior, Dr. Mohit ,often says that Benaras is one place where, irrespective of which part of the town one stays in, “aadmi subah ko mandir ke ghanti ki aawaaz se hee uthta hai”. When one looks around and sees the number of temples, one can know why Dr. Mohit says this.
The queue to see Baba (as Kashi Vishwanath is referred to here) was long- extremely long. The self styled Pandits attempted to fleece us here too. The decay runs deep. Even if you have to keep your chappals at a safe place, you are forced to take services of the Pandit associated with that place. The police sit by hopelessly. Instead of peace, it was anger that was pervading me outside the temple. The length of the queue was testing my patience too.
As the queue moved ahead, and we moved closer to the temple, I could envision all those greats treading the same path. Strangely, during these moments, the anger just vanished. In fact, I do not have any recollection of any negative feeling during these moments right outside the temple.
As I was about to enter the temple, I placed my hands on the temple wall and closed my eyes.
Bismillah would have certainly smiled.
Epilogue: Thanks to the long minutes in the queue, Rosy and I could not visit Sarnath that we so wanted to visit. This entry is dedicated to my friend Rosy with a promise to go to Sarnath the next time.
I could see Bismillah smile. I could hear the melancholy of his Shehnai. I could see him seated there- on the podium in the vice regal lodge at North Campus (where I first attended his concert). I could hear him say “roz subah” and chuckling.
"… Roz subah hum jaate the… aankh band karke mandir ke deewar pe haath rakhte the… aur fir riyaaz shuru karte the…roz subah”. An then he would choke and break into a child-like chuckle and then would re-emphasize “roz subah”.
He (Late Ust. Bismillah Khan) would say this at every concert of his (and I’ve attended/ helped organize quite a few). He would speak of his days in Kashi (Benaras) where he spent his entire life and the influence of Vishwanath temple in his life. During his concerts, I would seat myself as much in the front rows as possible, and as soon as his eyes would meet mine (or so I thought), I would say “Salaam” to him with the traditional gesture. He would acknowledge and smile back.
I was there at Benaras earlier this week, the world’s oldest town. That the town is old, hits you even as you enter the town. Or maybe its an emotional bias. I entered the town listening to Kumar Gandharva sing “Ud jaa- jaa, hans akela”, written by Kabir. These streets here have been graced by so many greats- some known to us and plenty unknown.
Adi Sankara himself stayed here for some time. Ramanujacharya, Buddha, Bharathiyaar were all here. Kabir lived his life here on these streets. Tulasidas wrote the Ramcharitmanas here. This was Lal Bahadur Shastri’s Kashi. So so so many greats... I was blessed to be here.
You need to have some sense of history or emotional association to like this place. The place is crowded and noisy. The shrieky cycle bells and the hoarse horns of vehicles can tear apart any iota of peace a traveler/ pilgrim seeks. The traffic here is bumper to bumper or rikshaw front wheel to rikshaw rear.
My friend Rosy and I set out on a rick to the Vishwanath temple- one of the 12 Jyotirlingas. The journey from where our car was parked- to the temple gate took us about 25 minutes- a distance of 1.5 kilometers. Rosy remarked “ye mandir yahin benaras mein hai na??”
We stepped down from the rick and were immediately approached by a self-styled Pandit who promptly gave us instructions on what to do and where to go (with him). I have never felt so ashamed of Brahmins ever. Being born into a Brahmin family myself, I’m ashamed that such characters exist. A Brahmin has always lived for others, not lived on others. The Brahmin was never a parasite. Especially somebody who proudly proclaimed, “hum mandir ke Brahman hai- aapko line mein khade hone ki zarurat nahi hai. Humaare saath chaliye”. These fleecers are a blot on the great sect.
Everyday, when I look at my sacred thread, I ask myself if this makes me Brahmin. Everyday, when I perform my Japas or the Sandhi-Aavandanam (the thrice-a-day prayer prescribed for those that wear the sacred thread), I ask myself if I am Brahmin. Do I become a Brahmin by abstaining from eating non vegetarian food?
Well, I may not be closer to the answer, but having looked at the behaviour of the self-styled Pandits at Kashi, I know why some look with great disdain at Pandits.
Rosy and I first went to the Dasha-ashwamedh Ghat, one of the the most pious ghats at Kashi- maybe due to its proximity to the temple. Each inch possible has been taken up by the Pandits, ever willing to perform Pujas. The water is much cleaner than I had imagined- only that the place is cramped. Dipping my feet into the Ganga river (Gangajee- as she is referred to here) was a pleasant experience. The water was cool; plus the feeling that so many greats had dipped their feet in the same famed ghat added to the experience. A few chants later, I was walking towards the temple. It is a different world altogether.
My friend and senior, Dr. Mohit ,often says that Benaras is one place where, irrespective of which part of the town one stays in, “aadmi subah ko mandir ke ghanti ki aawaaz se hee uthta hai”. When one looks around and sees the number of temples, one can know why Dr. Mohit says this.
The queue to see Baba (as Kashi Vishwanath is referred to here) was long- extremely long. The self styled Pandits attempted to fleece us here too. The decay runs deep. Even if you have to keep your chappals at a safe place, you are forced to take services of the Pandit associated with that place. The police sit by hopelessly. Instead of peace, it was anger that was pervading me outside the temple. The length of the queue was testing my patience too.
As the queue moved ahead, and we moved closer to the temple, I could envision all those greats treading the same path. Strangely, during these moments, the anger just vanished. In fact, I do not have any recollection of any negative feeling during these moments right outside the temple.
As I was about to enter the temple, I placed my hands on the temple wall and closed my eyes.
Bismillah would have certainly smiled.
Epilogue: Thanks to the long minutes in the queue, Rosy and I could not visit Sarnath that we so wanted to visit. This entry is dedicated to my friend Rosy with a promise to go to Sarnath the next time.
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