For the last 36 hours, there has been only one thing on the news – the death of Steve Jobs. An outpouring of tributes, news articles, quotes, videos and gushing eulogies have been doing the rounds, as have "R.I.P Steve", "We'll miss you, Steve" and the entire gamut of "i-___" messages. Yesterday, when I first heard the news of his passing away, I felt completely blue for most of the day and was nearly on the verge of tears. Today – a day after the magician left this world for good, I still feel empty inside. Thus, this piece of writing is like any other – a tribute to Jobs, filled with feeling and emotion, yet a tad different. This is because I am not an Apple user, save the ubiquitous iPod (which does not count for obvious reasons). Yes, I do belong to the rapidly shrinking, rare breed of people who look forward to every new Apple launch with glassy eyes, but shy away from buying one despite being able to afford them, because they are "grossly overpriced" and "not worth the premium".
Despite this, Jobs' death has affected me immensely. Maybe it was because it was so sudden. Maybe it was because he was young and all his technocratic counterparts are still around - alive and kicking. Maybe it was because he had that invincible air about him - something that was all the more evident each time he stepped on to the stage in faded blue jeans and a black turtleneck to unveil the next mind-blowing masterpiece with a passionate glint in his eyes coupled with "And one more thing...". I’m sure I wasn’t alone in thinking that Steve would be around for a long time, despite his illness. However, I think the biggest reason behind my hollow feeling is because Steven Paul Jobs managed to touch billions of lives, mine included – a feat not many have been able to accomplish since the invention of the light bulb. After all, when was the last time a person managed to inspire geeks and business leaders alike, without being an engineer or an MBA himself. I do not wish to take anything away from Bill Gates or any other person, but, to a person who loves science, thrives on beautiful design and demands perfection in everything, there could no better role model than Steve Jobs. People have called him the “modern day Ford” and the “digital world's Edison”, but Steve Jobs was different, he was more. There was an aura about him that inspired, was mischievous, was rebellious, was powerful, was dark, was passionate... No one has managed to create many a world, maybe even a parallel universe, before him. He was the Che Guevara of our generation - the ultimate rebel, the iconoclast to a generation that has cauldrons of restlessness bubbling within.
I've read a lot about Steve, from various perspectives and through the eyes of many different people. Eerily, most of what I’ve read about him has been in the last few months. I've read about his fall from glory, his mercurial temperament, his phoenix-like resurrection and the magic he created... I've watched Pirates of the Silicon Valley and loved and loathed him at the same time. I've read John Sculley's "An Odyssey: From Pepsi to Apple" and stopped midway because I gave up on Sculley as a narrow-minded nutcase who could not recognize Genius, though he was staring at him in the face. At different points of time, I've disliked Steve and credited all his success to good luck, loved him for his passion, revered him for the beauty and elegance that each product of his exuded, been awed by the determination of this tall, gangling marketer and admired him for the confidence he exuded, the endless charm he spun and the surefootedness he seemed to possess in unending measure. No one belonging to this day and age has inspired me or intrigued me more. His arrogance, his sheer brashness, his strong presence, his quest for perfection, his ability to see the big picture – they are all stuff of legend. Steve Jobs saw potential where others didn’t, saw brilliance in what others thought was different, saw magic in the mundane… He was able to put in the palm of one’s hand, what had occupied an entire room when he was born. Yes, Steve Jobs was a marvel – Stevie Wonder, if you may. And he will be missed a lot. However, what he did, what he created, will continue to inspire the generations who live, and the generations to come. In his own words, he managed to “put a ding in the universe”.
Goodbye Steve. Hope you’ll be happy up there. And as a facebook message aptly puts it, “If Heaven is not white, shiny and beautifully designed, it will be soon”.
Bon Voyage.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
A touch of silver…
Tomorrow I turn 25...
I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal of it. It’s after all just another number right? It’s probably because I will no longer be in my “early twenties”… 25 seems like a milestone and a huge one at that. Yet, I’m actually just a day older than I am today right? So why have I been a little more restless than normal during the last couple of weeks, I wonder? People have told me of a phenomenon called the “Quarter Life crisis” – a phase full of uncertainty where questions like “What am I doing with my life?” plague a person. For some, it remains a passing phase – something that soon gives away to other materialistic and mundane aspects of life like career, marriage and household affairs and ultimately ending precisely where it all started, with the same questions but a different name – the “Mid-life crisis”. The Circle of Life eh? For some lucky and brave heart others, this “quarter life crisis” results in a plunge into something different, the quest for “one’s true calling”, the first step off the beaten track.
I’ve had a good and comfortable life till now. No complaints, a few regrets – but the kind that will ebb away in a few years and bring a smile on my face when I think of them while sipping hot cocoa on a cold, rainy day by the fireplace. I’ve smiled, laughed, cried, loved, pursued ambitions, won, lost, talked… I’ve seen the magical power of a smile, experienced the beauty of love, tasted the joy of true friendship, felt the pain of losing a loved one, experienced the ecstasy of winning and the numbing silence of a loss… I’ve met some very interesting people and some not so nice ones – but those from whom I have learnt the importance of making the right choices, of separating the wheat from the chaff… I’ve learnt where to hold tight and where to move on. Interests have come and gone, like the coming and going of waves. Some have stuck on and turned, or are rapidly turning into passions – travel, music, Nature, books, photography. I have a long, ever-growing bucket list, and with it, the burning dream to tick off each and every item on it. I’ve learned to find joy in the simplest of things – the twinkling laugh of a child, the chirp of a bird, the crash of the waves, the dew on the leaves, the wind in my face, and to appreciate the beauty in everyday events – a surprise hug, the voice of a long lost friend on the other end of the line, a quick commiserative smile from a total stranger… I have been shaped slowly, but surely by experiences - both mine and those of others, have grown, and am in the process of discovering the mystery that I am – little by little, day by day. Yes, it has been a comfortable life but still, there is that slight unease, those minor palpitations… A quarter of a century has passed since I arrived on earth and I wonder if I have indeed arrived at all.
To an outsider, I probably come across as a person who has life all figured out, who has achieved almost all that she could have in 25 years of existence. However, those that know me well also know of the turbulence that lies under the cheerful exterior. They also know of the non-conformist, the rebel in me. I still have the same questions, the same confusion that I had a few years ago when I stepped out of comfort of my parents’ home and into the serene campus of Surathkal. The “Where?”, “Why?”, “How?” and “What?” still haunt me just the same. The only difference is that I am just somewhat surer, a tad more confident and have a lot more courage in my convictions than I did when I was 17. I also know that answers to these questions will surface in due course of time and that paths will open, sooner or later. Today, I look towards the next quarter of the century with hope, courage, joy and the anticipation of doing something more meaningful with the wonderful gift that is this life. Yes, 25 is just a number, something of little significance to someone who believes staunchly in “18 till I die!”
I sign off with my favourite Robert Frost lines, with some improvisation
“I shall be telling this with a smile,
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal of it. It’s after all just another number right? It’s probably because I will no longer be in my “early twenties”… 25 seems like a milestone and a huge one at that. Yet, I’m actually just a day older than I am today right? So why have I been a little more restless than normal during the last couple of weeks, I wonder? People have told me of a phenomenon called the “Quarter Life crisis” – a phase full of uncertainty where questions like “What am I doing with my life?” plague a person. For some, it remains a passing phase – something that soon gives away to other materialistic and mundane aspects of life like career, marriage and household affairs and ultimately ending precisely where it all started, with the same questions but a different name – the “Mid-life crisis”. The Circle of Life eh? For some lucky and brave heart others, this “quarter life crisis” results in a plunge into something different, the quest for “one’s true calling”, the first step off the beaten track.
I’ve had a good and comfortable life till now. No complaints, a few regrets – but the kind that will ebb away in a few years and bring a smile on my face when I think of them while sipping hot cocoa on a cold, rainy day by the fireplace. I’ve smiled, laughed, cried, loved, pursued ambitions, won, lost, talked… I’ve seen the magical power of a smile, experienced the beauty of love, tasted the joy of true friendship, felt the pain of losing a loved one, experienced the ecstasy of winning and the numbing silence of a loss… I’ve met some very interesting people and some not so nice ones – but those from whom I have learnt the importance of making the right choices, of separating the wheat from the chaff… I’ve learnt where to hold tight and where to move on. Interests have come and gone, like the coming and going of waves. Some have stuck on and turned, or are rapidly turning into passions – travel, music, Nature, books, photography. I have a long, ever-growing bucket list, and with it, the burning dream to tick off each and every item on it. I’ve learned to find joy in the simplest of things – the twinkling laugh of a child, the chirp of a bird, the crash of the waves, the dew on the leaves, the wind in my face, and to appreciate the beauty in everyday events – a surprise hug, the voice of a long lost friend on the other end of the line, a quick commiserative smile from a total stranger… I have been shaped slowly, but surely by experiences - both mine and those of others, have grown, and am in the process of discovering the mystery that I am – little by little, day by day. Yes, it has been a comfortable life but still, there is that slight unease, those minor palpitations… A quarter of a century has passed since I arrived on earth and I wonder if I have indeed arrived at all.
To an outsider, I probably come across as a person who has life all figured out, who has achieved almost all that she could have in 25 years of existence. However, those that know me well also know of the turbulence that lies under the cheerful exterior. They also know of the non-conformist, the rebel in me. I still have the same questions, the same confusion that I had a few years ago when I stepped out of comfort of my parents’ home and into the serene campus of Surathkal. The “Where?”, “Why?”, “How?” and “What?” still haunt me just the same. The only difference is that I am just somewhat surer, a tad more confident and have a lot more courage in my convictions than I did when I was 17. I also know that answers to these questions will surface in due course of time and that paths will open, sooner or later. Today, I look towards the next quarter of the century with hope, courage, joy and the anticipation of doing something more meaningful with the wonderful gift that is this life. Yes, 25 is just a number, something of little significance to someone who believes staunchly in “18 till I die!”
I sign off with my favourite Robert Frost lines, with some improvisation
“I shall be telling this with a smile,
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
Friday, September 2, 2011
Is it just me?
A few years ago:
I used to be able to sit in one corner of the room with a book in hand, completely oblivious to everything that was around me, food and drink forgotten, a screaming grandmom and mom ignored and could focus completely, totally and wholly on the piece of art in my hand, completely lost in the black print. Of late, I can't seem to focus on any book or movie for more than ten minutes, without fidgeting a million times, looking around the room, completely tuned in to the slightest noise or disturbance in the space around me!
I could listen to the same song over and over again and completely get lost each time in the lyrics, the melody, the voice... Today I find it difficult to listen to a single song from beginning to end without skipping parts I don't like.
I used to be able to remember the most insignificant detail of any conversation or bit of information someone had shared with me, including when and where that bit of knowledge had been imparted to me. I could recognize articles I had read years before and recite its contents almost effortlessly. I could remember whole poems after reading through them once. Statistics, numbers, names, figures, pictures came naturally to me and I could recreate the same vividly in words. Today, I find it difficult to remember my own aunt's phone number! I read the same articles again feeling only a faint sense of deja vu... I look up blogs, articles and other stuff on the internet, read it out to those around me and poof, forget everything that I've read almost the very next minute!
I still remember the physics formulae and equations I learnt years ago, nay a decade ago, but can't seem to recall a simple economics theory I came across in B-school not so long ago.
I used to be able to hold a conversation for hours on end on the most boring topic on earth. Today, I can't focus for more than a minute on the topics that interest me most!
Whenever I visited a place, I used to observe the most intricate details - the shape of the tiles on the pavement, the kind of trees along the road, the colours of the billboards, the building styles, the moustache of the bhelpuri wala standing near the pavement and map it to those details I saw in other places. Today, I noticed for the first time, that the road I walk on for a good ten minutes everyday is not tarred but tiled!
Is it just me? Or is there a larger, darker force at play?
I used to be able to sit in one corner of the room with a book in hand, completely oblivious to everything that was around me, food and drink forgotten, a screaming grandmom and mom ignored and could focus completely, totally and wholly on the piece of art in my hand, completely lost in the black print. Of late, I can't seem to focus on any book or movie for more than ten minutes, without fidgeting a million times, looking around the room, completely tuned in to the slightest noise or disturbance in the space around me!
I could listen to the same song over and over again and completely get lost each time in the lyrics, the melody, the voice... Today I find it difficult to listen to a single song from beginning to end without skipping parts I don't like.
I used to be able to remember the most insignificant detail of any conversation or bit of information someone had shared with me, including when and where that bit of knowledge had been imparted to me. I could recognize articles I had read years before and recite its contents almost effortlessly. I could remember whole poems after reading through them once. Statistics, numbers, names, figures, pictures came naturally to me and I could recreate the same vividly in words. Today, I find it difficult to remember my own aunt's phone number! I read the same articles again feeling only a faint sense of deja vu... I look up blogs, articles and other stuff on the internet, read it out to those around me and poof, forget everything that I've read almost the very next minute!
I still remember the physics formulae and equations I learnt years ago, nay a decade ago, but can't seem to recall a simple economics theory I came across in B-school not so long ago.
I used to be able to hold a conversation for hours on end on the most boring topic on earth. Today, I can't focus for more than a minute on the topics that interest me most!
Whenever I visited a place, I used to observe the most intricate details - the shape of the tiles on the pavement, the kind of trees along the road, the colours of the billboards, the building styles, the moustache of the bhelpuri wala standing near the pavement and map it to those details I saw in other places. Today, I noticed for the first time, that the road I walk on for a good ten minutes everyday is not tarred but tiled!
Is it just me? Or is there a larger, darker force at play?
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Maximum City
I’ve long toyed with the idea of writing about Mumbai and life here, but have been putting it off for no apparent reason. It’s probably just the sheer magnitude of the task. After all, how can one capture the madness, the spirit, the pure essence of this city in a few hundred words? Movie after movie has been made about Mumbai glorifying it, berating it, romanticizing it, personifying it, but they all seem to be dealing with disconnected, disparate aspects – the rains, the trains, slums, poverty or the crowds. Not one of them has captured the city in its entirety. I’ve been here for over a year now, but I still haven’t come to terms with this city. Each time I think I have Mumbai all figured out, it throws up something that completely catches me unawares and I discover a whole new side of Mumbai, not always pleasant. When I was new to the city, someone told me that one can only love or hate this city, that there’s no in between. Black or white, no shades of grey. But even after a year here, I’m sitting on the fence unable to make up my mind.
Do I love this absolutely mental city? Yes, at times - When an absolute stranger on the packed local train flashes a smile despite being elbowed from all directions, when people queue up at the bus stop in an orderly manner despite the horrendous peak hour rush, when I go jogging on marine drive and the sun peeks from behind the Trident, when I’m sitting on the broad pavement and watch the grey waters crash onto the rocks below me at Nariman point, when the first rains hit the city with a vengeance in June, when I spend a sunny Sunday morning just walking alone along the broad wide roads of Fort, when I saunter around the meandering old roads named after long bygone Parsis in Colaba with a camera in hand, when I see kids running to school in oversized raincoats, when I stand on the footboard of that rare empty train and feel the wind in my face, whenever I visit Café Madras and the guy behind the counter flashes me a familiar smile, when I step out on the streets alone at 2 AM and still feel absolutely safe, when the auto and cab drivers take pains to give me exact change even if it’s just a rupee, when I see people going through the same routine for years on end to earn an honest living… Yes, this city does bring a smile to my face.
Do I hate Mumbai? Oh yes. It drives me mad that I cannot find a moment’s peace here – a minute without all the honking and din, that I just HAVE TO leave my house not a moment later than 8:02 to catch the 8:12 local so that I can get to office in one piece, that it invariably rains nay, pours non-stop every weekend in the monsoon causing all weekend plans to go kaput, that there’s no place outside my home where I can be completely alone whenever I want to, that I’m still to find my “happy place” here, that I cannot find time to do anything apart from work and home on weekdays, that I have to put my life on the line every time I attempt to board the general compartment of a local at peak hours, that everything is a fight here, a challenge that one must face every day and every moment, that we have to live in houses that are more like matchboxes… ok shoeboxes and proudly call them “home”, that a few potted plants on one’s balcony are labelled “gardens”, that ten trees lining a road is considered a “green locality”, that a substantial amount of one’s income has to go on rent, that mountains of garbage lying on the side of the road is considered normal, that taking 2 hours to cross 12 km to get back home is “acceptable”… Ufff.
Despite all this, do I defend Mumbai? Yes, and vociferously especially whenever someone compares it with Delhi. After all, how can Delhi with its corrupt politicians, snooty uber rich people (no offence to friends staying in Delhi), spoilt brats and its “oh-so-perfect” roads even come close to honest, hardworking, matter-of-fact Mumbai? I agree Mumbai comes nowhere close to Bangalore on any aspect, but its miles above Delhi.
But does life at Mumbai sadden me? Yes, enormously. It pains me to see the colossal rich-poor divide in this city… it probably compares to no other city in the world and is just getting worse by the day. This is a city where models sporting Louis Vuittons and stilettos, super rich business honchos in their expensive suits and movie stars in their BMWs and their Mercs whizz past millions of people living on footpaths on less than a dollar a day without a second glance. It distresses me that people spend thousands of rupees to buy clothes they don’t need, but cannot spare a rupee to an old homeless lady, that hundreds of people die on the locals every year but nothing has been done to make the trains safer, that Mumbai’s famed “resilience” is actually sheer apathy, that the infrastructure is crumbling and living standards dropping by the minute, that thousands of children have no childhood but have to earn just to be able to eat. It’s depressing to see a little girl of about six squeezing her body through a six inch ring to earn a few rupees, a little boy of five selling odds and ends on the local train and an aged blind beggar singing so that people who have eyes and can see but are blind in every other way can take notice of him. It almost kills me.
Yet despite all this, something about Mumbai binds everyone together. It’s a melting pot, a smorgasbord if you may, that offers something for everyone. “One for all and all for one” they say. Everything comes to a grinding halt when Sachin scores a century, when another bomb explodes, when the millions of Ganeshas are taken to the sea for immersion, when the roads flood and both prince and pauper have to swim back home… and then life goes back to normal - the machine starts running again after a brief pause.
Is this city for me? I don’t know… I think not. Will I ever be able to make up my mind about Mumbai? Nope. I don’t see myself getting off this fence any time soon.
Do I love this absolutely mental city? Yes, at times - When an absolute stranger on the packed local train flashes a smile despite being elbowed from all directions, when people queue up at the bus stop in an orderly manner despite the horrendous peak hour rush, when I go jogging on marine drive and the sun peeks from behind the Trident, when I’m sitting on the broad pavement and watch the grey waters crash onto the rocks below me at Nariman point, when the first rains hit the city with a vengeance in June, when I spend a sunny Sunday morning just walking alone along the broad wide roads of Fort, when I saunter around the meandering old roads named after long bygone Parsis in Colaba with a camera in hand, when I see kids running to school in oversized raincoats, when I stand on the footboard of that rare empty train and feel the wind in my face, whenever I visit Café Madras and the guy behind the counter flashes me a familiar smile, when I step out on the streets alone at 2 AM and still feel absolutely safe, when the auto and cab drivers take pains to give me exact change even if it’s just a rupee, when I see people going through the same routine for years on end to earn an honest living… Yes, this city does bring a smile to my face.
Do I hate Mumbai? Oh yes. It drives me mad that I cannot find a moment’s peace here – a minute without all the honking and din, that I just HAVE TO leave my house not a moment later than 8:02 to catch the 8:12 local so that I can get to office in one piece, that it invariably rains nay, pours non-stop every weekend in the monsoon causing all weekend plans to go kaput, that there’s no place outside my home where I can be completely alone whenever I want to, that I’m still to find my “happy place” here, that I cannot find time to do anything apart from work and home on weekdays, that I have to put my life on the line every time I attempt to board the general compartment of a local at peak hours, that everything is a fight here, a challenge that one must face every day and every moment, that we have to live in houses that are more like matchboxes… ok shoeboxes and proudly call them “home”, that a few potted plants on one’s balcony are labelled “gardens”, that ten trees lining a road is considered a “green locality”, that a substantial amount of one’s income has to go on rent, that mountains of garbage lying on the side of the road is considered normal, that taking 2 hours to cross 12 km to get back home is “acceptable”… Ufff.
Despite all this, do I defend Mumbai? Yes, and vociferously especially whenever someone compares it with Delhi. After all, how can Delhi with its corrupt politicians, snooty uber rich people (no offence to friends staying in Delhi), spoilt brats and its “oh-so-perfect” roads even come close to honest, hardworking, matter-of-fact Mumbai? I agree Mumbai comes nowhere close to Bangalore on any aspect, but its miles above Delhi.
But does life at Mumbai sadden me? Yes, enormously. It pains me to see the colossal rich-poor divide in this city… it probably compares to no other city in the world and is just getting worse by the day. This is a city where models sporting Louis Vuittons and stilettos, super rich business honchos in their expensive suits and movie stars in their BMWs and their Mercs whizz past millions of people living on footpaths on less than a dollar a day without a second glance. It distresses me that people spend thousands of rupees to buy clothes they don’t need, but cannot spare a rupee to an old homeless lady, that hundreds of people die on the locals every year but nothing has been done to make the trains safer, that Mumbai’s famed “resilience” is actually sheer apathy, that the infrastructure is crumbling and living standards dropping by the minute, that thousands of children have no childhood but have to earn just to be able to eat. It’s depressing to see a little girl of about six squeezing her body through a six inch ring to earn a few rupees, a little boy of five selling odds and ends on the local train and an aged blind beggar singing so that people who have eyes and can see but are blind in every other way can take notice of him. It almost kills me.
Yet despite all this, something about Mumbai binds everyone together. It’s a melting pot, a smorgasbord if you may, that offers something for everyone. “One for all and all for one” they say. Everything comes to a grinding halt when Sachin scores a century, when another bomb explodes, when the millions of Ganeshas are taken to the sea for immersion, when the roads flood and both prince and pauper have to swim back home… and then life goes back to normal - the machine starts running again after a brief pause.
Is this city for me? I don’t know… I think not. Will I ever be able to make up my mind about Mumbai? Nope. I don’t see myself getting off this fence any time soon.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The beautiful game...
I'm writing this note just a few hours before the big match, the WC finals. India and Srilanka, Ramayana v2.0 - who would've thought! The behemoths, Australia and South Africa lie fallen like warriors with broken swords along the long, winding path to the glorious cup. The excitement and impatience on the street below is palpable! The honking is a tad louder, the walking a step faster, the smiles on the faces of Mumbaikars are a few millimetres wider. On the trains too, the talk is about cricket and cricket alone according to a friend of mine who's on his way to the stadium. For the last week, 90% of all the posts on my facebook wall have been about cricket! Post match analysis, Sachin's 100th ton, speculations about match fixing, Sachin's 100th ton, articles by former cricketers, Sachin's 100th ton, vintage videos of India's wins, Sachin's 100th ton are doing the rounds on any portal that's connected to the cloud. I think the question "Will he, won't he" has been posed more times in the last few days than all the women in the world, through all the ages have pondered plucking at rose petals. And if cricket has not been on the front page of all the leading dailies everyday for the last 40 days, then I'll give up watching the sport! National news, inflation worries, terror threats, GDP growth and its woes, everything lies forgotten for cricket. Sab chalta hai Bhai, it's cricket after all. And this crazy nation goes impossibly berserk when our men in Blue are on the field.
My association with this game goes as far as I can remember. Having an athletic father who worshipped the game, having played it at district level and a grandmother whose razor sharp memory could hold statistics and numbers better than databases, ensured that I received copious doses of the beauty of cricket right from the age of 6 or 7. I saw cricket transition from the classy whites with a red ball to a splash a colours (92 was it?) played with a white ball and I was hooked. So much so that, plumb in front of the wicket, silly mid on, silly point, cover drive, long off, yorker were a significant part of my early english vocabulary. I loved the cracking sound that was made when the wooden willow hitting the ball for a boundary, the slight knick of the bat before a caught behind and the sound of the crowds roaring on television. I read about the history of the game in the school kid's version of Wisden, spent hours neatly cutting out colour pictures of favourite cricketers from the newspapers and tacking them over a cricket scrap book and read anything I could lay my hands upon about Steve Waugh, Shaun Pollock, Hansie Cronje, Anil Kumble and the new kid on the block - Sachin Tendulkar.
Over the years, several days were spent in front of a rickety old television with my father and sometimes a few of his friends, my grandmother, my sister and I at the edge of our seats, cheering for Team India, cussing them for dropped catches and misfields, screaming "what a beauty" at every classy ball at the top of our voices and celebrating every success with loud screaming, jumping and dancing. My mother, not so much an ardent fan of India mainly because of the insanity it invoked in the rest of her mad household, would hover in the background reminding us when wickets fell that "cricket is the ultimate winner" only to be met by blank stares from all us devastated souls. As the years progressed, my love for the game just increased. From 1996, where India crashed out to Srilanka in the semis (and for which we are seeking revenge today!) to the infamous 1999 world cup where I was smitten by the beautiful English cricket grounds with even more beautiful names (Oval, Old Trafford, Lord's, Edgebaston, Trent Bridge), I watched every series whether India played in it or not. Rahul Dravid with his fresh, sharp look, his heartwarming smile and "by the rule book" batting was my newest crush. Having always hated Australia for no reason whatsoever, I cried unstoppably during the Semi Finals of the 1999 World Cup when South Africa crashed out when Father Time stood still, turned around and threw his hands up at Allan Donald. The match fixing scandals that rocked the cricketing world soon after followed by Hansie Cronje plane crash rocked my world and I hoped that the game would come out clean again. The Indian final crash to Australia in the 2003 World Cup was the hilt where I spent the day watching the match and then stayed up all night in a blend of severe depression over India's loss, fear that I would flunk my Chemistry final exam the next day and palpitations that I may sleep through the paper! Which sadist keeps an examination the day after the world cup finals?!
University and MBA came and my love for the game dwindled. My dad being an ardent Sampras fan had already given me a substitute - Tennis, to fall back upon, and Federer with his ballet-like grace and his classy forehand caught my eye and grabbed a significant portion of my mindshare. Interest for cricket picked up only during the World Cup 2007 (and crashed after India's disastrous early exit), India Pakistan matches and the occasional interesting tri-nation series. Twenty-20 never really sparked my old fire for the game and IPL (and my hatred for it and the fact that it's just not cricket!) is a topic for a future post! However, before this world cup, something just sparked my interest again. I don't know if it was just the fact that the Cup was being played in the sub-continent, or that India had a good chance this time of lifting the trophy again, but my old fire is raging again. I resolved to watch atleast one match at the ground, and when I did, the insanity and passion that the game once invoked in me was reborn! I screamed, shouted, cursed, laughed, jumped, sang and cheered like I used to 15 years ago and all I can say now is that this love is here to stay! I don't know what magic is there about this game that brings a nation of 1.2 billion people to a grinding halt and unites them like nothing else! After all, as a friend puts it, "It's a game where 13 blokes play with a piece of wood and a ball to a random set of rules, but something about the game makes it so endearing."
So here's to an old love that's come back in full force, a life-long alliance with the game, to good sportsmanship and the true spirit of cricket! I don't care who wins the game today as long as it's India! :D
My association with this game goes as far as I can remember. Having an athletic father who worshipped the game, having played it at district level and a grandmother whose razor sharp memory could hold statistics and numbers better than databases, ensured that I received copious doses of the beauty of cricket right from the age of 6 or 7. I saw cricket transition from the classy whites with a red ball to a splash a colours (92 was it?) played with a white ball and I was hooked. So much so that, plumb in front of the wicket, silly mid on, silly point, cover drive, long off, yorker were a significant part of my early english vocabulary. I loved the cracking sound that was made when the wooden willow hitting the ball for a boundary, the slight knick of the bat before a caught behind and the sound of the crowds roaring on television. I read about the history of the game in the school kid's version of Wisden, spent hours neatly cutting out colour pictures of favourite cricketers from the newspapers and tacking them over a cricket scrap book and read anything I could lay my hands upon about Steve Waugh, Shaun Pollock, Hansie Cronje, Anil Kumble and the new kid on the block - Sachin Tendulkar.
Over the years, several days were spent in front of a rickety old television with my father and sometimes a few of his friends, my grandmother, my sister and I at the edge of our seats, cheering for Team India, cussing them for dropped catches and misfields, screaming "what a beauty" at every classy ball at the top of our voices and celebrating every success with loud screaming, jumping and dancing. My mother, not so much an ardent fan of India mainly because of the insanity it invoked in the rest of her mad household, would hover in the background reminding us when wickets fell that "cricket is the ultimate winner" only to be met by blank stares from all us devastated souls. As the years progressed, my love for the game just increased. From 1996, where India crashed out to Srilanka in the semis (and for which we are seeking revenge today!) to the infamous 1999 world cup where I was smitten by the beautiful English cricket grounds with even more beautiful names (Oval, Old Trafford, Lord's, Edgebaston, Trent Bridge), I watched every series whether India played in it or not. Rahul Dravid with his fresh, sharp look, his heartwarming smile and "by the rule book" batting was my newest crush. Having always hated Australia for no reason whatsoever, I cried unstoppably during the Semi Finals of the 1999 World Cup when South Africa crashed out when Father Time stood still, turned around and threw his hands up at Allan Donald. The match fixing scandals that rocked the cricketing world soon after followed by Hansie Cronje plane crash rocked my world and I hoped that the game would come out clean again. The Indian final crash to Australia in the 2003 World Cup was the hilt where I spent the day watching the match and then stayed up all night in a blend of severe depression over India's loss, fear that I would flunk my Chemistry final exam the next day and palpitations that I may sleep through the paper! Which sadist keeps an examination the day after the world cup finals?!
University and MBA came and my love for the game dwindled. My dad being an ardent Sampras fan had already given me a substitute - Tennis, to fall back upon, and Federer with his ballet-like grace and his classy forehand caught my eye and grabbed a significant portion of my mindshare. Interest for cricket picked up only during the World Cup 2007 (and crashed after India's disastrous early exit), India Pakistan matches and the occasional interesting tri-nation series. Twenty-20 never really sparked my old fire for the game and IPL (and my hatred for it and the fact that it's just not cricket!) is a topic for a future post! However, before this world cup, something just sparked my interest again. I don't know if it was just the fact that the Cup was being played in the sub-continent, or that India had a good chance this time of lifting the trophy again, but my old fire is raging again. I resolved to watch atleast one match at the ground, and when I did, the insanity and passion that the game once invoked in me was reborn! I screamed, shouted, cursed, laughed, jumped, sang and cheered like I used to 15 years ago and all I can say now is that this love is here to stay! I don't know what magic is there about this game that brings a nation of 1.2 billion people to a grinding halt and unites them like nothing else! After all, as a friend puts it, "It's a game where 13 blokes play with a piece of wood and a ball to a random set of rules, but something about the game makes it so endearing."
So here's to an old love that's come back in full force, a life-long alliance with the game, to good sportsmanship and the true spirit of cricket! I don't care who wins the game today as long as it's India! :D
A year flies by, yet memories live on...
I still can't believe a year's gone by since that memorable spring day in a sleepy town called Ahmedabad when 280 black cloaked, bright eyed youngsters took the short walk up the stage to collect a piece of parchment that would "brand them for life"! I wonder what emotions might've effervesced in the majestic grass covered quadrangle enclosed by the massive red brick walls that day. Pride, joy, happiness, relief, ambition, hope... if those walls could talk, I'm sure they would be bursting to sing out too. And Louis Kahn, wherever in heaven or hell will sure be proud to have been a part of the making of this wonderful place that was my home for two years and will forever hold a special place in my heart.
As I stepped off the dias, I could think of only one person, the promise that I had made and kept, and the dream that I would continue to strive towards. While walking down the aisle holding the coveted parchment in hand, my eyes sought out my mother and there she was in the distance, her eyes sparkling with tears of pride, shining out like a single daffodil in a field of heather. Wordlessly, I handed over the degree to her and hugged her. The victory was as much hers and dad's as mine. The journey from being a fresh, naive engineer out of college to a strong and more mature "manager" ready to take on the world was a long, winding and hard trail. This was the befitting end - too short maybe, but heart warming. Two years spent there flashed before my eyes as I went around taking pictures with all my family members who had come there to celebrate my success and my dear friends who were setting out on their own paths in life... Words failed me once again. Time seemed to have stopped and yet seemed to be flying... Probably, the best lessons learnt in those grey cement and red brick classrooms were not of Accounting, Finance, Strategy or Marketing, but of those in life - dealing with different kinds of people, learning when to step forward and take a challenge and when to back off, knowing the right time to strike the iron, doing things and more importantly, getting things done...
I have cursed and loved this place in equal measure, but as I left I could feel only one thing - nostalgia. I called this place a torture chamber, a concentration camp, a boiler room, a prison and every other synonym possible during all those sleepless nights in the first year spent feverishly completing assignments, while getting "cold-called" when dozing off in class, after seeing a quiz notice on a totally random subject at 1.30 PM outside the mess and while getting screwed up grades in subjects where I felt like a champ. However, the same brick walls felt like heaven when I lay down on the wet grass all alone, in the wee hours of the morning at the LKP gazing at the stars and feeling the serenity of the place. Time would stand still at those moments and sigh...
Those countless coffees, late nights reading case materials while knowing that I wouldn't remember a thing the next morning, the long discussions at the CT eating maggi and drinking "chai", those countless movie sessions, nights spent playing card games, frisbee evenings, case discussions, forming competition teams and giving up just a few days before the submission, the "WAC runs", the countless treats (many a time, for no reason), the birthday parties, CCCFs, Section tempo shouts, dorm dunking nights... they're all just memories now. Memories that remain fresh in my mind a year since that wonderful day, memories that will always hold a special place in my heart, memories that may fade but will always remain in a small corner of my mind, to materialize on some days like dusty old and yellowed childhood photographs...
These memories may jade over time, but I know that the friendships I have forged during those two years will remain with me for a life time and only get stronger. Irrespective of the forum through or frequency with which we choose to remain in touch - be it random twice-a-year calls made on birthdays, facebook updates, regular gtalk chats, once-in-a-while meet ups, weekly or daily calls, I know these are friends I can bank on to get me out of a sticky situation, to pull me through in times of need, to give me fundae when I need them and when I don't, to join me in all my successes, to stand in 5 hour long queues in the hot sun to get cricket match tickets for me, to provide shelter to me after randomly turning up at their door and to take my calls at 3 AM in the morning.
Guys, it's been a year since that unforgettable day, but the journey will only get better. Here's to friendship, love and luck. And always remember - not one of us is "just a brick in the wall"
As I stepped off the dias, I could think of only one person, the promise that I had made and kept, and the dream that I would continue to strive towards. While walking down the aisle holding the coveted parchment in hand, my eyes sought out my mother and there she was in the distance, her eyes sparkling with tears of pride, shining out like a single daffodil in a field of heather. Wordlessly, I handed over the degree to her and hugged her. The victory was as much hers and dad's as mine. The journey from being a fresh, naive engineer out of college to a strong and more mature "manager" ready to take on the world was a long, winding and hard trail. This was the befitting end - too short maybe, but heart warming. Two years spent there flashed before my eyes as I went around taking pictures with all my family members who had come there to celebrate my success and my dear friends who were setting out on their own paths in life... Words failed me once again. Time seemed to have stopped and yet seemed to be flying... Probably, the best lessons learnt in those grey cement and red brick classrooms were not of Accounting, Finance, Strategy or Marketing, but of those in life - dealing with different kinds of people, learning when to step forward and take a challenge and when to back off, knowing the right time to strike the iron, doing things and more importantly, getting things done...
I have cursed and loved this place in equal measure, but as I left I could feel only one thing - nostalgia. I called this place a torture chamber, a concentration camp, a boiler room, a prison and every other synonym possible during all those sleepless nights in the first year spent feverishly completing assignments, while getting "cold-called" when dozing off in class, after seeing a quiz notice on a totally random subject at 1.30 PM outside the mess and while getting screwed up grades in subjects where I felt like a champ. However, the same brick walls felt like heaven when I lay down on the wet grass all alone, in the wee hours of the morning at the LKP gazing at the stars and feeling the serenity of the place. Time would stand still at those moments and sigh...
Those countless coffees, late nights reading case materials while knowing that I wouldn't remember a thing the next morning, the long discussions at the CT eating maggi and drinking "chai", those countless movie sessions, nights spent playing card games, frisbee evenings, case discussions, forming competition teams and giving up just a few days before the submission, the "WAC runs", the countless treats (many a time, for no reason), the birthday parties, CCCFs, Section tempo shouts, dorm dunking nights... they're all just memories now. Memories that remain fresh in my mind a year since that wonderful day, memories that will always hold a special place in my heart, memories that may fade but will always remain in a small corner of my mind, to materialize on some days like dusty old and yellowed childhood photographs...
These memories may jade over time, but I know that the friendships I have forged during those two years will remain with me for a life time and only get stronger. Irrespective of the forum through or frequency with which we choose to remain in touch - be it random twice-a-year calls made on birthdays, facebook updates, regular gtalk chats, once-in-a-while meet ups, weekly or daily calls, I know these are friends I can bank on to get me out of a sticky situation, to pull me through in times of need, to give me fundae when I need them and when I don't, to join me in all my successes, to stand in 5 hour long queues in the hot sun to get cricket match tickets for me, to provide shelter to me after randomly turning up at their door and to take my calls at 3 AM in the morning.
Guys, it's been a year since that unforgettable day, but the journey will only get better. Here's to friendship, love and luck. And always remember - not one of us is "just a brick in the wall"
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