The Magic Trick

Mr. Gonzales looked back one last time.

He had been running for quite some time now it seemed to him and as he turned his gaze to the scene unfolding behind him one final time, he noticed the usual suspects in hot pursuit – some way back but definitely making ground too rapidly for Mr. Gonzales’s liking was that burly guy he knew from his trip to Greece two months back. He had travelled to Greece before but last time around this guy had made sure that his business did not proceed according to script. Now he had the upper hand finally. Also chasing him was a tall lanky dude of about 21. Mr. Gonzales knew this lad only too well, having spent a year in London with him when both of them were learning the trade. The third and final pursuer was an older man, slowed down comparatively by his years but as wily as a fox. Mr. Gonzales knew him too, having worked with him for 4 years during his time in Milan.

Having made himself well aware of his tail , Mr. Gonzales now continued running , his feet landing rapidly on the soft and lush green grass that covered another 30 yards in front of him . A buzzing sound was constantly getting louder and louder – maybe it was the blood pounding in his ears, thought Mr. Gonzales and decided to push the sound out of his mind at least for now. He had to outrun his pursuers and he focused all his energies to doing just that.

Mr. Gonzales looked up – the end of his run was in sight, he could see his destination clearly now. The clear imprint of the destination in his mind now coincided with the images being relayed from his eyes to the brain and the imprint became clearer than ever. The path to his destination was however suddenly blocked by a stocky man who had slithered in unseen from the right, taking advantage of Mr. Gonzales’s inattention to all things but the destination. As he rushed in with full force towards Mr. Gonzales it all seemed over for the running man, outdone by his own undivided focus.

Mr. Gonzales, however, was equal to the task. He deftly twisted his body to the left and feinting a movement to the left, in a fluid motion moved to his right changing his direction too rapidly for the onrushing man to adjust and the man unable to control his feet which had already anticipated a movement to the left tripped and fell, his head bouncing off the ground dangerously as he did so. Tussocks of grass flew into the air as Mr. Gonzales left the scene in his wake.

There was no time to stop and take a breath. A second wasted and his pursuers would surely catch up with him. Fatigue seemed to course through every muscle, every sinew in Mr. Gonzales’s body. His tired legs did not want to move anymore. Mustering every ounce of strength he had left and digging deeper than he ever had into his reserves of energy, Mr. Gonzales looked up one last time .Only one man stood between him and that image of his destination firmly embedded now into his consciousness. Mr. Gonzales knew this gentleman too. He had come across him no less than four times in the past year itself .He was one of the best exponents of the trade in England and widely regarded as one of the best the world over. Mr. Gonzales had outwitted him only once in twelve meetings so far but today, he had a feeling, was going to be his day.

Having seen Mr. Gonzales rushing towards him form a distance, Mr. Davidson had decided to try the usual with his adversary. After all the’ usual’ had allowed him huge personal satisfaction on eleven of the past twelve meetings and there was no reason to suggest failure now. As per the oft practised routine, Mr. Davidson waited till Mr. Gonzales was within 16 yards of him and began his run towards him, slightly angling his body to the right. He was determined not to let Mr. Gonzales past him today. Mr. Gonzales smiled to himself as he saw Mr. Davidson rushing towards him. He knew the routine only too well – Davidson would rush towards him with his body angled to one side slightly giving him the impression that running towards the other side would be beneficial but just when they would be within 5 yards of each other, the tall Mr. Davidson would deftly change direction and aim for the feet, timing his dive to perfection and not allowing Mr. Gonzales to go past him.

Mr. Gonzales decided to put his plan into action. He ran towards Davidson’s left giving him the impression that the routine was working to perfection. With 6 yards to go he leaned in more towards his right and swiftly transferred all his weight to the left as if to change direction. With less than half a yard left till moment of impact, he successfully moved to his left and dug his feet deep into the ground. His brain registered nothing more as Davidson’s huge body overpowered him and he was slammed onto the ground with a force that seemed to shake the whole world around him. His eyes closed momentarily – more from the shock of fall than fatigue.

Mr. Davidson raised his head from the ground and turned his head around to look. He sighed in anguish as he realized what had happened. He had succeeded in not letting Mr. Gonzales go past him yet again.

The chipped football however lay still in one corner of his goal.

The Last Hug

It was the perfect life.

A life he could not have possibly envisioned for himself. A life he that he always yearned for – it was like the miniature couple dancing inside the glass encasement – observable but untouchable.

He had however touched it, he thought to himself as he curled up and pressed the soft body against his. He tightened the embrace and allowed her head to rest gracefully on his chest and a smile adorned his otherwise forlorn face as her hand slowly wrapped itself across his stomach.

He could not believe he was actually being loved. He fell asleep content.

Smiling.

Happy.

Broken pieces of the blue vase lay strewn across the hardwood floor. Broken pieces of two hearts mingled invisibly with those pieces. Two feet, usually dainty and soft stormed about today, carefully avoiding the shards of glass but vengefully stomping on the shards of the hearts. Truth be told, the feet had no idea what they were stepping on, it was the mouth doing the damage. After a few minutes, the two feet walked away and out through the front door. The glass pieces exhaled a sigh of relief but another pair of feet, not too far away, could no longer carry the weight of their master and he collapsed onto the divan. His sigh was one of despair.

He tried sleeping with the side pillows but there was always something missing in them. They were just not her. He went up to the terrace, went out running, read a few books, saw a few movies but sleep was playing hard to get. Twenty four gradually turned to forty eight and forty eight to seventy two. He picked up the phone but he knew her and he knew that anything he said would probably make it worse. He threw the phone onto the bed. It lay there still and unmoving yet when he threw himself onto the very same bed, he writhed about restlessly unable to welcome sleep.

Seventy two turned to ninety six and then, an old friend returned. She kissed him but it wasn’t the warm, wet kisses that he had come to cherish – it was a cold, dry kiss that seemed to freeze his insides. She hugged him tight but it wasn’t the warm, comforting embrace that he yearned for, it was instead a grip that’s sent a chill of despair down his spine. She caressed his hair and playfully seduced his eyelids into closing. His insides protested vociferously although his neighbours didn’t even hear a whisper. In the arms of his old friend, he fell asleep finally. Her name was ‘Loneliness’.

Ninety six had turned into one sixty eight.

The front door opened and the dainty feet stepped back into the house once again. Her voice called out repeatedly one name yet there was no answer. He’s sleeping, she thought. Nonetheless she had to see him with her own eyes to make sure. She went into their bedroom and saw him curled up on the floor, with his head resting against the bed. She inched closer and caught a glimpse of his face. There was no smile.

She touched his shoulder gently and in the moment that it took for his body to fall like a log of wood onto the hardwood floor with a thudding sound, she knew something was terribly wrong.

The doctor said that death had come peacefully-a massive heart attack in his sleep had deprived her of his life.

Neither she nor the doctor could see the other lady in the room, laughing uncontrollably. Finally, she had her old friend all to herself. She bent down and hugged him tight. Today he was as cold as she had been all his life. The last time he had found a way out – he had escaped but this time there was no escaping.

The Indian Prizes List (IPL)

Cricket season is here and as the IPL takes over the TV screens and the stadium greens in a few days’ time, I think the time is right to discuss the true importance of the Indian Premier League, tongue firmly in cheek of course. Now for those uninitiated in the ways of the land that is India under the rule of the king that is BC CI (interpret what you may), the IPL was conceived in 2008 amidst great fanfare and hope following India’s unprecedented triumph in the 2007 T20 World Cup. The baby grew rapidly and exponentially to devour most other prime time TV programmes and surreptitiously empty the coffers of the producers of the same. In its own way the IPL revolutionized the Indian cricketing industry as well as the Indian television industry but unfortunately, unlike its lower TRP grabbing TV counterparts, could not win any awards. In all fairness to the IPL, I will now proceed to suggest some awards which should be bestowed on the prodigal son of the Indian king without any further delay.

The Nobel Peace Prize: The IPL should have received this award ages ago when it got Andrew Symonds and Harbhajan Singh to play on the same team after the much publicized Monkeygate incident. The IPL unites nationalities, races, colours, castes and religions like no other .Where else can you see Sourav Ganguly captain Shoaib Akhtar?

The Nobel Prize for Economics: If anyone doubts the IPL’s merit in receiving this prestigious award, I suggest you simply go live in Kolkata for one season, watch them finish the wooden spooners in the IPL, yet walk away with the maximum monetary profit at the end of the season. The elephant in the room i.e. the BC CI coffers which are bursting at the seams 6 seasons is further testimony to award the brainchild of the mahout. At least then “he” can maybe realize that the elephant is visible to the general public.

The Nobel Prize for Physics:  Frankly speaking in a country where IIT aspirants overpopulate the plains and the hills, the Ghats and the plateaus, the numerous sixes hit and the projectile motion hence executed teach more than the HC Vermas and Bhatnagars. The change in momentum of a ball when it is expertly cover driven undoubtedly attracts a student more than a mundane Physics book. In short the IPL has done more for Newton and his Laws in 6 seasons than a thousand books could in the many years preceeding the birth of this Physics genius, fondly called IPL. If indeed the IPL wins this award Chris Gayle should go up on stage to receive it as he is undoubtedly the greatest contributor to the IPL’s cause in this category.

The Nobel Prize for Chemistry: The enviable ‘chemistry’ that Bollywood and the IPL shares should be the focus of this award. Indeed the IPL serves as the ‘catalyst’ for many a film promotion, as the strong ‘bond’ between superstar owners and superstar cricketers (their actions and reactions often ending in jhappis and pappis) and as a ‘litmus’ test for the young guns hoping for an Indian Blue. The arguments for IPL winning this award can go on and on but I think I have made my point to the Committee to at least consider my case.

The Nobel Prize for Medicine: The Rahul Sharma-Wayne Parnell performance enhancing drugs bust up can serve as a starting point for an investigation into the seedy backrooms of science where apparently astonishing progress is being made in development of such drugs for use in the IPL. Indeed , maybe more path breaking than any American research .

The Academy Awards: The Academy Awards, fondly known as the Oscars, should definitely honour the IPL in most of its’ categories:

Ø The Academy Award for Best Director: There are many contenders for this award including the poker-faced Srinivasan who has apparently very effectively ‘directed’ the IPL from inside and of course the very popular Dawood Ibrahim who had ‘directed’ the IPL from outside.

Ø The Academy Award for Best Script: There cannot be a more dramatic script than S SreeSanth’s every ball, which according to media reports, was ‘scripted’. An original script, finally!

Ø The Academy Award for Best Dialogue: If anyone has actually watched the IPL on TV , they will agree that Ravi Shashtri should be the unanimous choice for this award courtesy his gems during commentary.

Ø The Academy Award for Best Original Score: The IPL song which now lords over discotheques, DJ nights , rave parties , cricket matches , birthday celebrations and basically any and every occasion that is worth mentioning in an Indian life without having to use any actual words is undoubtedly the No.1 contender for this award. I also see no reason why it shouldn’t be conferred with a Grammy Award immediately.

If more extensive research is conducted into the realms of the IPL, I am sure we will find it worth much more. Truly, the IPL has been wronged and severely so. To the people in power, please take note and do the needful. The IPL needs to be paid its due.

The Cost Of Life

He stood in front of the mirror one last time and looked at himself.

The Luigi Borrelli shirt @ $450. Check.

The Charvet silk tie @ $185. Check.

The Gucci ostrich skin belt @ $325. Check

The Giorgio Armani suit @ $1600. Check.

The John Lobb leather Oxfords @ $655. Check

He sighed and put his hand into his pocket. This is how he wanted to go. This is how he had always envisioned going. His last picture in the tabloids would be his most expensive one.

Beads of sweat started to appear on his forehead as he groped in his pocket for that last finishing touch. He hadn't sweated since the first time he had walked into a boardroom 23 years ago. But today about to negotiate the final deal of his life he was sweating again.

His fingers finally found what they were searching for.

He pulled out a crumpled photograph that had more creases than his tormented and ageing soul. He stared into the photograph and gently ran his palm over it.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the buzzing in his ears, the pounding of blood against his temple, the thudding of his heart against his rib cage and the cascade of tears that was fast rushing from the depths of his body to his eyes.

The noise was unbearable.

Thinking of the only person he had ever loved truly, he tightened his clutch and crumpled the photograph further. It didn't matter now for the image was now firmly imprinted.

Just then through the myriad cacophony of sounds came a new one. Someone was pounding on his door.

The door opened and in walked a man clad in the Royal Blue of the British Police.

“Sir, it’s time.”

He looked at him and let out a sigh. Then he looked at the mirror one last time and walked out into the light.

Sixty miles away and sixteen hours later in Kent, a housewife stepped out onto her front porch and picked up The Daily Telegraph. She knew what the front page would carry yet she opened it out wide and looked at the picture of her impeccably dressed husband staring back at her. His eyes stared at her for perhaps the first time in along time. After all there wasn't a cellphone in sight.

She walked back into the house and her eyes’ attention was caught by the framed picture in the hallway – a picture of her husband carrying their 6-year old daughter in his arms. A single tear rolled down her cheek and yet the emotion in her eyes that reflected from the laminated picture was that of pride.

 In the 16 years that she had known her husband, all that he had cared about was money and had spent his entire life cooped up in his cellphone trying to make more and more.

Yet today the headlines screamed “Stockbroker hanged for brutally murdering daughter’s rapists”

Finally he had cared about something other than money.

Finally the emotion induced was pride. Priceless.

Mirror Mirror In My Heart

This is for 6-year old Golu who is the cutest ball of humanity you will ever meet but unfortunately he doesn’t have much longer to get to know humanity. Keep him in your prayers for a single line can go a long way. Miracles do happen.

“Do you believe in God, doctor?”

Dr. Bose looked up at the harried woman across the table and the silent husband who sat with his head hung low. The woman had a pale face, a disheveled sleep-deprived look about her that drew the sympathy of Dr. Bose. But it was not her that he was actually looking at, he was looking beyond .Her question had transported him to the June of 1986.

The bed was soft and warm but the young boy sleeping on it was cold and scared. He did not want to die. Although his parents had assured him again and again that nothing was going to happen to him, he couldn’t help but feel scared. Their faces were hardly as reassuring as their words. Dr. Alfred Robertson was the top oncologist at John Hopkins and he came in thrice a day to check on this 12-year old leukemia patient. In fact whole of June all he saw was radiologists, oncologists and bottles and bottles of interferon and other drugs by his bed whose names he couldn’t pronounce, all he felt was the painful insertion of tubes and extraneous veins into his body, all he heard was whispered conversations between the doctors and his parents often smudged with tears and choked with emotions till one night Dr. Robertson came to visit him.

It was almost midnight but he was awake as he had been on almost all midnights for the past month when the doctor had come and sat beside him. Stroking his bald scalp, Dr. Robertson had said reassuringly, “You’re going to be just fine. All you need to do is think of what you’ll do after you get better and leave the rest to me.”

“Maybe I’m not meant to be just fine. Maybe someone doesn’t want me to get better”, he had retorted back tears coursing down his cheeks.

 “Do you believe in God, son?”

“No. Not anymore. Do you?”

“Why not?”

“But “, he had spluttered, “you are a man of science. How can you possibly believe in some wooden or clay idols having magical healing powers or men parting oceans or destroying evil with a flick if their fingers?”

“I don’t. I asked you young man whether you believe in God not whether you believe in religion or what ‘man has to say about God’.”

“But what is the difference? It is the same thing”, he had argued.

“I am a doctor but I pray every morning son. I pray to God asking him to make sure that no one dies because of me today .You may say that the death of the patients lies in my hands once he’s in that operation theatre but even the most ardent practices can never guarantee that I won’t make a mistake because the human insides are just so complicated .Just like the universe .It is absurd for me to believe that the universe is a cosmic accident , that man is an anatomical blunder of evolution and thus I believe in the presence of a superior being , whom I call God. Do you know what I actually do when I pray? I try my best to look into a mirror and try to tell the superior being inside me to help me, to give me confidence, to make me a bit more God. God is not found in mythological tales or clay idols son, God is inside you. What matters is whether you know it.”

“So if there is God inside me why do I get hurt so much?”

“Because God is trying to tell you that you’ll become fine from inside but you are not believing him. You are getting hurt because you are not hoping son. Medicines can only go so far to cure you .Half our work is done if you believe that you can be cured. I am not telling you to believe in God, son, I’m telling you to believe in yourself and you’ll realize the amazing power inside you”

“Just like Superman?”

Dr. Robertson had smiled and patting his shoulder had walked out. He had laid awake for some time pondering over what the doctor had just told him and closing his eyes he had ‘prayed’ for the first time in his life.

Dr. Bose looked at the couple sitting across the table. He sighed deeply and said, “Yes, I do.”

“You do? But you are a doctor, an oncologist, a man of science!” exclaimed the shocked mother who was close to giving up hope herself.

“Yes I do.”, Dr. Bose repeated and he added after some thought,” But the question is does your son?”

The RainDrops

The monsoons were here and the clouds were forming

The clouds formed and the sky darkened

Now from the pleasant blue to the ugly ochre,

From the brownish hue to the greyish shade

And the earth had descended into darkness,

Within a few honking of car horns and changing of traffic lights.

The cumulonimbus – the sheared off wool from some pathetically naked sheep

The sudden dash of light through the sky- hope in a dark village

The thunderclap- the sound of a thousand chariots rushing to war

And the water cycle completes as all the ingredients are added

And all is calm once again . . . . . .

But not for long

The widow watches helpless and wet

The sindoor is now nothing but a puddle of lead oxide at her feet

The very skin which he had touched is washed clean of the love and lust

Her tears lost in the tears from heaven

The boy watches helpless and wet

The celebrations of the opponents

His knees digging into the muddy field as did the palms of his hands

His dilapidated body visible through his soaked jersey

The man watches helpless and wet

A single red rose lying face down in the muddy water at his feet

The love of his life walking away, turned away forever

A single diamond ring falls from his hand and disappears with what had been his life

The soldier watches helpless and wet

His comrade breathing his last in front of him

The drops fall fast and thick from his eyes and the Lord’s

But the phoenix doesn’t cry on his wound

The girl watches helpless and wet

As the carnivorous men approach her body

She knows what’s about to happen

But the men don’t see her masked tears

The shopaholic watches helpless and wet

Her day’s hard work now sprinkled with mud courtesy the blindly rushing traffic

She thinks of screaming her lungs out

But her thoughts drown in the pitter patter of the rain

The beggar watches helpless and wet

His hard bed for the night now enhanced to a large muddy puddle

The incessant downpour only broken by the incessant feet splashing their way through his bed

He has no more tears to shed, no more looks to the skies

All of them watch on helpless and wet

But the toddler fights out of her mother’s grasp and out from under the umbrella

Wet and helpless

Helping herself to the magic that had descended torrentially

Her mirthful laugh haunts them all

The same rain falls on them all

Washing away the past.

The pains.

The rejections.

The losses.

The betrayal.

Uniting the haves and the have-nots.

Ushering in the future .

Playful and smiling . . . . . .

The Reunion

She was accustomed to tears. This was hardly the first time they had caressed her cheeks. But this time there was something different. Something warm about them. They did not make her insides go icy cold like every other time. They seemed to warm up her heart and as they dropped down gracefully from the edge of her cheeks to the parched cement floor on a hot summer’s day they cooled it down.

“Do….really …you….love…. me?” she choked through the overflowing tears and more obviously through the overpowering emotions. The ‘really’ was one of hope, not realization of reality.

The words were hardly audible but no one needed to hear them except the rather handsome lad standing barely two feet from her and taller though he was, he heard the words as clear as crystal. The question apparently did not merit an immediate answer for all he did was look over his shoulder. He stared long and hard at the wall behind which that unknown guy had left him, had egged him on to go alone from thereon. He hoped in the deep recesses of his heart that he would appear as suddenly as before and tell him what to do but there was no sign of him. After what seemed a long time to him – a time long enough to have made the expected answer redundant perhaps -he looked back.

The time seemed to stretch to infinity to her and yet she looked on , hope still reflected in her glassy eyes , hope still hanging in the air as ominously as the last leaf hangs on before giving up in autumn.

The handsome lad sighed and looked at everything but the eyes. It was nothing new to him. He was the one who had left without a word 5 years ago, without so much as a reason and here he was 5 years later facing a question that he had answered so many times without really thinking. Something told him, this time he couldn’t get away with that trick.

She had grown prettier. He decided to take his chances.

“Yeah… that’s why I came back”, he said staring at the top of her head.

There was not a moment’s delay.

Like a thirsty soul seeing a mirage, like a hungry soul hearing the melodious sound of raw ingredients being gently dropped into the boiling oil, like a tired soul seeing a bed of thorns, her soul rushed at him locking him in an embrace after what seemed like eternity.

He reciprocated by putting his hand on her hip and looking over his shoulder. This time he couldn’t believe his luck. He wanted that unknown guy to appear as suddenly as before and witness their joint victory.

That unknown guy however had no intention to come out from behind the wall. For the tears on that side of the wall burned the insides and set them on fire – a fire that would never be doused. He was not used to crying. He was the one who took everything in life with a smile but the law of averages had finally caught up. He hadn’t realized when he had slid down against the wall. He got up from the cement floor. It was scalding hot anyway. He wiped his tears and walked away trying to get the unseen conversation out of his head. His ears were buzzing with repeats and the inside of his head vibrated terribly.

His phone vibrated against his leg. He took it out and punched in the password. He knew who had sent it and what it would say. He read it anyway.

“He came back!!!! He came back!!! I <3 him soooooo much. He said yeah too :D :D I wish you were here to see it all BFF !! God knows how he found me here though :P :P guess its destiny !! ttyl“

He stared at the screen on the palm of his hand. He had a lot to say. But he had a feeling that it won’t be heard like his “Yes, really” hadn’t been from the other side of the wall. In her defence, he thought, I had been crying and could barely be understood. He wanted to tell her everything. He looked at the screen he was staring at. It had gone black. He saw the silhouette of his face and swiped the screen. He had a lot to say.

Barely twenty feet away another cellphone vibrated against another leg but this time a girl punched in her password and clicked on the icon shaped like a little envelope.

It said “(y).”

He likes it , she thought and put the cellphone back.

Twenty feet away the tears were returning. Good guys are meant to come last….well someone has to lose …. Especially if the competition is from handsome guys. With this last thought and a heart seared by tears, the BFF walked away Becoming Far Forever.

The Tendulkar Phenomenon

My first memory of God is switching on the television, surfing to ESPN and watching a short diminutive man hit a red ball with an absolutely straight bat and a still demeanor, back at an onrushing blonde who had run in at 150 kmph, with the utmost composure and simplicity. 

Needless to say no one moved in the rest of the field. As Mathew Hayden would later go on to elucidate what traversed my mind that day, “I have seen God. He bats at No. 4 for India.”

If we consider an Economic Times report to be true and consider cricket to be India’s third most defining religion (although according to me it must rank much higher) after Hinduism and Islam then Sachin Tendulkar is undoubtedly the Zeus in the pantheon of cricketing Gods . As that dreaded day in November 2013 edges closer when he will let the curtains fall down on an illustrious 24-year old career , indeed not only cricket but all world religions will be poorer by a God.

Indeed such is the enigma called Sachin Tendulkar that even in a nation like USA where cricket is a poorer cousin of baseball, barely known of in most parts, the president Barack Obama once said, “I would like to watch Sachin play, not because I particularly understand the game, but because when he bats my country’s production goes down by half.”

Yet surprisingly if cricketing technique had been the only parameter of judgement then Sachin Tendulkar would most definitely not have been placed alone atop the divine cricketing hierarchy for players like Brian Lara, Shane Warne, Wasim Akram, and Sunil Gavaskar among a few others definitely  compare quite magnificently with The Little Master in terms of cricketing skill. What sets apart Sachin is his approach towards the game, an approach that is iconic of him and him only – an approach where he never assumes himself to be the master of the game that he loves so much but always remaining a student, a student who learns something new after every ball even after 24 years in the cricketing circuit, a student who is not afraid to rediscover himself, a student who prepares for every match as diligently as he prepared for the very first one , a student who places the game above all else never for once considering himself greater than the game. That is the Tendulkar Phenomenon.

In fact ad man Prahlal Kakkar , once while shooting an ad film with Tendulkar had asked him to swat a fly with a cricket bat . Tendulkar put his foot down, refusing to do anything of the sort which projected himself as greater than the game. The cricket bat was replaced by a fly swatter in the ad. In his 24-year old career Sachin has never once promoted any item of intoxication or any item with health hazards although undoubtedlty deals with McDowells or Kingfisher or even Wills would have made him richer by more than ten times of what he is worth now. Many powerful messages through one simple action. That is the Tendulkar Phenomenon.

When Gavaskar retired many proclaimed that his 34 centuries shall never be eclipsed. When Kapil Dev retired many proclaimed that his 434 wickets shall always remain a world record. Both stand shattered today. Perhaps Tendulkar’s numerous records will not stand the test of time. Perhaps each one of his records will be ceremoniously displaced from its lofty pedestal but undoubtedly, Sachin himself can never be replaced, nor can he ever be displaced for the simpler reason that Tendulkar was not only about cricket , he was about so much more. Perhaps cricket was more about Tendulkar.

Indeed the crowds outside television showrooms watching their God, the crowds at the roadside tea stalls hearing the commentators describe their God’s actions, the crowds well past midnight at airports to welcome their God, the crowds in the midday heat outside ticket counters waiting vociferously to get their hands on the prized piece of paper allowing them to view their God, the Indian crowds at stadiums all over the world cheering the fall of an Indian wicket because it would mean their God would walk in and the foreign crowds sighing in anguish and the entire stadium giving their God a standing ovation on his walk back to the pavilion (making it difficult to discern an Indian stadium form a foreign one) all represent the Tendulkar Phenomenon.

All this will not end with Tendulkar but all this definitely started with Tendulkar.

For Tendulkar has for more than 2 decades not only carried the hopes of more than a million people on his shoulders but has down it humbly and with utmost diligence. Never has Tendulkar disrespected an on-field or off-field official for a glaring mistake, never has he disrespected a fellow opponent for anything said to him, never has he disrespected the thousands to come to watch him play, never has he in any way disrespected the game and it is this love for the game that sets him apart from everyone else. Never did Tendulkar fear to stand up for what he thought was right, even turning in his own team mates Ajay Jadeja ,Manoj Prabhakar and Nayan Mongia for betting and match-fixing . The real victory however came for Sachin when the same Jadeja gave him not one but two guards of honour in his last Ranji match against Haryana. As JK Rowling had once written, “It takes great courage to stand up to your enemies but even greater courage to stand up to your friends “.That is the Tendulkar Phenomenon.

Sachin Tendulkar, in short transcended cricket without for once letting himself rise above the game, keeping his feet firmly on the ground. The young Sachin, with long locks always wanted to be a fast bowler so that his hair would fly when he ran in but being shorter than average he was advised against it by Denis Lille and Sachin immediately directed all his efforts towards his batting. Indeed it’s not easy to hear someone squashing your dreams but it’s even more difficult to have the heart to dream again. Sachin not only recognized a lost cause but dreamt again and by God, if not for Lille and Sachin’s will to make it big in cricket, we might have lost a God to arrogance. Tendulkar’s life teaches us more lessons than an average day in school. That is the Tendulkar Phenomenon.

Perhaps there will never be another Sachin Tendulkar to grace us with his presence and if that turns out to be true , I’m immensely proud to be of the same nationality as The Little Master for no on epitomizes “Great things come in small packages” more than him. I will tell the future generations with pride that I was once religious, that I have seen magic beyond cutting up people and making them vanish, that I have seen the most complicated of things done in the simplest of willow flicks, that I was a witness to the Tendulkar Phenomenon.

P.S. - I will tell them with pride that the God chose Kolkata as the venue of his penultimate test and I was there to bid him goodbye.

A Threesome With Hrithik

Before walking into PVR Cinemas on Saturday morning I had read and heard a lot about Rakesh Roshan’s latest offering – the 3^rd film in what has been widely publicized as India’s first superhero franchise. Most of it was unfortunately negative – I say ‘unfortunate’ because most of the criticism stemmed from comparisons to other superhero franchises (mostly Hollywood) and a vested prejudice against Mr. Roshan’s sudden shift from emotionally charged masala flicks to films that literally left you astounded. After 153 minutes, I can gladly say that neither my money nor my morning was wasted.

Sachin Tendulkar, the yardstick for all comparisons in our country has a hundred hundreds to his name and being witness to any one does not necessarily mean that the remaining 99 do not deserve the same level of attention. Similarly, just because Batman wows us with the story, Bale and Nolan’s vision and Ironman with his charisma, Superman with his hairstyle and his physique and Spidey with his ‘wet kiss’ don’t give our desi superhero a miss because trust me, you might not be missing out on something new but you will definitely miss out on something astounding that is closer to our Indian hearts that any Gotham skyline.

If Krrish 3 astounds, the credit, or most of it anyway, should go to the man who helmed this 7-year project Mr. Rakesh Roshan. The special effects are astounding and the scene where Krrish jumps up to an airplane and supports it’s faulty front wheel will leave you asking for more no matter how many Hollywood movies you have devoured. The action sequences deserve special mention too as the punches and the kicks draw all the right noises from an Indian public. The rather devastating imagery of falling buildings and erupting roads portrayed very realistically onscreen helps.

As to the performances, Hrithik Roshan impresses as the pot-bellied genius Rohit Mehra with his convincing old-man act although he does slip into emotional Bollywood mode at times. Hrithik oozes charisma and brawn as Krrish and the brain and brawn combination works well. However it is as Krishna Mehra that Hrithik loses the plot a bit and overacts in the emotional scenes. For those who give a damn about acting skills, Hrithik’s Greek body is on display too pretty early into the film as are his silky smooth dance moves.

Priyanka Chopra has limited scope to act and balances her role between a few long emotional moments and a lot of short dresses. Kangana Ranaut as mutant villain Maya impresses hugely with her menacing act as does Vivek Oberoi (for a welcome change) with his role as the unforgiving Kaal. The other mutants don’t have much to display in terms of acting skills but put up a ruthlessly evil act nonetheless. A spunky young boy who mouths dialogues like “Kyu Kaal, phat gayi kya?” with utmost confidence deserves special mention.

The music by Rajesh Roshan is a huge letdown compared to the first two films especially Koi….Mill Gaya, which gave us one of India’s most popular disco numbers. None of the songs make a lasting impact but Alisha Chinoi’s voice in ‘Dil Tu Hi Bata’ will haunt me for the rest of my life. The image of Kangana gyrating seductively doesn’t help either.

The story is not a masterpiece ala The Dark Knight films but it doesn’t lack substance either. The writers have tried to balance science and fiction and highlight a very important real-life issue of pharmaceutical companies suffering from god complexes, which is commendable but the success is restricted by the emotionally charged dialogues which intercept the fast-pace script quite abruptly. Nonetheless a commendable effort.

The common connecting thread between all these is Rakesh Roshan and he deserves a huge round of applause for the magnum opus that he has gifted us for Diwali. Indeed some scenes in the film will leave you astounded and wanting more, the action is very realistic for a superhero movie and although Vivek’s suit could have been better, the costumes and sets deserve a special mention.

In short Krrish 3 is a Hollywood-esque film in an Indian envelope tadka marke. Go for it not for a sentimental reasons but because it deserves a watch but don’t go expecting a Nolan masterpiece or a Robert Downey Jr. oozing flamboyance, you’re be sorely disappointed. Krrish 3 is nothing new but it’s something worth your time. So do give it a watch.

Rating: 3.5/5

A Letter To My Father

Respected Father,

“The darkest places in Hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis” – Dante Alighieri

If Dante is to be believed then we Indians have been living in the shadows of a fake “Father”. You were the Mahatma; the “great soul”; then how did you remain notoriously silent during the most devastating instance of moral crisis in Indian history- the partition of 1947? 

You were the one who lambasted “moral weakness” as the worst ailment of mankind throughout your life, then why did your morality not cry out in anguish like thousands of other Indians then?

Whether, despite commanding immense respect from a population of million or more, you couldn’t or didn’t persuade Jinnah and Mountbatten to cancel the orders that prescribed the partition of India as a cure for her religious maladies, shall forever remain the most painful unanswered question that single handedly shaped the future of two nations. As two newly born nations tried to helplessly adjust to the rawness of religious turmoil , the blood of both Hindus and Muslims scalding the divided earth and the earth itself reeking of hatred , you chose this improper moment in history to respect silence as golden. As an Indian who was born exactly 47 years after this event, who still feels the cataclysmic reverberations of your silence in the pathetic existence of one brother amidst daily terrorist attacks, growing old amidst suicide bombers and drone attacks; of the other brother amidst religious atrocities and political scams, as an Indian denied the opportunity to see Wasim Akram and Sachin Tendulkar sing the same national anthem before ripping apart the cricketing world , as an Indian who thinks Jinnah would have been a better and more far-sighted Prime Minister , I ask you why ?

Perhaps you didn’t want the blood of a few rioters to stain your “great soul” and your khadi dhoti. Perhaps you feared speaking out would reduce your support base. Perhaps Nehru had been pulling the strings. Whatever the reasons your lack of ability or lack of desire in keeping India united showed and the signs were picked up by disappointed Hindus and Muslims alike , who in the absence of an able leader followed Darwin’s Laws of Survival to the t. This was definitely the moment when India needed the demigod that you were to stand up more than ever before and run a healing hand through the subcontinent which had been so brutally ripped into two. But you chose instead to fast. As a young boy confounded and pained alike by the decision more than 50 years later, I ask why?

You, my father, told all of us, your children, to not practice violence, not to fight fire with fire but instead to fast and actively protest against the cause of the fire while we allow the fire to rage on, allow it to burn us. Admirable teachings, indeed father which made the world gasp and take note and continue to charm many even today. As a confused son, I therefore ask of you this- when a rapist disrespects the dignity of my sister or any of my girl-friends, then should I push another into his path representing the other cheek, should I at that moment choose to calmly explain to him the depravity of his sinful act or should I proclaim that I will not consume any food because of what has happened?

You , father talked of principles and righteousness yet when a younger and more able leader won the Congress Presidential Election in 1939 you proclaimed it “more my loss than Bose’s victory” . Did such comments reflect the principles you treasured, the saintly image you projected or did it betray the very same and reek of jealously? Was refusing to work with the man who had the same dream as you once did, the best way forward for the nation desperately seeking direction? Was that the legacy you wanted to leave behind for young leaders wishing to emulate their “Father”?

You dreamt of an India, father that few dared to dream at that time. A dream that was later shared by many- a dream of an independent India that had her foundations in peace and Satyagraha. Indeed it was a brave dream, utopic some may call it but a dream nonetheless. But father, did you yourself lose sight of the ultimate aim when you suspended the Civil Disobedience Movement in light of the Chauri Chaura incident ? Did the dream of a “Gandhian India” supersede the dream of an “independent India”? Did you start relishing your dream while it was yet to be achieved, perhaps a little too ambitiously? Is this the legacy you wanted to leave behind – to destroy everything for one’s selfish needs? Is this what you wanted the future to inherit from you?

Your teachings of non-violence greatly influences me, father. It is only pride that fills my heart when the international press lauds your impact on the American Civil war and other world movements. When stories of your resilient march to Dandi to make salt in a non-violent betrayal of British laws are told in history classes even today, they make me feel proud. Yet father, as a confused child, I fail to understand how , you who sympathized with the downtrodden in society –the Harijans , you asked the Jews to submit themselves to the power of Hitler , to allow themselves to be slaughtered like sacrificial lambs at his foot to cleanse the human race ? How could you be so hypocritical and support this purgatory act of Hitler’s? 

My father, the reports of your alleged homosexual relationship with German bodybuilder Kallenbach doesn’t bother me .Neither do the stories of your sexual experiments with your nieces because I live in a world far more receptive of a human being’s sexuality than you did. It may be all rumours and news bites, all lies and tales but one can’t help but trust them considering the sources are the victims themselves. What, however does bother me is why you chose to hide all of this in your autobiography? Why do I have to hear all of this from someone else? Did you not trust your children enough to reveal the truth, “Truth” being the cornerstone of your life? You could have been the idol for thousands of people who faced humiliation in their workplaces in the coming years due to their sexualities. You could have been a beacon of light in the dark world of repressed sexualities. Yet, again, you chose silence father. You could have stood up for the truth but you didn’t. Why, father, why?

You are the closest thing to God that your “children” ever knew and yet you hid so much from them, betraying them in times of need. Was the need to be God so great that you forgot at times to be human? Was following your own principles so difficult, Father, that you yourself often betrayed them? Were you, Father, yourself a true Gandhian? Or did you like many others fall along the way to salvation as did the Pandava heroes on the way to theirs?

More than half a century has passed since you left us with the name of Ram (perhaps the most cynical God in Indian mythology) on your lips and yet you left so many questions unanswered. Sometimes I just wish for a human Father, o Mahatma, rather than a demigod one. Atleast he wouldn’t be, misanthropic of his nation and his children. Atleast he wouldn’t shroud himself in a cloak of lies and secrets. Sometimes we don’t need a God, we need a human being. Sometimes all one needs is the truth.

“Satyamev Jayate”

Yours truly,

A son.