Batsman with an overseas hunderd

As a kid playing cricket fanatically, making it to the state team, and subsequently to the top echelons of national team used to be a constant dream across my childhood. Getting selected was so overestimated that I even made plans to settle in Sri-Lanka after someone told me that it was just as big as the state I represented – and hence my chances of making it to National team there, might be higher. J

Watching cricket on television was never limited to just the live telecast, its repeat version or the special shows. It extended to re-playing  - that one shot, taking that one catch or bowling that Yorker which you loved over and over again in one’s mind – of course with oneself as a protagonist!
As understanding of the game increased, the childlike fanaticism gave way to a bit matured – though still mad – love for the game. And then the inevitable happened – with advancing age, stage, number of subjects and end-term exams my association with cricket ended. Like the love affair of tender age, it was destined to die pre-maturely – and was perhaps even visible clearly to all except me.
Years post that saw sporadic but short lived interactions with the game. A match or two every six months, either for the college, class or just with friends on weekends. There was, of course a high point again when during MBA our class won an interclass championship! A few strokes from that tournament are still so vivid in my mind as if they were played yesterday. Years of job proved to be rather like draught. Few exciting moments from net sessions done over the weekends, one lost match – where I had hit a straight six, and quite a few dropped catches that I can’t forget.
At a point when India’s performance abroad was really under scanner from all corners, performance outside the subcontinent stood out as a yardstick that truly differentiated true batting talents from bullies of flat tracks.   Fast forward to present – I moved to Denver for work, after spending first few weekends in shopping for groceries, visiting parks, library etc. I finally found a contact detail for a local cricket club. From last week, after submitting its registration form and receiving acknowledgment for it life has changed a bit. US is not a cricket friendly country, or at least the city where I live, it seems not to be very popular – no sport shop sells a cricket bat or equipment, only a few store managers even recognized it. Cricket Season’s start is at least- four months away and I am not yet even on that team – still an idea that I could possibly – get to play a match and then go on to make an overseas hundred warms a heart in a unique sort of way!!
Dream usually starts with a fall of wicket after which I would walk out to bat, with team a bit under pressure. Slowly but surely runs start coming in, square cuts stand out and the end is always filled with a couple of lofted shots!
None of the particulars from above mentioned dream, starting from my presence in this country to be actually able to play the games and performing the way I would like to, are anywhere close to reality right now. At a time of writing this they are just figments of my imagination. Yet it has been one of the favorite indulgences, to think of it!!
Well-aware that these games, if at all I play, will have no record anywhere except for that in my mind and perhaps that too would only remain selective in really long term – thinking about it actively excites me, motivates me to run 30 minutes a day and most importantly helps me go to sleep with smiling face. J

Do you have any similar experience, where things that are visibly trivial – as trivial as an unrecorded, yet to be played cricket match in a city where hardly anyone plays this game, mean so much to you that they make a part of some of your most favorite dreams?

Visit to a park

As long as the eyes could see, there was no human being in sight. Noise of dogs barking and a signboard saying “Beware of dogs” made me feel a bit nervous about entering this park. Lawns were well manicured and surroundings suggested that this was not as desolate a place as it looked at first sight. Just then I saw a couple walking towards the entrance and thought that probably there are more people on the other side of this long lane and I should go in and visit this marvelous looking but eerily quiet Park.
I read the rules of visiting the park very carefully, in a foreign country, especially on a first visit, one is – in many ways – like an infant trying to figure out the ways of world! And a bit conscious not to be on the wrong side of rules. For example, it is always better to check if taking photos is allowed or prohibited – before the impulse of taking a new selfie for DP in FB takes over the mind! After reading the rules and ensuring that I was in no way going to overstep on any of them in any way, I entered the park.
Trees standing guard on either sides of the lane gave it a unique sort of beauty which only natural surroundings can offer. Hills afar and trees nearby, two of most constant and steady of nature’s creations reminded me of all that is still constant in this seemingly dynamic life. The quiet environment of the garden soon turned from intimidating to soothing one, as walked on. After a long walk, of about 15-20 minutes, a playground appeared.  Sight of swings, slides, kids playing ball brought with it a sense of joy and helped me relate to this park instantly, somewhat similar to the ways a sportsman relates to a new ground after realizing its parallels with one that he is used to play at.
When a US citizen visiting Gandhi Ashram became my friend there, he once told me that here if people look at other people for a few seconds; they might take it as hostile behavior. Driven by this advice I deliberately did not stop by and watch kids play there instead I walked on taking satisfaction in similarities that kids have across countries!
On the way, I saw a couple coming with three huge dogs between two of them. Scared as I am of dogs, I climbed up till the top of the slope of sideline in order to make way for all 5 of them! “I am very scared of dogs” I said defensively. “They are fine” said the man, “At least, that’s what everyone says until they bite!” added his wife and all of us shared a good laugh! J
There was a drainage carrying wastewater of the park, and something was written on its inside, it caught my eye as I walked by – on a closer look – I realized what was written there! And it made me smile.



Written message: "For good times - call xxxxxxxx"

For good time, call – and the number next to it was blackened! It reminded me of such writings seen at various public places in India, some things cut across countries and cultures – I thought to myself. Though not entirely civilized, this instilled in me a sense of confidence perhaps because of the striking similarities that we all share as human beings despite huge differences in our backgrounds!

There are a lots of other small things about this park that will stay in my memory for long time, A signboard mentioning total cost of the park was amazing, I believe it helps people realize the worth of what they, at times, take for granted!

 

As a kid in school, I used to write essay on my visit to a park- perhaps they want kids to get used to the way of worlds through their interaction of these public institutions. While visiting a foreign country, especially first time, one is just like an infant, trying to learn the ways of the world. Learning how to cross the road, how to board a train or bus, how to behave in public, how not to behave in public etc J and such visits – though immaterial in larger scheme of things go a long way in establishing one’s bond to a new place.

Frostbite

The only frost I had seen until a few days back, was one that used to gather inside the freezer of the refrigerator.  A reminder of childhood memory of scratching the sidewalls of the freezer and eating that frost despite parental advice against that, is still

very vivid in my mind.

Therefore when I first saw entire neighborhood and all roads leading to office, covered with such frost, it was overwhelming, of course. I wasn’t aware of the word frostbite – until a caring colleague cautioned me regarding it.

When checked on google frostbite is understood as “injury to body tissues caused by exposure to extreme cold, typically affecting the nose, fingers, or toes and sometimes resulting in gangrene. It involves freezing of tissues, has four stages which vary in intensity and risk – starting from damage only to the external skin to internal and permanent damages”

At first I was negligent of the caution and treated it much the same way as we do to things that we don’t fully understand but claim to have command over, however nature prevailed and I surrendered soon. (Read just in time). Two jackets one with hood bought from a market in Denver, a sweater, muffler and cap brought from India and a set of thermals were all put in place and I was ready to fight the winter! I started taking help of colleagues who had cars to commute – instead of walking my way to work. I avoided any chance of frostbite – as best as I could.  

However, while reading a bit more on frostbite- it occurred that frostbite – in wider sense – can also include any injury that cold can cause. A deadlier variety can be considered as frostbite on our minds caused due to emotional cold.

Like stages of frostbite on skin, frostbites on mind can also have different stages – first degree called frost-nip is only affecting the outer surface of skin and usually results in itching and pain on affected areas of skin. Usually most of us suffer from this stage – total lack of empathy towards strangers is a primary symptom of such illness. Itching on mind just like the one on skin can make us susceptible to irritation and shortens attention spans. Usually appeal to internal crevices of their minds, still get registered as they are still sensitive.

Second degree known as blister – can be more severe – it leaves the affected area completely hard and blackened. It leads to permanent insensitivity to any kind of sensation.

Third and fourth stages are the most severe it can make affected areas permanently amputated. Usually it is caused by prolonged unprotected exposure to extremely cold environment. Emotionally this level of frostbite can be extremely oppressive – not only to the one inflicted – but also to the ones surrounding the patient. Irrecoverable cynicism and lack of enthusiasm to any sort of warmth are considered to be the prominent symptoms.

Get yourself enough warm clothes, keep the bon fire of passion and empathy burning within and make sure you don’t suffer from any sort of frostbite.

 

 

Javaay....

Picture: The Death of Socrates: By Jaques Louis David

Source- Google

“Javaay” was the word that would break my trance at the end of an hour long class. Such engaging was his each class, my childhood hero and one of the most loveable teachers. He used this word at the end of his class to suggest us that it was close of the day and we could go home.  Today when he is gone, away from this world to the one from whose bourn no traveller returns, the word “Javaay” seems even more pregnant with meaning, emotions and memories.  

 Hard as I struggle I could not find English word that exactly corresponds with this one, but, “Javaay”, roughly it can be understood as a permission to leave. My hand instinctively reaches out to cell phone, as it had over the last several years to call him and ask for the correct word. Disappointment dawns with the realization that it is no longer possible to talk to him in person. That his guidance to find the right English word will no longer be available is perhaps the least troubling aspect of the loss that his demise brings.  

The more significant loss comes in form of losing presence of an individual that he was. Rib tickling sense of humour and superb comedy timing were just a couple of traits that those knowing him briefly would also remember for their lifetime. A few days back, I had sent him a forward on Whatsapp that read “Every man has one thing he can do better than anyone else – and usually it’s reading his own handwriting.”  “I doubt whether doctors can” – came a snappy reply from him! And it sent me in a bout of laughter which we usually only relate to the episodes of comedy nights with Kapil these days.

While looking back, there are several such sentences from him that come to mind and make me roll in the laughter which would now invariably end in tears.

Behind his sense of humour lay a deep sense of perspective and proportion. In an age troubled with status anxiety and bloated egos; his presence and life were greatest reminders of how we should live.  How a cricket tournament should be followed, how a book should be read, how papers should be assessed, how a vegetable sizzler should be made, how a conversation should be made and so many other things, when put together make life…… he did all that impeccably well, enjoyed doing them and even taught others how to savour them.

It is this wisdom of life that is biggest loss that his demise casts upon me. In day to day life there is little that changes, but there has been a niggle somewhere between my lungs and stomach of not having him anymore, and therefore a fear that without him being there, I may not be able to emulate, even a small part of the wisdom through which he lived his life.  

He had a giant built, long arms and round structure – I was short, tiny and thin; when sat next to him I would probably not even be visible fully and when his outstretched arm came around my shoulder while correcting my mistake I would almost be buried under it. That touch was gentle, caring, protective, encouraging and guiding……. That touch is now no more. Only its memory is alive.

Just as with me, there would be several memories of his residing in conscious or subconscious of most of his students, I take consolation in the hope that they will remain deathless.

The catcher in the Rye

If you have ever lied to a stranger in train, bus or flight or just twisted your truth a little in order to avoid a banal conversation taking an uncomfortable or unwanted turn.. Because you thought they wouldn't understand anyway...... then The catcher in the Rye is a book you cannot afford to miss.

Holden Caulfield is a young  pr-

-otagonist of this wonderfully written novel. Through his character writer has portrayed what a complex creation an individual is and how weird at times our own existence might seem when seen from a child’s eye.

Holden feels alienated and confused at the way world around him is constructed, convoluted; he seeks refuge in children younger to him. It is clear throughout the narrative that for him, adults are corrupted and only purity lies with children.

The entire book’s story takes place within a span of just four days, and yet so minutely has the author taken us through those four days that by the time we end the book it seems we have known Holden, Phoebe, DB, Ally, Ackely, Stradlater, jane and Mr. Antolini for years.

Another very striking feature of this book is that somehow, character of Holden, despite all its limitations as an individual, inspires a lot of sympathy in minds of readers. So far as confused yet compassionate and adorable protagonists are concerned, Holden from the Catcher in the rye is probably at par with Hamlet.... perhaps Holdens of the world outnumber Hamlets by fair margin.

The fact that he is suffering from some sort of mental imbalance, which is visible through conduct and opinions but intractable medicinally, perhaps makes readers relate with him, because secretly it reflects some of our own deepest conflicts and complex dilemmas.

The other prominent theme of this novel is constructed by Holden’s attitude towards sex. More than half of the story, he tries to lose his virginity, in fact more than once he comes closer to it however fails to make the cut in the end.  He later takes solace in the banal expression, repeated countless times in the novel “one has to be in right mood” for such things! He is unable to hold two conflicting ideas that revolve around sexuality – one that of romantic love that is built on care and respect and the other involving kinky fantasies for one’s partner. Little does the Holden know at the time, perhaps, that this was merely starting of a life-long dilemma we all face as adults!!

Bitterness that Holden has towards the rest of the world is in part really the bitterness he feels for his advancing age, moving life and its fickleness.  His frantic search for permanence is not only childish; it is also misplaced – miserably. And this gives a rather cantankerous and immature character a tragic touch which is a hallmark of adult lives.

The book stands out for its impeccable narrative, compact storyline and powerful characters. Some other most powerful events, such as the record bought by Holden for Phoebe, his deceased brother Ally’s baseball glove with lots of poems written on it, suicide of one of his schoolmates, visit to museum and Holden’s opinion for his elder brother DB add a classic sub-plot to the entire story and keeps readers engaged.

The fact that Holden HOLDs on to his childhood even while the world around him is trying to grow him into an adult brings out a fascinating story which is highly recommended reading for anyone interested to understand oneself a little better!!Top of Form

Acknowledge!!!

It was 11:30 PM, I was walking back home after a long day at work, clouds had been gathering in sky as if they would burst into a heavy downpour any moment and a cold Bangalore breeze was blowing just enough to make the atmosphere mildly intoxicating. Silence in the street, added a tinge of anxiety to the overall calm surroundings.  Just then I heard a car approaching from behind, just where I was walking it slowed down and window slid down.  The car was impeccable, looked like coming straight out of the show-room, spotless and shining!

The couple in the car looked visibly worried; they asked me if there was any hospital around. I replied there was one and directed them towards the nearest hospital. Just as I finished, I realized they had probably been new to the locality and did not fully follow the directions given quickly. I explained them again, slowly and with a couple of more landmarks to guide them through the way. They thanked me and vroomed off towards the hospital.   

Next day, I decided to go to work a little late than my usual time as I had returned late on previous day.

While walking on the footpath on way to the office, I came across an old beggar. He came close to me and tried saying something that I could not understand. Without even acknowledging his presence, I made way and passed him by.

A few steps ahead a thought struck me, what if the old beggar had to actually ask something as genuine as the couple previous night? One possibility led to another, Wasn’t it possible that the old man just wanted to tell me how bad day he was having?  Or “What time of day it was?”  

 A pang of guilt covered my mind; however I kept on walking ahead, feeling completely ashamed of the cold ignorance I had shown to the old beggar. The incidence did not subside in the usual routine and kept coming back to mind.  

William James had written on this phenomena way back in 1984, “no more fiendish punishment could be devised, if such a thing were physically possible, than that, one should turn loose in a society and remain absolutely unnoticed by all the members thereof. If none turned around when we entered, answered when we spoke or minded what we did but if every person we met, cut us dead and acted as if we were non-existent things a kind of rage before long would well up within us from which cruellest bodily tortures would be a relief. “

I think none we meet deserves this kind of cold ignorance, no matter what class one belongs to. The difference in my behaviour to the couple driving in a car and asking for direction close to midnight and the beggar whose motive to interact with me, I did not even care to notice is not defensible. Of many things around us, I believe if we change this and at least acknowledge, everyone around us, we will spread some more relief and happiness.

This is not at all to say that we should give money in alms to beggars, but at least we should politely decline – thereby noticing and acknowledging their presence.

Book Review - The shadow of the wind

If a writer’s book is read by only one person, and it transforms the reader’s life, is he successful writer?

At the age of ten, Daniel is a loveable kid, just like most other ten year olds. He has lost his mother a few years back and lives with his loving father who constantly tries to make up for the Daniel’s mother.  Daniel has a great fascination for books, and aspires to become a writer some day. Daniel’s father runs a book shop and is a man of modest means.

Daniel gets his hand on a book named “The shadow of the wind” by an author called Julian Carax. This book enthrals Daniel and he sets out to find more about its author. The search that would eventually transform his life completely, and link him to so many individuals’ lives in a breathtaking way.

Julian Carax is little known name in Spain that had seen a terrible war during his lifetime. According to some account, Julian was dead, for some he had fled to Paris long back and lived an anonymous life there.  Daniel’s search leads him to many dark secrets of war time, and puts his life in risk as well. However gritty as he is, he continues to peel off the layers of mystery that surrounds Julian’s life.  

The novel presents some of the finest characters, Senor Sempere – Daniel’s father is portrayed as a fine gentleman who always stands by his son, even while his physical strength and capacities are on decline due to advancing age.  Fermin, an accomplice and friend of Daniel also comes across as a very interesting character; at one point he says “The man who used to live in these bones died Daniel, sometimes he comes back in nightmares.”    The character of Antony Fortuny, Julian’s father is also very well depicted. Beatrice’s character is a little too make-shift, I believe it could have played some more role in the novel.

The book is replete with some stunning observations and messages which cut through the boundaries of the plot and are relevant to all readers even in their personal lives, for example – the short message on war delivered through a character goes like this – “Nothing feeds forgetfulness better than war Daniel, we all remain silent and they try to convince us that what we have seen, what we have learnt about ourselves and about others is an illusion, a nightmare that will pass. Ware has no memory, and none has courage to understand until there are no voices left to tell what really happened. Until the moment comes when we no longer recognize them and they return with another face and another name, to devour everything that they left behind.”

Or the following, “An old man waited for me almost every thrursday and offered me pastries and coffee that he scarcely touched. He spent hours reminiscing about Julian’s childhood, how they worked in the shop. He would take me to Julian’s room which he kept as immaculate as museum, he took out old notebooks and photographs with enthusiasm without realizing that he had shown them to me just on the previous visit, that he had already told me all those stories  - he seemed to be reconstructing the past that never existed. Until one day when I went there and found the doctor going out, “How is the hatter?” I asked. Doctor looked at me strangely and asked “Are you a relative?”

It is a bulky book of 500 pages, for those who think thrillers have to be quick read and pointed this book is a good case study to support alternative argument.

Shadow of the Wind is thriller, historical fiction, occasional farce, existential mystery and a passionate love story – all at once.

Why I was not Mr. Nishant Gupta that morning....

“This is the last and final boarding call for Mr. Nishant Gupta, travelling to Delhi by Indigo flight 6E254” announced the crew member holding the list of passengers in her hand and looking anxious to find this last passenger so that the flight can take off at scheduled time to its destination.

It was 5 AM of a Monday morning and I was half asleep sitting on a bench, waiting for the announcement for my flight to Bangalore, the call for Mr. Nishant Gupta did reach my ears however remained distant as it was unrelated. Since I was half asleep, I did not realize that place where I was sitting was quite close to the place from where crew member was announcing for Mr. Gupta.

Her repeated calls disturbed the tranquillity of the early morning that I had preferred but they also set me thinking subconsciously, about Delhi, and also about this Mr. Gupta who was the sole recipient of all the attention of this beautiful crew member at 5 AM of a Monday morning.

Delhi had always been a city that fascinated me, despite all the things it remains infamous for. It was the city that I had been planning to visit since the time I left it after completing my post graduation but had never been able to visit. It remained home to many friends and irrespective of emphatic invitations and countless expressions of “Ab ki baar pukka kuch plan karte hae” Delhi remained elusive from me. I had ceased to chase the goal actively but latent desire was present, I imagined how T3 would be – metro rides, streets of South Delhi etc. Counting on friends I wished to meet, I made a mental list and thought how many of them would really have time on a Monday, if I catch that flight instead of Mr. Gupta – and before I could reach a certain number, trail of thoughts was further interrupted by a near war cry.

Crew member who could have easily been mistaken for an upcoming model now looked like a restless mother attempting to find her child lost in faceless crowd. She was walking around in haste, transporting messages to her colleagues and checking one final time if she could find the man she was looking for that morning.

I switched my thoughts back to Delhi and sat relaxing with closed eyes, feeling a little sadistic happiness at Mr. Gupta’s absence! Just, then I felt a tap on my right shoulder – startled I shook up straight and looked up.

“Are you Mr. Nishant Gupta?” I remained silent for a few seconds. “Going to Delhi?” came another question, without quite waiting for an answer.

Looking at her insistent efforts to find a man I had never known, flying to a city I really wanted to go since long, made me want – for a moment - to impersonate Mr. Gupta and tell her that I was the one she was looking for and go to Delhi.

I soon realized that my silence irritated her, and quickly I told her that I was not Mr. Gupta. She went away quickly, disappointed at having wasted her time without a positive outcome.

And I regretted the fact that I was not Mr. Nishant Gupta on that Monday morning.

The Night watchman

Weather was bad, conditions were overcast. Drizzle was being faded away only due to the force of strong wind – clouds were gathering overhead and making the afternoon seem like dark evening.  There was a silence in dressing room, openers were just going out and everyone was saying their silent prayers for them to just bat through the day without any casualty.

The captain walked to him steadily and said “Pad up Jim, in case of a wicket, you will have to go and weather it out till end of day’s play.’’

Jim was playing in that team as a fast bowler, however he loved batting too – and did not like to throw away his wicket. He was gritty by nature and a team man to the core.  A chance to go out as a night-watchman in troublesome weather was exactly the kind of challenge that he loved to take up, something that is unnerving but exciting at the same time.

Innings started and soon it came out that it was going to be a rough ride. Not only was the weather making it difficult, the pitch was also vicious – lots of irregular bounce and two paced behaviour. It was an openers’ nightmare.  The look on their face said that worst of their nightmares had come true.

Fall of wicket was merely a matter of time; it seemed to Jim, he was all set from the word go to go out there and fight it out for his team.  He had done that in past and backed himself for repeating the feat. As he sat with his safety gears on, the images of that innings flashed across his mind – it is surprising how vivid memories are!

A sudden roar from the opposition team brought Jim back to present, he realized there was an appeal – ball had taken up sharply from good length and put the batsman in awkward position and also took an edge of his glove.

“Take it easy Jim” – he heard as he stood up after seeing the umpire raising his figure to indicate the fall of first wicket.

Jim was a dear friend of mine and I was supporting his team, praying for him to salvage it for a few overs so that umpires can probably realize how bad the lights were and call it a day. There were some fine batsmen in his team and I wanted to watch them bat tomorrow in bright day light. As a fan of the game, sight of glistening red cricket ball under the sunshine was one of the finest views I had cherished – the overcast conditions were ruining it.

Just as I saw Jim walking out, a fantastic analogy struck my mind of how much I shared with him at this particular moment.

Indeed, being fan of Indian cricket at this point of time is akin to be a night-watchman. The dark secrets of corruption, poisonous accusations of conflict of interest, politicization of the game’s governing body, suppression and misrepresentation of facts from various entities leave us all in a very fragile state – just like that of a night watchman walking out to fight out on a difficult wicket and weather conditions.

My prayer is as much for myself as it is for Jim, I hope we both bat out this tough time safely without any further damage so that we can see that red cherry shining under bright light in days to come! 

Holi – The morning after

Did any colour I splashed on you, leave a stain? Somewhere on you?

Blue that we used in beginning briefly,

or the yellow that I loved to see on you so much?

Red, used with passion of both - love and anger?

Or the running water of time has cleansed every corner of your existence completely?

The lowland By Jhumpa Lahiri

The Lowland offers a different perspective to one of the most intriguing macro level socio-economic problems of modern India through a micro level narrative. It is a story of a young man, a man who is both – a martyr and a traitor both at once. What makes the story more poignant is the fact that consequences of his choice continues to haunt and impact all those whom he loved dearly, even after his death.

With every character the writer successfully brings out deep existential anxieties and eccentricities to the fore. It is this masterful ability to present layers of personalities of her characters that makes Jhumpa Lahiri such an accomplished story teller.

Unable to reconcile with rumours and revelations of their son’s activities after his death, Udayan’s parents chose to find peace in insanity and lost the touch with real life just because it had become too hard to handle for their deprecated bodies and minds. Indeed, seeing one’s son being killed in front of their eyes would not have been easy. His father simply turned ignorant and mother forgetful. Their life was debilitating and disturbing on the east coast of India –and when contrasted with the life Subhash led on the east coast of America, it gave Subhash a pang of yearning for taking better care of his parents.  He felt deeply betrayed by his own self, unable to justify and accept that steps that seemed to righteous at the time he took them turned so unjust and even heinous as time passed.

 Subhash and Udayan – central characters of the story were inseparable brothers as children. However, as they grew up their paths diverged, Subhash went on to Rhode Island to pursue his doctoral studies and Udayan let the communist ideology consume his life, completely. Subhash always felt a touch inferior to Udayan, even though he was elder to him – he felt Udayan always had a little more of everything than he had. In his attempts to involve Subhash in the ideological battle he was fighting, Udayan asserted himself even more fiercely, causing Subhash deep existential anxieties. Subhash wasn’t able to understand if his inability to join the movement was mere cowardice or something else.

After Subhash departs Udayan’s life takes a new turn when he met a girl named Gauri, another important character of the novel. Udayan married Gauri – on receiving the news, Subhash felt a mixed emotion – that of happiness for his brother and a feeling of having been overtaken – as per Indian family tradition being an elder brother he should have married first. Udayan’s parents don’t accept Gauri and though they had no courage to oppose Udayan and let her live in their house, they always stayed recluse from her, Gauri too made no attempts to bridge the divide – they continued going farther away with each passing day.

Feeling a need to anchor the troubled family life Subhash decided to marry Gauri – giving a rationale of the future of unborn child. Subhash’s mother admonished him warning that Gauri wasn’t mature enough to become a mother and that she should be the one who would take care of the child. Subhash did not pay heed to his mother, married Gauri and took her to America. Gauri also accepted the step, more because of lack of option than by choice.

Their marriage was never easy, Subhash pained with inferiority complex, even with his wife and Gauri pained with sense of infidelity towards Udayan’s ghost cannot offer each other any comfort. Their only hope was Bela – Gauri’s daughter.

 Subhash made Bela the sole purpose of his life and though scared by the fact of Bela’s discovery that he was not really her father but only uncle – he really proved himself a better father than Udayan could ever be. Gauri constantly found herself to be inferior parent as compared to Subhash and left both of them to pursue her studies of philosophy.

After Gauri left Subhash raised Bela – initially with great troubles and deep impact on child but later both adjusted to the situation and helped each other fill the deepest voids of their lives.

The Lowland, alongside of a macro level issue of Naxal movement, describes very personal story of struggle of each of its characters minutely. It provides just enough details and leaves the conclusions to the readers. There are numerous occasions where readers are likely to get judgmental about the actions characters took, in the story, however seen from the point of view of these characters they only seem natural and real reactions.

In an ideological struggle of our times, we too have choices, and perhaps the strongest point this story makes is that our choices have impact on lives that are irrevocably related with our own, could this realization help soothe the sharp ideological battles we see?   

Why do I like stories....

A long time friend, market researcher, mother of one and an energetic editor’s message flashed at the right bottom corner of my computer screen. “Do you read stories?”  read the text, no “hi” no “Hello” – to  the point, terse and direct – but that’s her style. (One that I have come to appreciate a lotJ)

“Yes,” I wrote back, “Why” was added as an afterthought and quickly followed that with, “It depends on the story actually yaar, but in general I like stories.”

“Why do you like stories?” she further asked, in quintessentially market researcher style. I knew this was a beginning of one of the very interesting conversations and I had to gather my thoughts well for it. so I asked her for some time and told that I will compose my response and share it over the email next year. (It was last week of December so she was quite cool with my deadline.)

Following are my thoughts about what makes me like stories. If a story is good on following points, I like reading/listening to it.

1. Characters: They give life to the events in stories; they are the ones we relate ourselves to. Figment of authors’ imaginations or reflections of her reality, characters that stay with us for long are the ones that touch a chord in our heart.  It is said of characters that, a writer should know a lot more of the character than he puts down in a story, only when you know each of your character that well, can they come to life and stay alive for long. Best example of how long a character lives can be found right from the characters of holy books to the heroes of bollywood movies.

Of story-tellers I have read, I find Tagore best as far as knowing his character is concerned. He demonstrates amazing dexterity at presenting his characters that you almost start believing that they are real people taken out of our own lives. Another one comes to mind when it comes to being extremely adept at presenting characters is P.G. Wodehouse, Reginald Jeeves and Bertram Wooster – his most famous characters are still quite alive in minds of his readers. Similar examples can be found in more popular parlance of bollywood as well, for example Bob Biswas of a film Kahani and Phaijal of Gangs of Wasseypur are some of the characters that stick in one’s mind for long time even after one has watched the film. 

2. Storyline: Imaginative and captivating storylines are must for a good story, there has to be an event about which you would like to talk. Every situation for which you can hold someone’s hand and say “Hey listen… “is a potential of an awesome story. J Storyline is the one which provides space to the author to paint story in her favourite colours. You can weave suspense, drama, surprise, romance and various other themes that most interest you through the storyline.

For story-lines, I find R.K. Narayanan most interesting. Not only because of the delicate fabrics that he weaves his stories with but also because the great care he takes in painting smaller details of the plot.  It takes great sensitivity to take care of all those details in one’s storyline. Popularly famous for his lyrics in Bollywood, Gulzar is also one of the writers whose storylines are very good, rich and engaging.

 3. Dialogues: Storyline and characters are skeleton of a story, they way they interact, behave and unfold are the flesh and blood, hence we remember most characters and dialogues, “Kitne aadmi the?” 

In terms of dialogues, best example is timeless genius, Shakespeare. Another playwright, I have had a chance to read, Arthur Miller, (Marilyn Monroe fame) has been extremely engaging with his dialogues.  In Bollywood, Vishal Bhardwaj, carries flames ignited by Shakespeare and writes really good dialogues in some of his films.

4. Sequencing/ (screenplay): This refers to the order in which incidents happen in the story, one must bear in mind that reader doesn’t have any background of the story you are telling. So you need to be detailed without sounding dragging. This balance is a key to interesting and engaging story-telling/writing. J There are no formulas but practice usually helps getting it right.

Any page turner book will usually be awesome on its screenplay as, it is sequencing that mainly drives suspense, and keeps readers hooked to it.  Harry Potter and some of the other thrillers are good examples of able sequencing of events in stories.  

One tip that I personally find useful is to tell a lot of stories in day to day life, describe events to friends, parents, spouses, elders, kids whosoever listens to you. Try and make them fall in love with what you describe.

What starts with a Bang, doesn’t have to end with a whimper! Not at least with KP

He has been a star! One with most astonishing shine and glitter!

He is distinct; one noticed almost immediately – thanks to his broad stance at batting crease, his stylish hairstyle, tattoos on biceps which stare at every bowler when he pulls sleeves of his half sleeve jersey as if getting ready to launch into an attack. His aggressive eyes which are not altogether bereft of boyish mischievousness are as expressive as his candid encounters with media.  He has the best gift anyone in any competitive arena wants, gift of standing out of the lot, raising the standards and inspiring many in process of doing so!

Right from the time he debuted for his county team, there was no second opinion on the fact that he was a gifted sportsman.  He is right at the top of that niche and rare lot of cricketers who have lifted the cricket to new heights by defying its traditional, accepted and orthodox ways.  The way he swivels his entire body while playing switch hit is inexplicable, it is hard to describe the amount of amazement such a stroke brings to a cricket lover.  His contests with greats of game like Murali, Warne, McGrath and Steyn are cricket lovers’ ultimate delight.  He is just as good at playing unorthodox shots like switch hit; reverse sweeps and short armed jabs as he is at some of the most classical strokes like straight drives, cover drives and square cuts.

 

As a fan of game and of KP the news about the end of his international career for England came as a rude jolt.  Agreed that he was not the easiest guys in dressing room, past bruised with similar altercations, strained relationships with team-mates and a team going through one of its roughest rides but even all of that put together was sufficient reason to stab a potentially great career like this midway. Was there no way out of stalemate between ECB and KP?

Wasn't one of the finest ethics of any sport is to stand by one another and not against one another in tough times? Wasn't it KP who contributed a lion’s share in regaining Ashes after a long draught of 18 years in 2005? Wasn't he instrumental in beating India in India in recent past? – a feat that few international sides would be able to boast of.

He deserved better, no doubt. And perhaps that’s the reason it hurts to see him go like this. One more reason we feel hurt is that the treatment dished out to KP is a more extreme version of injustice all of us face almost inevitably in everyday life. In our interactions with bureaucracy in private of public institutions we often find ourselves at one end and the entire organization on the other. In this case, ECB and the English cricket team ganged up against KP.  Weak as most of us are we often resign in confrontation of this kind – we believe in toeing the line, not KP, he has come back once from a duel like this and I am hopeful he will come back again too.

Book review - I am Life by Shraddha Soni, reviewed by Dhruv

As an aspiring author, I am always interested in other people’s first books. It is this first book that transforms normal people like me into “Authors”.  

Recently I got a chance to read a book titled “I am Life”, it was the first book of the author and in paragraphs that follow, and I will try to convey my view of this book.

This book deals with an ambitious topic, philosophy, meaning and purpose of one’s life. For a first book, this is mighty ambitious a topic, but to author’s credit it is nicely justified through the micro level story of its protagonist, Siddharth Khanna.

Book starts like any other first time thriller initially but soon turns into a dense and heavy read because of the inquisitiveness, tensions and turmoil experienced by Siddharth.  Siddharth loses his job, wealth, home, family and every other possession overnight, when his wife separates from him through divorce to end an unhappy marriage.  He is shown to be extremely upright and individualistic, in the beginning, not caring about anyone but himself. The sudden loss shatters his veneers of strength, he wants to find god and ask him why such a thing has happened to him.

In his quest, he goes back to India; he roams in various Ashrams and visits many Gurus in order to find the mental equilibrium, the poise which can help him understand purpose of his life.  However nothing seems to be helping.

The more he tries to question life and expect answers in return the more complex and messy it gets. His struggle seems to be reaching nowhere, he even thinks about suicide, and then he meets Myrah. Myrah, initially, seems to be one of the women with whom Siddharth will eventually share bed and move ahead, part in regret part in fun.  

However, later readers realize that Myrah is a figment of imagination from the author. She teaches Siddharth to open up to life, to let life take control and steer his way through.

The message that book gives out is really good one, all of us at times try to control life way too much by focusing either on past or in future  - this approach can steer us away from life way too much. In times like these we must connect to life, surrender to the plans it has for us rather than fighting with it.

There are some parts where this book doesn’t really live up to expectations. Names of characters, turns of events, their psyche and way of thinking is too stereotype and lacks freshness. There are lots of threads which are left loose and author really has to conclude everything in last few pages using summary of end results. Ideally it would have been wonderful had the end been woven into the story and not separately.

Repairing a puncture

Just as I took out my bicycle to go on a short ride, on a Sunday morning, I realized that its front tyre had gone flat. I walked it to a nearby shop where the shopkeeper filled it with air for a cost of couple of rupees.  Just as he was filling it, he looked at it suspiciously, and asked me to wait for a few minutes before moving. As he seemed to have thought, the front tyre again went flat.

“Punctured?” I asked, a little annoyed at fate. He smiled and indicated that he would be able to fix it in five minutes once he has settled his tool-kit.

He asked me to put my bicycle next to his tool-kit and set on to his task to repair a puncture. At first he took out the tyre and checked the outer surface for any sharp object that might have caused the puncture in first place, quietly he ran through the entire tyre, looking sensitively for anything that needed to be removed. On not finding anything obvious, he wasn’t disappointed – he pushed the sides of the tyre a little and plucked the tube from within, slowly took out the entire inner tube out, a little by little. Once the tube was out, he filled it with air again and passed it through a bucket of water, small portion at a time, in order to check for bubbles to identify a possible puncture. After a while, he finally succeeded and found the puncture. After a little bit of scrubbing with rough glass paper, he put a solution and taped the punctured area well, blew some air in order to dry the solution. He then checked the remaining tube for any other punctures, and then put the tube again in the tyre, carefully plugged it in and refilled it with more air. And then finally put the tyre back, fixed the bolts and put my bicycle in front of me with a triumphant smile.

While seeing all this, a fascinating analogy ran through my mind as I was contemplating a journey. Just like the bicycle we also undertake so many journeys and roads are not always perfect. As our bicycle runs through the lanes of life it might get punctured once in a while, a thorn came, or a bad pot-hole, a careless run on a surface where broken pieces of glass were spread – or just plain depreciation by multitudes of runs and neglected care. All these things can cause punctures in our life, and in order to be quick, nimble and fully functional we must fix these occasional punctures too.

In the context of above thought, skills of puncture repairing seemed one of the most important life skills. How wonderful it would be if one were to be able to take out the entire inner side once in a while and check for possible punctures, and fix if any.

I am sure many of us possess this skill; the need is perhaps only to let the surface run through, inwards examined and repaired if needed!!

Bicycle is now up and running!!