International Women's Day 2017

It's Women's Day. When some of us get to celebrate the progress that a few of us have made, and think about the many of us who are not yet so lucky. I don't use that word lightly. Yes, if you're reading this, you're most probably very very lucky. We are. 

Lucky that we were born into families who could back us, emotionally and financially. Lucky  that we are born at a time where women are given more respect than any in the past. So many out there have not been so lucky. 

Today, I'm going to talk about how lucky I am. About the people who helped make me the woman I am today. 

I am going to introduce to you, my family. 

I have awesome grandparents. My mother's mother was a teacher and a principal, who spent the more than half of her life raising four daughters alone, after my grandfather died unexpectedly of a heart attack. She had such an awesome memory, that she would recite the sanskrit shlokas she learnt in school well into her 90's. But most importantly, she was a working woman. This is the 1940s we are talking about. 

My maternal grandmother, on her 89th birthday. She passed away in 2015.

My paternal grandmother is a family legend. In the 1940's, she had an M. Sc. in marine biology. She taught college students while pregnant with my father. She played multiple sports, helped raise her siblings, and then started a manufacturing business with my grandfather, in a field completely unrelated to the education they had both received ( the plastics industry; my grandfather had a Ph.D. in marine biology)

She was the one who introduced me to formal cricket. She kept a file of my newspaper cuttings, and would proudly display it to anyone who visited the house at the first opportunity. She taught me to not ignore my studies while playing sports. She taught me how to make timetables and organise my cupboards. She told me she would gift me her gold jewelery the day I played for India. She did. 

My paternal grandmother. Yes, she is on Facebook.

My mother has been the spiritual rock in my life, always making sure I am walking the path. My stepmom plays so many roles with aplomb , it is a scarcely believable that she has only two hands and one head. My step sister always reminds me that life is a song, and I should keep humming it. My mother-in-law taught me that stereotypes are meant for the bin. Then my friends, who I have leaned on even more than family, they are the sisters I did not have growing up. 

I tweeted this today:

#Womensday needs to be as much about men as it is about women. So gents, this one is to you. Help, not hinder, your women, when they fly.

I mean it. 

I cannot be who I am without my men. It takes guts to send a 13 year old girl to Asansol for her first tournament. It takes love to drive a girl to practice session at 6 am every morning. That's what my father did, never batting an eyelid at my choice of career, never worrying -as my mother did- about my tomboy phase. 

My two younger brothers are both my tech support and my life support. Both engineers, one always has new ways for me to get better, the other always a cheeky remark to sway me from dark thoughts. My husband taught me to first love myself. And my dog, bless him, gives me a glimpse of motherhood everyday. 

These are the people that make me. These are the people I am lucky to have. We are just like most other families, but also unlike them. We are far from perfect. We can be petty, parochial, pedantic. We have dramas, and tragedy, even farce; don't be fooled by the pretty pictures I paint here. We are human. 

A few months ago I was out doing some errands with my (paternal) grandmother. Sitting in the passenger seat of the stationary car, she leaned out the window and hailed a youth who was emptying a pouch of tobacco into his mouth. He came over. 

"Why do you eat that stuff?", she asked him. He looked like it was the first time somebody had asked him that question  in his life. (It probably was.) Predictably, he had no answer and just tried to smile sheepishly. 

"Don't eat that stuff ok? Promise me, promise an old woman that you won't eat it ever again." 

Ok, he replied meekly, still half smiling incredulously. As if he had any choice but to agree; who could resist this plump old woman, jowls hanging adorably from her chin, asking him to be a better man for her sake. I'm convinced that he didn't listen, and is probably still swallowing tobacco packets today. 

But this is an example of the gift my family as given me. To bet on the goodness in other people. Sometimes it backfires spectacularly. Like when I lent my phone to someone who asked for it because they didn't have battery in theirs and they promptly ran off with it. But this is still my default setting. This is where I come from. 

Women's day is for me a day to celebrate these stories. To recall how lucky I am. 

Happy Women's Day 2017. 

The year of the dog: One year of Krish

Krish royally breaking the rule about not being allowed on the bed.

Krish turned a year old yesterday. At least I think he did. The pet shop owner we bought him from told us he was 35 days old when we took him home. Some approximate back calculations later, we arrived at his birth-date. 20th June 2015. I think. 

In any case, it has been 11 months since we brought him home. He was an irresistible bundle of fur when he came home, and now he has grown. Elongated is probably a better word. Like the members of his adopted family, he is taller than most of his kind. In general, hes a good looking fellow. So said every mother of every child. But i'll say it nevertheless.     

The first year has been about education. For both sides, more so for us than for him. I've realised there is no such thing as dog training. It's simply human training hiding behind a fancy name.  Either that or they are calling us dogs. In this, thank you Zak George for your amazing guidance. 

This year has taught me patience. It's something any positive trainer must learn. Its hard, especially during potty training. But then it takes a split second to pause, and remember that they are dogs. They don't have agendas, or cunning. They don't know what spite is. They don't mean it. Really. Which in many ways, makes them so much better than so many people. 

Side note: When I've introduced Krish to strangers, I've always assured them that he's harmless. Pat comes the reply: "Jaanwaro ka bharosa nahi" (you cant trust animals). To which I reply, with geological certainty, "Aaj kal ke insano se jyada jaanwaro ka bharosa hai"(These days, animals are more trustworthy than people).

This year has also been about responsibility. I've realised that though we can take a Sunday off, a dogs excretory system doesn't. Which means that for dog parents, there is no such thing as a Sunday. The same is true for journalists. And journalists who are dog parents. Sigh. Yawn. 




Krish has his unique nap position, where he makes an S with his spine. He sheds a lot. A LOT. He loves the car. He will patiently sit in the car while I do my errands, which is such a blessing. He loves to fetch. He loves other dogs, and other people. Ergo, he's not much of a watchdog. He rubs himself against our legs like a cat. If he's sleeping in our room, he wakes us up at exactly 6:30 AM. He has learnt (to my great annoyance) precisely how to wriggle out of his harness if he's leashed to a tree. The slightest play is enough to get his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.  He goes beserk when daddy's home, and wont sit still until he gets a bear hug from him. He's great with kids. He used to be scared of the tom cat in our building (in his defence, the cat can be pretty scary). He loves socks, especially his father's. And slippers, especially mine. He is the darling of any day care or hostel he stays at, because he adjusts so well. He is not allowed on the bed or the sofas, and he listens (most of the time. Ignore the picture above). I still have scars on my arms from his puppy biting phase, thankfully long past. He made sure I became a regular raffu customer back then as well.  He has a crooked ear, which makes him look all the more adorable. He isn't a barker. Except when there are fireworks. He loves trailing along when I'm riding my bicycle. But every once in a while he will make a go for my ankle. He doesn't like the sound of airplanes. He doesn't mind trains. 

A lot of this is probably true of most dogs, but all of it is still what makes him special. 

Many years ago, when I was a schoolgirl, I was an avid and sincere dog lover. I used to frequent the house of a vet who lived nearby. I used to care for whichever puppy was there, and once in a while, bring one there myself. Or bring one home. The strays in the neighbourhood were all my friends. Once I took one of them to hospital when he needed surgery, and felt faint at the sight of his blood. I dreamed of becoming a vet, or maybe working with the blue cross, or something that involved animals. 

Somewhere along the way, I grew up.I got caught up in the pretence that the adult world is and demands. For so many years, I forgot this part of me, buried it under things I thought were more important. Every time I met a pet dog, it would peek out, hoping again for a release from under the oppression of maturity. But I wasn't as friendly to strays as I had been before. The class based view of the world is infected with had subconsciously imprinted itself on my love for animals. And that wasn't the worst of it. The schoolgirl in me wouldn't have done quite a few things I did while pretending to be perfect.

A few of these barriers broke down when we finally got Krish home. I was able to love, both animals and humans more openly, more widely than I had before. Once again I saw stays as just dogs, just as worthy of love as pet dogs. This is the love Krish has given me. It extended itself into a wider love and respect for all animals and led to my turning vegetarian. It has made me more honest and transparent, like a dog is. 

So even though you cant read this Krish, happy birthday. And thank you. I pray to God that you will always be happy, and keep giving us so much happiness. 

Follow Krish on Instagram @krishibu

KITCHEN KOMPOST: A beautiful solution for the wet garbage problem

Indian houses are super clean. We make sure we throw our garbage out, every single day. Sometimes twice a day. And then we don't care about it. It's garbage, who cares about garbage right?

But is it garbage?

It isn't.

But lets just for a minute assume that it is. Out of sight, out of mind. That's the  code we operate by. 

Here's what happens to it once it leaves the house :

1. Another human being has to handle it, often without any protective gear. Which means they have to stand beside/in it, and sometimes use their hands. 

2. It adds to the scenery of our locality, inviting stray dogs, rats, cows(if you live in Indore). 

3. It is transported to a landfill outside of town, and forms a heap there. The stench becomes a way of life for the people living in the area, and their groundwater will be forever unclean. It occupies land     that otherwise could have provided food for your children and grandchildren. 

Lets just pause and think here. What if there was a way to avoid this, or at least cut it down by half. Would you do it?  For the human being who handles our trash? For the people who live beside it? or For your children, and their children?

One lesson I learned when I moved to a new city in my first job was that I should take responsibility for my own actions. So why not apply that philosophy to my own garbage? Is garbage not a result of my action, and therefore my responsibility?

What I'm about to describe in this post today is a way to handle one half of our garbage issue. 

Garbage can mainly be divided into two parts : Wet and Dry. We all learn in school that wet waste can be converted into compost. If that is true, wet garbage is not garbage at all!

It's food for the soil! We just need to pack it the right way.

What if we had a solution to convert our wet garbage into compost, the soil's favourite food, inside our kitchens, easily, with no foul odour?

Thats exactly what microbiologist Mr. Jayant Joshi, a resident of Thane , Mumbai, has given us. After years of research and trial and error, he has developed a simple yet elegant solution to this complex problem. And his product comes in the form of a simple picnic basket. 

Inventor Mr Jayant Joshi posing with the Kitchen Kompost basket.

The Kitchen Kompost basket, as he has named it, is a mixture of some serious science and lots of common sense. With its custom made mixture of micro-organisms that specialise in the composting of organic matter, and its sensible design, it is an amazing innovation. With a fairly simple day to day care routine, your garbage can become food for your garden! If you don't have a garden, just chuck the compost in the nearest tree, or gift it to friends and family who have a green thumb. The important thing is, your daily wet garbage is off the streets! That's more than enough reason to own one.

Some of you would be wondering why I'm advertising this product on my personal blog. Its because I LOVE IT!  I have been using one myself for about four months now and am thrilled with the results. Even my family couldn't believe their eyes when I showed them the first harvest of compost. "This was our food waste?" they asked me! I even started my own little home garden, just so I had a place to put the compost from the basket!

My fisrt harvest of compost from my Kitchen Kompost basket.

The waste leaving our house has reduced dramatically. Whereas before, the unsegregated waste would lie in the corridor the whole night, waiting for the garbage lady every morning. It would sometimes smell, especially when the garbage lady took a day off, and attract flies, and often soil the dustbin.  If the local stray dog visited at night, we would find the garbage strewn across the floor outside our front door in the  morning. Now, the garbage lady has to ring the bell, asking us for the day's trash, only to be told that our dustbin is hardly full yet! Less headache for us, less work for her. Win-win.

My experience has prompted me to recommend this to everyone, and that's what I'm doing here. I've even started distributing them in Indore, and I hope it will catch on here like it has in Maharashtra.

Mr Joshi is ever enthusiastic in his efforts to get this product to the people. He explained his vision to me once, saying, '' Fifty years ago every house didn't have its own toilet. Now they do. I want every house to have its own compost basket in the next fifty years.''

For years we have taken from the soil unflinchingly, without ever the thought of giving back. For those who thought about it, the ways to do so were too expensive and arduous. That time is gone. Now we can feed the soil of our cities and country again, like it has unselfishly fed us for years. Now we can make sure that our soil will have something left by the time we have children and grandchildren. Now we can help secure their future.

If you're interested in the Kitchen Kompost basket, give Mr. Joshi a call on +919969634182. Or if you want to know more about it, like https://www.facebook.com/KITCHENKOMPOST/

Going Green

A little bit of background. I hardly identify with my caste, but in this case, it is relevant. I am a CKP. It stands for Chandrasainya Kayastha Prabhu. According to Wikipedia, CKP culture is said to have traditionally adopted a diet that includes fish, meat, poultry and eggs. In other words, we are  foodies to the core. 

So it was quite surprising for our whole family when my dad quit non-veg a few years ago. And a bit of an inconvenience too, I imagine, for the people cooking. Family dinners, which normally were a one-dimensional hardcore non vegetarian affair, and in which vegetarian food made appearances only as side dishes, now became a little more complicated to plan. A vegetarian main course was now necessary, not an option that was only pursued if time permitted. 

Its funny looking back at it now, after I myself have decided to turn vegetarian. I just may be better off than my dad though: my family is not complaining about my decision, as we have quite a few vegetarians in family dinners. They do miss my company on non veg binges mind you. But its all our dog's fault, so they should complain to him really. 

Krish (our four month old German shepherd puppy) is sleeping soundly nearby as I write this. He, blissfully bereft of a conscience, consumes more than a kilo of meat a week. Most times, I'm the one feeding it to him. But he's the reason I wont be putting any in my mouth anymore. His love did that. 

''Its amazing how much love and laughter they bring into our lives and even how much closer we become with each other because of them.'', said John Grogan of Marley, the worlds most famous dog. And it's the same with Krish. Life without him would be like a wedding party without a dhol, goes on fine but just not as much fun. Whether it's making sure he keeps his teeth off the furniture, or going on cycle rides and runs with him, or watching him grind my favourite headphones like they are a chew stick, my cup overfloweth when it comes to being a busy but content dog owner.  

And then I remembered a conversation my cousins and I once had about how they eat dog meat in China . Back then it was just a fun fact. Now, I was mortified at the thought.  Now that I was so attatched to a particular dog, the thought of any dog being eaten horriefied me. I mean, these are intelligent, loyal, loving animals who have the potential to bring us so much joy in so many ways. How can we kill them for their meat? 

And then I thought, what about other animals? Granted most species aren't ideal human companions like dogs are, but don't all animals have a huge potential to love? Who am I to discriminate between animals created by the Creator, by saying its not ok to kill these species for food but it is ok to kill these. How far is that from saying it's ok to marry people from this caste but not ok to marry into this caste?  Or that coloured people are meant to do these jobs and white people are meant to do these jobs? 

 That was when I decided that I could not justify taking any animal life just for the satisfaction of my taste buds anymore. 

There was something else that influenced this decision too. I'm currently re-reading  "My experiments with truth'' by a certain M. K. Gandhi. Given the direction my thoughts were taking in the weeks before, it was no surprise that this line struck a chord : ''I hold that, the more helpless a creature, the more entitled it is to protection by man from the cruelty of man''. (Pg. 208)

I reasoned that the killing of animals for food could be justified at many points in history, but not now, when our intellect has sufficiently evolved to develop alternatives that need no loss of life. 

So it was that on the 2nd of October this year (by the Creator's arrangement, the anniversary of Gandhiji's birth was around the corner), I took the decision that felt right, that didn't prick the corner of my mind that I had walled off. 

This is an admission. I always felt the slightest bit guilty while eating non veg, but suppressed the pinch with what I believed were credible reasons. Foremost among these was that I "needed the protein", given until recently my line of work. But now that I'm not playing competitively any more, I couldn't hide behind that excuse. 

And so that's that. Score: Krish 1, Snehal 0. You win little fellow. 

Welcome home Krish

After a hiatus of almost a year, I will once again tread on my first blog, this space that gave me my first push into the world of the written word. I return to this space as and when I am moved, and this is again one such occasion. Two things have moved me, the second of which I shall advertise in the next post. As for the first, his name is Krish.

He is our dog. It feels so good to finally say that. Our dog.

He is a German shepherd to be precise, now 2 and a half months old, right in the middle of his moulting and teething-biting phase. My husband, mother-in-law (henceforth fondly referred  to  as MIL for the purpose of this blog) and I brought him home a little over a month ago.

It so happened that my youngest brother was coming to visit me for a weekend in Indore, along with my dad and step mom. He had the impression that Indore was this boring, small town kind of place .Which it is, in many ways, to my delight. It reminds me of the Pune of my childhood, where I learnt to cycle, brought home strays, and broke windows, of a Pune that exists only in small pockets within the city now. But I digress.

My brother was afraid his two nights in Indore would be the most boring of his life (This coming from a young man  who has spent the last two years in studious isolation). It so happened that we brought Krish home the day he arrived. Needless to say, there was not a dull moment over that weekend.

But I digress again. The story of Krish's homecoming began earlier. It was one of those things that just happens to you, that you have little control over. ''The story wrote itself'', said  George R.R. Martin  of his moving tale, 'The Ice Dragon',  Such was the intersection at which Krish met us. 

My family are all dog people, so we had discussed bringing a dog home before, and the responsibilities involved.  But my MIL had been firmly in opposition, reasoning that we were not in a position to care for one as we no longer lived in a bungalow (where she raised her previous dogs). Yet we said, lets just swing by the pet shop and have a look, hmm? Harmless no?

At this point, I had given some thought into things like the right breed for our apartment (in terms of adult size), the timing of a possible adoption, and where to get a dog from. I had a noble notion of adopting a dog that needs a home from a shelter, rather than picking up one from the pet shop. All the above calculations went  clean out the window when we reached the pet shop and my MIL beheld and then held Krish. To put things simply, she fell in love with the ball of fur in her hand. 

Leaving the shop without him was hard for us, especially my MIL. Krish was adorable,but we decided to sleep over it. Back home, we all (read me) debated whether it was a good idea to bring a German Shepherd home, considering that it is a large breed and demands lots of space. My MIL put forth a simple argument :That 35 day old puppy had made her switch from being anti dog to pro dog faster than political parties switch alliances in poll season. If we were getting a dog, it would be him. She had been moved, and was in this matter, was unmoving. And with good reason. Thus it was decided. 

And just in the nick of time too. The next day when we went to pick him up, another customer who had laid a claim to him turned up. The owner convinced him to go home with another German Shepherd puppy, and our fortunate family, who were so close to losing Krish before even having him, brought him home.  Today, I dread to think about how less noisy, hairy, and scratchless our lives would have been had the Creator not arranged for us to be there at that very time. 

The rest, as they should say, is the future. And we are looking forward to it.

Walt Grace's Submarine Test, January 1967

So yet again John Mayer has moved me to write about one of his songs. Unlike last time, this one is not a Grammy winning creation, but it is a piece of art of singular beauty none the less. As I write this, it fills my headphones on repeat, though I have no need of listening to it so often for inspiration. I received that the first time I heard it, and I immediately had to share it with my loved ones. Walt Grace's Submarine Test, January 1967 can have that effect on you.

The title is as offbeat as the starting tune. I have heard of few other  Mayer songs named after people ("Victoria" is one, though I wonder whether she is imaginary; Walt Grace certainly is). And  I have never heard a song that starts with a distinct  instrumental intro, clearly separate from the tune of the song proper. And then the tune itself kicks in, and again its not the guitar that hit me; as one would expect with John Mayer; but the percussion beat. It made me imagine a tiny parade of toy soldiers, or a mechanical whirring reminiscent of the sounds one might imagine in Gepetto's workshop, where he would be busy bringing to life a creature of wood and paint. Mayer's intelligent and easy on the ear rhymes have the same effect on the music.

And the interlude.  It is a beautiful soulful instrumental piece, placed between verses two and three.  Mayer again takes the road less travelled on this one by favouring a piano in this section instead of his  faithful guitar. The music is simultaneously haunting and soothing, awakening something deep within me, and at the same time singing it to sleep. It is a piece that speaks of hope sown into the tune amid a few fears and a bit of doubt, in continuity with the theme of the song.

The lyrics describe the imaginary Mr Grace , who decides that something must be done with his life, something greater than simply the sum of his years or the count of his hours. So he locks himself up in his basement and takes to birthing something uniquely his own, something unseen and unthought of, unexpected and astounding. He builds a submarine.

"Cos when you're done with this world,  you know the next is up to you..."

Being employed in the railways, hardly a day goes by when I don't hear about someone talking about their retirement.  "Pension and no tension",that holy grail for government servants. Those are the rewards which hang like a carrot in front of our noses and compel us to commit our entire working lives in their pursuit. Somehow I imagine that Walt Grace is one of the same breed, who has done the hard yards, put in the work, brought up his children, and provided for his family. But now, upon retiring, he takes up something risky, something outrageous and unbelievable,  prompting the line "his wife told his kids he was crazy, and his friends said he'd fail if he tried..".

But when you're done with this world, you know the next is up to you. Walt Grace had lived his life for others, racing along in the pursuit of happiness,  only to realise his destination didn't give him the peace of mind he thought it would. So he set out on a journey, perhaps obsession is a better word, of his own.

And on that journey he found beauty and wonder and belief, and maybe, just maybe, his life's meaning too. Maybe he created a memory, that would endear him to the world and his family in ways his job never could. And maybe he taught us all a lesson on how to live our lives, so that we needn't have to wait till they are almost over to make something extraordinary of them. That ridiculous dreams aren't as ridiculous as they seem. That,"with a will to work hard, and a library card", anything is possible. 

The song itself, with a beautiful paper art video on the background:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQQ8tkkJRT0

Conversations with a Taxi Driver

Its all my brothers fault.

Like most things in my childhood were (including the loss of my favourite cycle; yes I will never forgive you for that), the events that unfolded today were also my younger  brothers fault (not to be confused with my youngest brother). First he asks me to book train tickets for him to travel to our home in Pune from Mumbai for the weekend. When the IRCTC site renders itself unavailable due to maintenance, I, out of the boundless love I bear my brothers,actually stand in line(who does that nowadays?) to get his reservations done. But I need to drop an application off at VT (CST) station to get his ticket confirmed. And this almost undid my own journey home.

Friday. Churchgate Station. 4:20 pm.  After trying (and failing) to sneak out of office early, I had less than an hour left before my own bus to Pune left from Dadar at 5:15 PM. And I still had to drop the application at VT, then go to Lower Parel and pick up my bags, then somehow get to Dadar and catch my bus. I was trying to figure out if I could make it all, when I remembered that trains,not roads are my domain. So I asked a road expert. A taxi driver.

I hailed a cab outside office. A glance at the Ganpati idol on his dashboard told me I should speak, my mother tongue, Marathi. All the following conversations took place in Marathi, but since ashamedly it is not my strongest language, you will have to endure this post in English.

I explained the logistics and asked him if we can make it? He said, ''We have about an hour, so lets try. If it were not Ganpati season, I could tell you for sure. " I ignore the voice of reason in my head that says I'm not going to make it, and with a sense of hurtling into adventure, I walk into the proverbial rabbit hole.

I'm not usually the types who will chat with a stranger, but discussing logistics, traffic and stoppage time is a good conversation starter. After making our first stop (VT) in pretty good time, he ask me where in Dadar were headed. ''The Shivneri bus stop, heading to Pune", I say. Pune is another conversation starter. He told me about a few jobs he did there, before moving to Mumbai and getting into the business of driving. Told me about a techie he recently drove to Pune.

"So whats better? Working the Mumbai-Pune expressway or a cab within Mumbai" I ask.

''Cab in Mumbai.'' ,he promptly replies. ''Start at 7 AM, finish up at 7 PM, then go home to your family. Expressway might earn you a bit  more, but you are on the road too much. Family is more important."

Wow. My respect for this guy just shot up.

He asks about my job and we talk about extra curriculars. I tell him about sports quota railway jobs, He tells me how his niece could pick and choose her college because of her singing. Then he tells me he sings Marathi Natya Sangeet (musicals).

"Oh! My brother studied that too!"

He tells me how they have drama contests at his work, which give him a chance to leave work early and travel for the contests.

''Work? meaning?'', I ask,confused.

''Madam i actually work in BEST. I'm a bus driver. Been there 10 years. We also have sports and cultural quota. I drive a cab on my weekly off for timepass."

This guy is full of surprises.

He talk about how extra curriculars helped his own kids. Proudly tells me that they both study in an English medium school. Ryan International. He talks about the cost of education. I realise hes not driving a cab on his weekly off for timepass.

"The costs are really  high. But an English medium education is worth it. But they really have to study a lot. They have big fat books that I cant understand. Since my wife and I don't speak good English we cant tutor them at home. so they attend extra tuition. Which is an extra expense. But they are doing well, so its worth it. I don't mind working extra hard for them."

I tell him it will definitely be worth it. I tell him about my grandparents and parents, whose hard work has given my brothers and me the luxury and the joy of choosing off beat professions.

"Madam whats your surname?" he asks me. I give him mine, and I ask his in return. Rajaram Maruti Khedekar he says. How strange it is that we tend to talk about everything else with a person, only to neglect to ask thheir name.

We were only just at Lower Parel picking up my bags. Things were about to get exciting. Picture abhi baki hai.

Now the focus had shifted from the conversation to the transportation. No more school fees and  dramas. It was all business now; routes, signals and ETAs. It was 5:07 PM  when we left Lower Parel. I was now counting on the bus leaving five minutes late as was its habit. Our driver had turned onto a road that was usually open but closed for the Ganpati festival. A policeman stops us on the turn.

"Going for a cricket tournament!"

"Have a 5:15 bus!"

"Please please please"

After a bit of such grovelling the cop lets us go.

By the time we got to Dadar it was 5:24. I rushed out to the enquiry counter leaving my bag (containing my wallet and laptop) in the taxi. I had never done that before. Ever

And I had missed my bus. I had never done that before either! EVER.

Like I said, all my brother's fault.

"Maitri Park!" I said as i got back into the cab! I would have to try and catch the bus at its next stop in Chembur!. Without actually saying it, I had just said,''Follow that bus!!''

So we rushed as much as one can on Mumbai roads, all the way to Maitri Park, and the driver kept saying how fast these new Volvo buses are, and that if we haven't seen it yet we probably wont make it. Amidst all this, I was sitting in the back seat, with a faint smile on my face. I was really enjoying myself. This was all an adventure, and if I missed the bus and had to pay double for another ticket, plus the taxi fare, I wouldn't mind it much.

One signal before Maitri park, we spot the bus! The driver parks in front of the bus, I rush out to make sure the conductor hasn't sold my vacant seat to someone else. Its still vacant, and I am so happy that this adventure had a happy ending. I pay the taxi driver the fare (which was now more than the bus fare to Pune!), thank him for the good time, and get on board.

And  then I remember why I had to take this taxi in the first place. All my brother's fault, and I'm glad it was. Its not everyday you find reasons to smile fondly at the adventures and conversations Mumbai tends to throw at you.

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The Silmarillion : A book review

It's been a while since I read a book non-stop, but I found myself home-alone, recovering from a stomach bug, and my youngest brother's copy of the Silmarillion lying ignored on the desk. Perfect conditions for a read-a-thon, which lasted for 14 hours! And happily took little effort, as J.R.R. Tolkien is one of my favourite authors.

For the uninitiated,the events of Silmarillion come before the Hobbit, before the Lord of the Rings, much before most of the characters of either book existed. And if you are so uninitiated that you haven't heard of any of them, well, then dont bother reading any further. For you are not one who can comprehend the world of fantasy, there where my mind often flees for solace and silence,to dabble in awe and wonder, and to leave the suffocating bonds of reality. Fantasy is my favourite genre by far, and this is my first fantasy book review, so do forgive me if I get carried away.

So back to the book. Tolkien is in a wonderful position at the start, for he has carte blanche.  Imagine writing a tale that takes place before the Big Bang occurred, before time or space as we know it existed. Such was the empty canvas upon which Tolkien painted his universe. So he describes a God, Iluvatar, and His vassals whose song creates out of the void, Midlle-earth as we know it. Some of these vassals, christened the Valar, enter Middle-earth to govern it and make it fit for the children of God, elves and men. Then one of the Valar decides that he wants to possess all Middle-earth for himself. Enter Melkor, aka Morgoth, the antagonist for the most part, and the book describes deeds that were done by the Elves in their war against him. For Melkor stole from the elves the Silmari, three perfect Jewels crafted by the elf Feanor, in whom is preserved the Light of the Two Trees created by the Valar. Feanor and his sons swear an oath to wage war on whoever possesses a Silmaril, for in them too the darkness of possession is awakened. Thus Feanor and his people turn their back on the Valar and embrace a dark path of war, destined to consume their kin, and come to Middle-earth, where Melkor has entrenched himself. 

The book goes on to tell many tales of valour, heroism, sacrifice and love, and just as many of deceit, betrayal and malice. For me, most moving of all were the tales of the fall of Fingolfin and the story of Beren and Luthien.

Fingolfin, half brother of Feanor, faced with certain defeat and possibly the obliteration of his race, challenges the Lord of darkness Morgoth to single combat. The venture, although hopeless (for Morgoth is one of the Valar, and Fingolfin, no matter how great, is an elf), showcases the bold and limitless self belief that the elves had in themselves, and armed mostly with this belief, and a love for the elves of whom he was King, Fingolfin fought, gave Morgoth seven wounds, cleaved off his leg, but fell in the end. 

The tale of Beren, a man, and Luthien the elf maiden almost made me cry at the end, hopeless romantic that I am. For theirs is THE epic amid all the many love stories in the book, and theirs was the first union between man and elf. Beren, in order to win the right to marry Luthien, does as her father asks and seeks to wrest a Silmaril from the clutches of Morgoth. In this he is assisted by Luthien herself, for she cannot bear to be apart from him. The two achieve the impossible, not once, but twice, for not only do they manage to escape Morgoth's fortress with a Silmaril, but Beren also comes back from the land of the dead, as the sorrow and love of Luthien moves even the hardest hearts of the Valar.

One of the recurring concepts in the book I really enjoyed reading was The Gift of Men, that is death and mortality, which is also spoken of as the Doom of Men. This Gift the God Iluvatar gave only the race of men; the elves he made immortal. Death, which we humans fear so often, becomes an objecct of wonder for the Elves, for it signified a freedom from the cycles of the world, which they had not been granted. For them it truly is a gift, but few mortals would look at it that way. How many of us can really think of death as a gift? Can we keep in  mind that our mortality should drive us to value every second, and make something beautiful of it. And isn't death, to the organised mind "the next great adventure"(Yes, I'm quoting Dumbledore, in a Tolkien book review)? If you, like me believe that the soul is eternal, its not that hard to see. Funnily though I don't think Tolkien believes in rebirth et al. For he does speak of a place where the souls of elves go after death, but never what happens to the souls of men, and never that any soul returns to be born again.

And so if you are a fantasy fan, and haven't read the Lord of the Rings yet, I strongly suggest you read the Silmarillion first. The stories are just as rich and the narrative just as enchanting (though the chapter on the children of Hurin seemed to drag a bit). It will fill some of the gaps that the reading of the Lord of the Riongs presents, for  in that book, the events of the Silmarillion are spoken of in the way we would speak about the Mahabharata, as myth and legend alone. If, like me, you have read the Lord of the Rings already, still I suggest that you go back and read the Silmarillion. I can promise you, at the very least, a lot of "Ah thats what he was talking about" moments.

Blood on our pages.. let's keep it there

So I started writing this post like a year ago, around the I re-read Harry Potter Book seven, and its been on cold storage ever since. I got a few more lines in (words actually) when I watched The Hobbit earlier this year, but what really got me writing was the Mahabharata; both the serial running on TV and the illustrated storybooks I've been reading. Kay sambandha? (Whats the connection?) read on..

Spoiler alert! Details about characters of LOTR, HP and  the Mahabharata are revealed below!

I took a generic and macroscopic view of how these series of books annoint their heroes. King Aragorn from the Lord Of The Rings, for instance, is a direct descendant of Isildur, one of the famous Dunedain, the men of Numenor. Harry Potter, on the other hand, is considered by his enemies as half blood by virtue of his Muggle born mother. Both seem to be portraying contrasting ideas of who qualifies as hero material. The LOTR  series does seem to lean towards the school of thought that the ancestry or blood of a man greatly affects his destiny. It mentions that the lineage of men began to fall when the Numenorians began to intermingle with men of lesser blood. The HP series however, stresses strongly on the choice that every man has in the making of his life. "It matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be", to quote Albus Dumbledore. Although it later emerges that Harry is descended from a very noble wizarding family, another of Rowling's lead characters, Hermione, is muggle born, without a hint of magical blood in her family tree, and showed that with sheer perseverance, and shrewd application, she could best most "pure blood" wizards.

Where does the Mahabharata come in? Most of you know that the Mahabharata is the culmination of an inheritance war between two families, the five Pandavas and the 100 Kauravas, who are first cousins. All kings who participated in this war were kings by descent, save one. Karna, the son of a charioter, and the king of Anga. He was annointed King courtesy his prowess with the bow, which matched even that of the Pandava prince Arjuna, the son of Indra, king of the Gods. It is one instance in the epic where a man of a lowly caste rises to be counted as a king based on his valour and skill, not his birth or blood.

But then much like Harry, Karna is also revealed to be the son of Surya, the Sun God, and older brother of the Pandavas. Is his prowess and skill too a product of his divine descent? 

Yet there is another hero in this tale who showed that even one without a noble birth can show glimpses of greatness. Eklavya, the son of a tribal leader, was turned away by Dronacharya, the arms instructor of the royal household, due to his low birth. Through an almost fanatical faith in Dronacharya, and despite his guru(teacher)'s absence, he became an archer par excellence,even better than Arjuna at that young age. Alas, he never got to his chance to shine. Had Dronacharya not sought his right thumb as Guru Dakshina (payment to ones teacher), he might have overshadowed even the sons of Indra and Surya.

One common ghost haunts  the paragraphs of most mythology and fantasy literature: Blood. And while it makes for fascinating reading, how much does blood count for today? (Not much, if the recent  general election in India is anything to go by.) "Blood always tells" is a phrase doled out easily enough while pointing out a flaw in a person, but not often remembered in times of his success. But should it be given so much due? 

Must we always blame Nature, or also count the role that Nurture plays in moulding a person, even our children and heroes. Accepting that Nurture plays a bigger role is often difficult, because it sets the blame (or the credit) of how the future turns out squarely in our own uncertain hands. The Nurture philosophy would suggest that free will is THE defining human quality. Free will, that lone true freedom that our Maker grants us. Free will is what separates us from animals, who act on instinct, that slave of blood. Free will is what makes us destiny's writers, not its children.

Perhaps it is best to leave this predilection and fascination with blood on the pages of our books. Perhaps the concept itself is age old, medieval, and should be consigned to the realms it adorns best: fantasy and mythology. Too many wars have been fought and too many lives maligned on the altar of blood.  

We live in a new day and age, where the strengths  of our arms craft our future, not the strength of our blood. To quote Albus Dumbledore again, "It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

5 things that help us see our true selves

In 2008, the spiritual organization I am a part of, issued the annual teaching for the youth titled, "Know Yourself." I figured that's pretty easy; after all I do spend all my time with myself, so to speak. So I was very self assured in the belief that I knew myself very well (and even more sure, that I was awesome.) The fact is that I had been pretending so much, for so long, that I genuinely believed my pretensions to be who I really was. Over the last few years life has showed me how deluded I was and disabused me of all such notions. (Mind you, I still think I am awesome, but in very different ways.) I learned, through observation or experience, that there are a  certain circumstances in life that give us a glimpse of our real selves. Here is my top 5 (in no particular order):

1. Competitive Sports:
All sports, by nature, require that we bare all on the field. While individual sports are a display of will power along with physical prowess, I find team sports are those that teach us most about ourselves. Do we take the responsibility of making up for the shortcomings of our teammates? Can we put in those dives in the field which aren't reflected on the scorecards? Are we unreservedly happy for the success of our teammates even when we aren't doing well ourselves? Are we aware of the effect our attitudes have on our dressing room? These situations do result in some soul searching, and the results surprise us, more often than not.

2. Confinement:
Put people together in a confined space for long enough, and eventually they will get tired of pretending and reveal their true colours. That's why reality shows like Big Boss grab so many eyeballs. While I don't like the system of using a person's private space to earn TRP's, I do find myself watching.  What we do when we are forced to live within four walls, sharing our space, tells us a lot about what were made of. Reading The Diary of a Young Girl was in many ways so much more compelling than a fiction novel.

3. Relationships:
It's all about how we treat people. People who matter to us, particularly those we interact with often, like a daily basis. Because  that familiarity is what makes us take them for granted, and we drop our polite facades and show a glimpse of whats behind the mask. Whether it's how we treat our coworkers or our partners, our actions towards them define us.

4. Tough times:
Points 1., 2., and 3 kind of dovetail into this one. Conflict; be it between the leaders of nations or the wills of individuals; and our thought and actions in times of conflict, lay bare who we truly are. I think that's why training periods are so severe in the armed forces. Because they mould soldiers into people who make the right choices in the worst of times. How many of us can keep our heads, hold our tongues, and stay our hands when our world is crashing down? There is no yes or no answer, we all succeed and fail to varying degrees everyday.

5. Friends:
You know what I mean. The real ones, not those pseudo-social followers. The people who we take for granted and don't need to pretend around and know us best. Ironically, they are also the ones who we tend to push away when they say something we don't like. Chuddy-buddies, schoolmates, parents, life partners, life coaches; they come in many avatars. They aren't afraid to tell us when we are toeing the line or even crossing it. Most people reading this are thinking about a few people like that in their life right now. And if you haven't met them yet, don't go looking. They find you. Can't make them, can't break them, can't buy them. Custom made, every last one of them. They  will show us the mirror when our faces turn ugly.  Then they'll put it down and look us in the eye and say,"doesn't change the fact that I love you."

Long walk to Freedom : A book review of Nelson Mandela's autobiography

A friend of mine what's-apped(if that's not a real word yet it will be soon) me a few days back, saying "Hey, how come you aren't writing anything nowadays! " And I said hey, that's 'coz I've been reading this huge history book! As you can see from the picture, its more of a  tome than a book. Considering that I only get to read while traveling in the trains, you can understand what took me so long. As my youngest brother said, Nelson Mandela's  'Long walk to freedom' is more like the long 'read' to freedom. 

The few autobiographies I have read tended to start slowly and build up as the protagonist got older. This one however, displayed a clear momentum right from the start. Maybe it was the weight of his persona and reputation bearing down on me; maybe because his recollections are so lucid and well constructed, but within the first hour of reading, I knew this was going to be a great book (and so did my mom and my other brother; and thus ensued a short family competition about who should read it first; which I won.)

A great book it was and is. Mandela has compiled his memoirs with the care that a master craftsman might devote to his work. His strength of character, clear and accurate memory and strong command of the written medium, allow his ideals and his prose to dovetail nicely into a seamless recollection. His writing enthralled me from the first chapter, and stirred in me revolutionary thoughts and ideas I didn't think I was capable of having. For example, it was while reading this book that I took up an initiative to demand more dustbins for the colony I live in (This may be just a coincidence, but then, I don't believe in them).

Mandela describes his upbringing, and how with age and exposure, the injustices the African people suffered slowly became more and more apparent.  The imbalance of power prevalent in South Africa rankled him, and along with many educated African youth of his generation, realised that the wrong that was apartheid must be righted. He wrote of "..the sense power that comes with having right and justice on one's side."

The struggle for equal rights defined him as a man. I was touched by his all consuming commitment, and awed by his logical and open mind. His cool and systematic manner, and professional training as a lawyer, rendered him an able debater and a visionary thinker. It was inspiring to see how holistic and inclusive his ideology always was, always looking for the common ground and while dealing with other people and organisations. His choices led him to sacrifice his time with family, livelihood and eventually, his freedom. After forsaking his legal practice and living the life of an outlaw for a considerable period, he was finally imprisoned, and thus began the darkest years of his life.

The names Nelson Mandela and Robben Island are almost as synonymous as Nelson Mandela and South Africa. Robben Island, the prison where he spent much of his 27 years of incarceration, was supposed to break his spirit, and that of his comrades. But, united with his fellow prisoners, he prevailed. Not only did he prevail, but he continued to oppose the system from within and held the same ideal of equal rights just as high, even though no one on the outside could see. For me, that was the defining moment in this book. To stand strong in the face of oppression while your people and the world are watching requires courage, but to stand just as strong when they cannot see you, requires infinite inner belief. He writes, "The campaign to improve conditions in prison was part of the apartheid struggle. It was, in that sense, all the same; we fought injustice wherever we found it, no matter how large or how small, and we fought injustice to preserve our own humanity."

It was astounding how he held on to not just his own humanity, but also to the belief in the humanity of his oppressors as well. He always asserted, that the oppressive system was the real enemy, and given an opportunity, the goodness in a man would always rise above the chains that bind and blind his heart.

All through this post I have tried my best to reproduce the strengths, solidarity and successes of this man's life. But there are greater pictures of pain, loneliness, and darkness painted through words on the pages of this book. None pained me more than the personal sacrifices that he had to make. Being  a leader and freedom fighter meant it was difficult for him to fulfill the obligations he owed his family. He writes, "In South Africa, a man who tried to fulfill his duty to his people was inevitably ripped from his family and his home and forced to live a life apart, a twilight existence of secrecy and rebellion."

In short, the book is an epic. It cannot be anything else, because the lives that Nelson Mandela, and so many freedom fighters, have lived, are incredible. Simply put, if you are a fan, nay, an admirer of Nelson Mandela, you must own this book. If you are not, you must read this book. There is no way you cannot be one at the end of it.

The diary of a young girl : Book review

So this is my first book review, and since I have never learned how to write one in school (something that needs to be added to our English syllabus), please forgive me if it doesn't follow the standard pattern.

Book review is a misleading title really ; it should be "flow of thought after reading so and so book". But I won't use that as I'm worried no one will pay this post any further attention if that's the title!

So to get down to it, I was browsing my company's library when I found this book in the autobiography section. I thought to myself," Snehal Pradhan, this is one of the classics and deserves the investment of time." A week later I was almost regretting my decision. At first, Anne Frank's entries in her diary seemed childish and trivial(which is understandable ;she was only 13). She began by describing her life as a Jew in Amsterdam, Holland, having fled her native Germany. At this point she and her family had not yet gone into hiding, and her depiction of her life in school and at home, although detailed and accurate, was rather mundane.

Then it did get interesting, as Anne described in great  detail, the circumstances that forced her family into their hiding place : The  Secret Annexe. With the help of an illustration, she described how her family of four, along with another family of three, led a furtive existence in a secret warehouse for the better part of World War II.

Her account chronicled some surprising aspects of a life in hiding. While I  expected that the residents  would be relieved  at being spared the fate of most other Jews, I found that frustration, depression  and boredom were the dominant emotions in their lives. Eating the same food for weeks, telling the same jokes at the table, looking at the same faces day in and day out, all took a toll on their state of mind. Truly, we can only appreciate the value of freedom when it is taken from us.

It was touching  and yet saddening  to see how much Anne relies on her diary, as a friend. Touching, because Anne pours her heart out to her diary( who she had christened "Kitty") like one would to one's best friend, and that is what her diary becomes for her. Saddening, because it points out how lonely she is, despite being surrounded by her immediate family.

Most of all, this book grew on me as I kept reading it. I mean really grew on me. As Anne grows, I could see that she really has a talent for writing, and her entries in the last one third of the book are a treat to read, displaying a maturity seldom seen in adults, let alone adolescents. She painted clear pictures of her  interpersonal relationships within the Annexe; from her own strained relationship with her mother, to her feelings of attachment and affection for her fellow residents. She never held back while accounting the faults of people around her, but showed the same brutal honesty while looking at herself as well. Even surrounded by the clouds of war, she could still find peace of mind and beauty in a brief moment of contact with nature.

I was amazed by the strength of character and deep self-knowledge the fifteen-year-old Anne had. She was very clear about who she was, all the good and bad included, but would not resign herself to being just that and tried to change herself where she saw fit. She had her own opinions, and was not afraid of expressing them. She had an independent identity, and dreams and hopes too. If Anne had survived the war, I'm sure she would have become a person who strongly influenced her peers. The more I read, the more attached I got to Anne, which gave me a sense of foreboding, as I knew how her story ended, and dreaded reaching the page which would contain her last entries.

Anne's account of her life in such closed quarters made one fact clear to me :being cooped up is a sure way to expose our true character, whether we like it or not. It's like living in a circular room with no corners, nowhere to hide our true selves. What I admire most about Anne, is that she made no attempt to hide her inner nature behind a facade of civility or falsehood. It's probably partly due to the fact that she was a child and had not gained the inhibitions that come with age, but mostly it's because she isn't the type to hide in the first place. And that's why I will always look up to Anne Frank. Her diary will command a permanent place on my bookshelf, so I can revisit her memories for inspiration whenever I may feel the need for it.

Right way around?

To begin with let me issue an advisory : I am not an expert!  While most of my previous blogs on sports-slash-cricket have been introspective or contemplative, this one leans toward suggestive. However, this post is purely a figment of my own opinion and observations, and it's inspiration includes my coaches, teammates and friends.

Ever wonder how the number of cricketers who bowl right handed but bat left handed seems to increase? There are a number of examples in the international cricket community, across country lines. Names like Stuart Broad and Saurav Ganguly come to mind. (The reverse also seems true, as Michael Clarke's highly underestimated bowling arm indicates.) So much so, that this trend seems headed towards becoming the rule rather than the exception. And this points to a (not-so)new school of coaching, that is churning out these seemingly ambidextrous skills, creating more "hybrid-handed" cricketers.

Some coaches might cry foul here, pointing out that they usually encourage whatever their pupils naturally  choose. Fair enough, but are we asking the right questions?

Traditionally, a right handed stance means that our left hand is the top hand and our right hand is below it. One of the first things that happen in coaching is that the bat is placed on the ground in front of the pupil,with the toe facing away, and he (or she;we ladies play cricket too, but for the sake of simplicity I will henceforth use "him")  is asked to pick it up. This means that on picking up the bat, tho toe usually points upwards. This in turn naturally demands a grip in which our dominant hand is closer to the blade, to stabilise it against gravity; similar to the way one would hold up a sword, with our strong hand close to the hilt. Here, I believe lies the turning point. While a sword is always held with it's point against gravity, a bat is usually used in the direction of gravity, with its toe pointing down. In this case, a grip which places our strong hand farthest from the toe is more suitable, as this creates the longer lever, thus more bat speed.

This also makes more sense technically, as for all vertical bat shots, the top hand gives direction and control. Isn't it easier to use the hand that is already our strong hand as the top hand. It would solve a problem coaches continually moan about; that of over using the bottom hand while driving.

Perhaps when we hand the bat to a pupil, we could hold it out to him with the toe pointing down. Then, reaching for it with his strong hand may naturally nudge him toward a stance that will seem to be the opposite to what we traditionally expect(left handed for right handers), but which when you think about it, is more natural.

The advantages to this approach will not be lost on anyone who has played the game. In a sea of ubiquitous right-handed batters(I prefer using this term borrowed from baseball as it is more gender-inclusive), a southpaw poses a challenge for a bowler. It involves a change of line, angle, field and strategy; all of which are headaches any bowler would rather avoid. This very fact is the reason why most teams at all levels employ right hand-left hand opening combinations. Even purely left handed opening combinations, which don't invoke a constant change of line for the bowler, are often more successful than pure right-handed pairs, Matthew Hayden and Justin Langer being the most successful example.

Perhaps this very logic is the reason why a number of  international teams seem to have an equal distribution of right and left handed batters(which, when you think about it, is odd, as the distribution of left handers in human population is only 10 to 30%).

Judging by the number of southpaws in many international sides, I'd say this approach is already popular with many coaches. Just as parents take life changing decisions for their wards, coaches may be coaxing  young children to go against their traditional stance in favour of a "hybrid" stance. And I see nothing wrong with this, if it equips a player with an edge in the extremely competitive cricket environment.

Which approach is better?  Is it fair to young kids playing the game to ask them to change? Will we see a day when left handed batters are more common?  And if so, well that negate their advantage? Fellow players, coaches, friends, aficionados : weigh in with what you think about this. Enter your comments below! This debate is hereby declared open!

What's your frequency?

Okay, I am a self confessed fan of getting a good deal. I love shopping off the streets, and more often than not I get good value for money. One item I always buy off the streets, is headphones for my mp3 player. And mostly I've been pretty lucky, getting good sound quality and longevity, the latter of which is usually tricky with " china maal " ( chale to chaand tak, nahi to raat tak )! But off late I have observed a disconcerting pattern with regards to the point at which these headphones stop working. It seems every time someone notices these headphones and I describe how very clear the sound is and what a steal they were, and so on, they malfunction soon after! Initially I thought nothing of it, and dismissed the observation as random ( I will refrain from using the word coincidence, as I dont believe they exist ). But when this happened three times in a row, I had to sit up and take notice! What exactly was going on here? I was almost as if mere pyare se headphones ko najar lag rahi thi! 

Admittedly I never put much faith in this " evil eye " concept. I do however, subscribe to the concept of vibrations and can attest to their power. I have been associated with an organisation dedicated to improving the spiritual quality of people's lives for a long time now, and this connection has cemented my belief that we are influenced by so many unseen vibrations. But this was the first time I connected these two not-really-so-far-apart ideas. I realised that protecting what's precious to us from unfriendly eyes, by putting a tika or nimbu mirchi etc is something  seen across religions and cultures in the sub continent; and is nothing more than the smallest attempt to shield us from harmful vibrations.

I believe that what goes around come comes around. Not just in terms of our actions or our karma, but also our thoughts. Einstein said,"Everything is energy; that's all there is to it. Match the frequency of the reality you want and you cannot but help get that reality. It can be no other way. This is not philosophy. This is physics ."  ( Disclaimer : I picked up this quote from a Facebook post, so I am not sure about its authenticity; though I can totally imagine him saying something like this ).

So what does this mean in my case? Did I invite the demise of my headphones by waxing eloquently about how wonderful they are? I don't know. Was God telling me that I should appreciate my possessions, and everything in my life, while I have them, for all is uncertain? Perhaps. Its food for thought, and maybe its just to make me more aware of the vibrations I am sending out each second; as these are alive and potent and directly affect me and the people around me.

What vibrations are we sending out right now? Which ones are we tuning into? Will they affect the next pair of headphones I buy? More food for thought. Here's to rumination..

"Boys you can break..."

"..you'll find out how much they can take,
Boys will be strong,
Boys soldier on,
But boys would be gone without warmth from a woman's good,good heart..
...So fathers be good to your daughters,
And daughters will love like you do..
Girls become lovers, who turn into mothers,
So mothers be good to your daughters too.."

Daughters...sisters, mothers, girls.....women. A delicate breed aren't we? Like spiders silk, we appear slight and brittle, something that needs to be held carefully and cherished lest the slightest jerk  damage us. Yet, just as a spider cannot be defined without the silk that makes his web, our men, our priapic, self-assured, able men, are nothing without a woman's love to complete them. I love how John Mayer brings the frailty yet essentiality of a woman out in his grammy winning hit, 'Daughters'. Its a song whose message and melody has touched my soul, and moved me to write this post.

Now I can already hear the feminists protesting! "Were strong too!","We can take care of ourselves..", "We can do everything just as well!", and so on! And so we can! The silk that a spider so depends on is tougher than it looks. Spiders silk is known to be one of the toughest materials on earth; that is to say, it can withstand a huge amount of strain before breaking. And I know that everyone reading this description right now is thinking about some amazing women they know, who personify this. Women who have risen through unthinkable odds, stretching,bending, doing whatever it took to build a life for their loved ones and themselves.

I was talking to my friends yesterday about how it seems fewer women than men need to release their frustrations through addictive vices, or how many young girls of our generation look up to women role models more. And while discussing this, a thought occurred to me. Behind this facade of apparent invincible inner strength women seem to have,we must remember, we are fragile. We can break. Even as the strongest of webs can be swept away by a careless broom, we women can break if we're treated without the care and respect we deserve.

I remember a Marathi poem that I learned in school titled 'He bandha reshamache'. Very Roughly,literally translated; 'These silken relationships'. Women seem to have a God given natural ability to protect the deep yet delicate bonds that connect them to the people they love. The sheer number and depth of the bonds that each woman typically has tells you a lot about how big her heart is. So here's to all you amazing women out there, daughters, mothers, sisters and friends. You are all one of a kind. And to all the men who have these amazing women in your life, "You are the God and the weight of her world", so treasure her.

I Love Sports...???

I know the question marks at the end of that statement are a little surprising,especially coming from someone who has spent the better part of their last 10 years playing competitive sports. But i guess no matter how much you love doing what you do, there can be some small tiny part of it that you wish was different.

Sports is something that has given me so much. I love being in a team, surrounded by people with fantastic skills and so much to learn from. I love the training involved, physical and mental. I love the single mindedness that the game demands, that every ball demands every ounce of concentration that you have,else you will see the ball disappear somewhere far, far away. This single mindedness allows me to be able to leave everything else behind when im on the top of my mark. Its a different kind of peace of mind. I love the challenge, the elation when the ball kisses the edge, the sound when it grips the pitch slightly when its released just right, the pats on the back when i've got the breakthrough.

So what's not to love?

Losing.

Yes i know winning and losing is part and parcel of the game. But off late it got me thinking. Sports can never be win-win. Its always win-lose. I hate losing, but I accept defeats graciously and pick myself up and get back on the ground the next day. But every defeat is a dream dashed, loved ones let down, hours of hard work proven to be insufficient. Its an incredibly unsettling experience, especially if you have just lost a big match by a close margin.

Some of my friends work in a tough corporate environment, a dog-eat-dog world. I always felt that i would never want to have their jobs, where a step up the ladder means pushing someone down. And then i realised, i'm already there. Everytime i put in an hour at training, not only am I spending it for the benefit and glory of my team, but also spending it plotting the downfall of another. And suddenly I realised, this is a part of sports that I can't bring myself to feel good about. Where when someone has climbed a mountain and touched the peak, someone else, who is trying to climb the same mountain, has to be pushed off a ledge somewhere along the way.

Superstition Vs Sunburn..

So this is for all my friends who have played cricket, and i'm not just tallking about competitive cricket, but any cricket : gully, street, school playground, apartment balcony, Lord's, wherever. All of you will know exactly what im talking about. Its about our little, or not so little, superstitions within the game.

Now dont confuse these with routines. Putting on your left pad first, tying your laces a certain way, or praying before hitting the field are all more routines than anything,even if they do have a flavour of superstition about them. No, what im talking about is more sporadic, and yet something that is seen very uniformly across teams and i suspect across cultures as well.

The reason i got to writing this is that we were very recently playing a match in which something curious happened. Our openers were batting, and the rest of the team was sitting in the spot on the ground which we had occupied the match before as well. Incidentally, the match before was a cakewalk for us, and we were carrying in confidence from that encounter. As the sun began to beat down on us, about half the team moved to a shadier location, and the rest stayed close to their kit bags. Around this time things started going downhill in our chase. what should have been a regulation chase, turned out to be a bit more 'interesting'. Our middle order got some exercise they were not expecting, and our short tail had to pad-up in a bit of a hurry.Although we got over the line, we had our hearts in our mouths for a bit. somewhere in between, our team management called us all to sit together, in the sunny spot, and we fell in without question. Nobody said it, but everyone was thinking, "shouldnt have gotten up in the first place!" Whats a little sun burn when compared to a tension free commanding win eh?

So im asking all of you; my 'cricketer ' friends, who hasn't experienced this? Who hasn't been glued to their seats during a budding partnership? Who hasn't stopped themselves from going to the bathroom even when they were bursting, just to make sure they are not d reason our team didn't get the win? Who wants to make sure that they do everything right, even the silly things, to feel the joy and relief in the end?

Like i said, if you are a cricketer, you know what im talking about..and you are smiling right now, and thinking about the time you chose superstition over a sunburn..

The Differently Abled..

A friend of mine lives life with a physical disability, a handicap if you will. I've seen close up how different her life is from those who are not physically challenged,and how much we take for granted the simple things that we can do without much trouble. Her blog(which is worth reading), got me thinking on the one sided view we have to the concept of a handicap.

Does a handicap only describe a physical or mental disability, or can we stretch the term into an emotional one as well? Take for sake of argument, the popular character Sheldon Cooper from the sitcom 'The Big Bang Theory'. Dr. Sheldon Cooper has full possession of his physical abilities and is gifted with an exceptional intellect, but when his room mate has a loud fight with his girlfriend, Sheldon is unable to handle it and goes to any and all lengths to drown out the fight, even walking out of the apartment, leading his roommate to worry for his safety. Does this inability to be in the presence of two people having an  argument( to the point which it, for that time, cripples his academic pursuits and perhaps endangers his life) point to a disability of sorts?

In a way, we all have handicaps. We are all crippled in some small way or another. Some cannot speak up in front of a crowd, some cannot keep their cool when they need to. Few cannot see the silver lining, few keep looking for a greener side. You will argue that these 'handicaps' are 'curable'. That physical and mental disabilities cannot be remedied without major medical intervention, while my so called handicaps are a matter of applying  some will power and the right support. And I agree with you fully. In both cases, the crux of the matter is acceptance. In both cases, we need to fight like hell, but accept when our inability holds us down, and ask for help. There is no shame in that. Those who see this move ahead in the race of life, no matter whether they can or cannot run.

life in slow motion..

        Anyone who sits at home and while watching the match on their TVs, says "this looks so easy!",should actually take the trouble of visiting a stadium when a test is in progress .Had they been among the crowd and actually seen Fidel Edwards steaming in and digging the ball short,and VVS at the other end nonchalantly pull-flicking it through  mid wicket, they would have come to appreciate a touch more, the amount of skill and precision required to play the game at the highest level and in its toughest format.It is this feeling, this awareness, that only live action can bring, that was awakened within me after a friend convinced me to watch a bit of the last test between India and the West Indes at the Wankhede.I was surprised at the invitation because i had never been to watch a test and somehow had never felt inclined to do so.But i took the chance to erase one more item from my (quite long)never-done-before list and tagged along.And i didn't regret it one bit.It is an experience i would recommend to all those who have played the game, and here i unashamedly admit that there will be quite a few of us who ,like me, never felt inclined.Not just because it is perhaps the best exhibition of the game we love, but because it gives us an idea of how things that appear so simple are in reality extremely difficult.
        We will never get an idea of how fast is fast until we sit in the stands at ground level , perpendicular to the pitch and watch a quick bowler bowl.(A better view is probably inside the batsman's head ;i am curious to see its 'colour' as the bowler nears the crease.)  But it all  looks deceptively simple on TV.We think nothing of the fact that Tendulkar and Dravid can play a short  ball just on off stump down to fine leg with deft wristwork.It looks easy and so it must be.And this is how we think when we are dissatisfied with our lot and look at other peoples lives .We see only the results, and the apparent ease with which they are achieved.we look at their lives longingly and think" if only i had it made ,like they do".We see only the TV view, not live action from inside their heads.This is why everyone must watch a test match live, at least once in their lives, and go home knowing that everyone plays in the real world, and no one does well easily,for there would not be any sense of achievement if it was so.No one lives slow motion, TV lives.The grass is as green as you make it on any side.