Call me Captain Contramental.... Please

These days my e-ego has taken a massive battering. I would start with the basics to make matters simpler. And the context as well to make it more comprehensible. The other day, I was trudging across Band Stand when I chanced upon a long lost friend. “Dude, where have you been? What have you been upto? And who is this little angel with you?” I ask pointing to the child accompanying him. And with a puff on his Benson and Hedges he declared that he has been making Mumbai “a better place” by being the McKinsey consultant with the city municipality and that he was not only ideating but implementing as well, contrary to beliefs (I never had a belief, I just know!). And that the angel with him was his girl friend’s niece, whom he just adores (The sucker has been baby sitting, and doesn’t even realize, since love is blind… (wow the analytical consulting bug in me… yippee)…Poor soul!).

And then came the questions that shattered me. “Uncle, do you have an orkut account?” “Yes, I do,” came the solemn answers. “How many friends do you have?” chirped the child, “321 (I have these at the tip of my fingers, but ask me to define return on capital employed and ahem!)”. “Wow! And how many fans?” “12,” I blurped. “Oh that’s really less for 321 friends.” Now what was that supposed to mean. How was that a parameter of measurement.

That night I came down and carried out a combing operation on Orkut and these were the key takeaways:

1. 13 fans out of a friend list of 321 is a pretty abysmal count
2. The median of fan to friend ratio of females is around 1 to 9. For really attractive ones it can go upto 1 to 3
3. The same median for males is around 1 to 11 to 1 to 17. For hunks I have even seen 1 to 2 (we beat them guys!).

For me the ratio was bordering death by shame (1 to 26.75). Why did not I ever notice?

The conversation even took me and my friend to blogging and blog-e-brities and the scenario seemed equally bleak. Most run of the mill bloggers had at least 5 comments to each of their blogs. My archive had none and to top it all, most of my blogs had zero comments. Was my toil because of nothing? I mean blogging was supposed to give vent to the exasperated author in me because publishers refused to recognize my talent. Were they right? Confused and downright dejected, I decided to pay my friend a visit again and to have a consultant’s view to the same (come on McKinsey would not pay him the greens just for nothing). And over a pitcher at Deep Purple the following conversation ensued.

Me: Hi dude, tell me is the scenario really bleak?
Friend: Very

Me: Isn’t there any hope?
Friend: Yes there is.

Me: Please advise Guru.
Friend: Ok listen. I will first start with blogging. The secret of successful blogging lies in a statement once made by Neha Dhupia.

Me: (aghast) What!! (sigh! The effect of alcohol on a consultant)
Friend: Yeah! She had once famously remarked that the only thing that sells in Hindi cinema is SRK and sex. The same is the case with blogging. The only things that sells here is a heady cocktail of acerbic sarcasm mixed with the ability to laugh at your ownself or “insider tales” or e-celebrities who have taken to blogging after being celebrities in some other unrelated fields.

Me: (really interested now) What do you mean?
Friend: (Gulping his pint) Name some famous blogs that you go through.

Me: Greatbong, Sidin, India Uncut, gauravsabnis, youthcurry, rishtrader, quizislife etc etc.
Friend: Ok lets do some analysis now.

• Greatbong has been making you laugh with his sarcasms on Mithunism, Ganguly, maudlin family tales. So apply axiom 1
• Sidin started with the great ability to laugh at his own self and then has graduated to being a master story teller himself awaiting his new novel. Axiom 1 and 3.
• Amit Varma and Cricinfo go hand in hand and his pictures which are never published in the electronic media and jabs at "successful but unfit" captains make a potent mixture. Every bit of Axiom 2 and 3.
• Gaurav Sabnis took the battle to the pony tailed monster. Axiom 3.
• Ditto to youthcurry where you associate Rashmi Bansal and Jammag. Axiom 3 again.
• Rishtrader is your new age insta rich formula. Axiom 2

And so he gulped another pint with an air of so-you-see.

Me: Magnificient, awesome, true Mckinsey blood. So whats the way out.
Friend: Thank you

Me: So whats the way out?
Friend: Obviously the Mallika Sherawat way, when you have to make a mark amidst so many pretty damsels.

Me: Whats that supposed to mean! Shed off my clothes, write about sleaze? Yuck!
Friend: Urgh… I mean find a niche. Something that you think everyone will want to read.

Me: Dude, the only think that can create that amount of hype is an English translation of Mastram.
Friend: Yaar use some amount of creativity.

Me: Oh Ok.. so tell me something about Orkut as well.
Friend: Oh yes, that’s a graver problem. I mean that ratio needs serious repairing. Otherwise your confidence had it.

Me: Ya, I know. But what to do?
Friend: You can try one of the following two.
One find a coterie of your friends who have a similar ratio and each of you become the fan of all others.

Me: I have tried that already.
Friend: And?

Me: (Softly) I am by far the lowest.
Friend: Then you can try the testimonial tag for all and sundry and subtly ask them to be fans in the messages section.

Me: Eeks!! Too embarrassing.
Friend: (Putting a hand across me) Ya I know. Or the last is do what I have done.

Me: What?
Friend: Close your blog and erase your Orkut account before electronic dementia sets in you.

A pitcher of beer spent in vain!!!

Help me find

Today is Christmas. And I was roaming in the only mall in the newer townships of Mumbai. Its 3 in the afternoon and it seems that all and sundry have descended for their Christmas shopping here irrespective of religion. An elderly Bengali couple sips the free Bru instant coffee being promoted and philosophizes that this shopping has nothing to do with the Yule spirit but is just an implications of fattening paychecks and bulging plastics in wallets. I pretend to ignore them. This story is not about them.

I come upon the first floor Santa and its various reincarnations of the reindeer and stumble upon a typical family. Lady window shopping and caressing her hair. This story is not about her. Pop playing with his latest “in” mobile. This story is not about him. A doting father eggs his son, “C’mon Rahul, stand beside Santa, let me take a pic and flashes his digicam.” Being a recent proud owner of such an apparatus myself, this caught my attention, but this story is surely not about it. Rahul trudges and stands beside Santa with a smile-less face. Pop obliges with a snap.

This story is about Rahul and similar creatures of his ilk.

This listless feeling has been hitting me in the face for quite some time, but there have been some glaring incidences. I had been at home for the Durga Pujas. And having overcome that amount of homely lethargy, I ventured out with some long lost friends to catch up with some pandal hopping. First, I did not seem to take notice, but, on the day of Navami, it suddenly dawned upon me that the “tonic” for Durga Pujas has been missing, since I was yet to come across any glaring microphone blasting out Hindi numbers. Now, I take serious sentimental offence to this. And anyone like me who has grown up with a restricted viewership of Chitrahaar and “Best of the Best” would vouch. Puja microphones belting out Aashiqui, Saajan, Sadak numbers were our annual doses of Bollywood and we gobbled them. Our vocabulary of Hindi had been supplemented to the levels of survival of today, much due to these songs. Altaf Raja is much more a contributor to my Hindi education than Harivansh Rai Bachchan. But, the cultural smorgasbord has worked overtime since, so that what we are left with delectable cuisines of shehnais or the chanting of mantras or the umpteenth repetition of Birendra Krishna’s voice serving out Mahishashurmardini. And till this day, those songs carry with them the scent of growing up. This generation would surely miss tearing their head over Irodov in the dead of the night, shivering in the cold with a distant hymn coming from the darkness pouring relief “Saanson ki zaroorat hai jaise….”

The belief strengthened during a recent visit to the nearest multiplex (gross misnomer, I do agree, but a fantastic example of a price searcher market in economics). The movie in question was Dhoom 2. And I was in all my salivating splendor, my age could muster. After all this was Bollywood heirling after Bollywood Lady No. 1A with the latter trying to run clear from the minimum amount of attire, while the former hoarsed, “come on, do leave something for my imagination on my first night after our marriage … ahem, if we do.” After a tortuous wait of almost 45 mins She did arrive, gyrating and setting the screen on fire. But, in the midst of the Dolby surrounds, did I miss something? I mean where are the damned WHISTLES? Where are the kisses flying around? Where are they? In every successful “item” movie, the chemistry between the lead actors was almost as profound as the electricity struck with the audience and I do believe that this is as much an earning for an actor as much as the ringing cash counters. So from Mr. India to Sarfarosh, from Apradh to Gupt to even Fiza the story during my growing up years have always been the same. If we remember correctly, five of us on a rickety scooter, risked a cyclone to be present to hoot for "Jo Haal Dilka..."

But it seems that in the mire of cultural policing we have forgotten to give our vent to psychic enthusiasm for “eye-tonic”. Amidst Page 3 columns of local dailies and “erotic” cooked up problems we find our salivating solutions and hence have come to cohabit this part of the earth with listless citizens. Of Rahuls who have seventy three snaps, all in designer clothes and without smiles.

BENGALI – WHO ME?

Yesterday’s dinner suddenly got better. A motley group of the Mumbai crowd, including me had assembled for dinner yesterday, a Saturday night. The discussion waived as usual to cricket and banter. Of a certain exasperated spirit who just never seems to give up. If Complan ever comes up with a resilient version, you know who is the brand ambassador. The question is this is the same person who was the most successful captain of India. Then why is it that his achievements is always “Indian” in spirit while his fallacies are “Bengali” in flavor. The same banter came up yesterday.Someone gushed, “Did you look, with what audacity he pulled Ntini? My God, the poor guy was flushed! Truly a street cut Indian.” For the last 10 months, the exile was not that of a former skipper. It seemed to be of every Bengali strewn around in rootless metropolices.

Ganguly feeds sound bytes exclusively for Bengali journos, once remarked Amit Varma of Cricinfo, in his blog. Ganguly is a true limbo of the Bengali spirit, lethargic and inertial, said colleagues. “Ganguly irks a lot because of his undiplomatic attitude,” remarks one of my friends, “he just speaks out of his sleeves. It’s the same reason why Bengalis make bad businessmen; they are too emotional to think of bottomline.” Since the last Pakistan tour, it seemed that every Bengali outside Bengal was responsible for the rise and fall of a certain Ganguly.

Come November 30 and “Sweets today Prabal. Ganguly is in the team.” Says one. “No dude. Not just now, lets keep that if he makes it to the final eleven,” quips another with a smirk. “Prabal, you hitting the gym these days?” says a third bewildering me, “dada seems to have become a health freak these days.” But how does that concern me?

Did I ask for freshly baked biriyani/upma when Laxman found his way in? Or did I ask for gifts when Kumble had his baby or Dravid succeeded in all his machinations fuelled by the master “underhand” bowler in the world.The underlying fact does not lie in the fact that Ganguly is the embodiment of the Bengali spirit. He is definitely not. Ganguly is the most unBengali you can ever find. In the spate of the last 15 days when Bengal is reeling under 4 bandhs raging from issues like Singur to pro globalization (utter trash!), this man has shown a work ethic and a demeanour unheard of from any Bengali.

And there have been instances in history as well where the ostracization of Bengalis have been because of their unBengali like nature (remember a certain Bose, who showed the guile to flee from house arrest in disguise. The baritone of the Radio Germany broadcast on that fateful night still titillates the hearts of many, but the Congress’ behavior meted out is known to very few).

The fact that Bengal got lost out in the last few years in the quagmire of political and administrative confusion, inhouse coalition squabbles, intelligentsia gone confused, aversion, apathy and lethargy to enterprising spirit, is just the things Ganguly is not. And that’s why, while Ganguly’s failures are the rub of what Bengali jokes (aka Sardar!!) is made of, his successes and spirit is the toast of India. And so, while "red" unions would burn effigies of More and Chappel outside his Behala mansion when he is not picked, or when the average Indian would vie for his blood when he lost his way as a captain, the ENTIRE billion population would still stand up and bow when the ball crashes through the 7-man offside cordon for a cover boundary.

And no one knows it better than Ganguly himself. When Ntini ended the fluent knock of 25, the first time he got out in the test, there was no look frustration, no kicking himself for another opportunity missed (as used to be just after the World Cup days). It was just an assured return to the pavilion with a nod to himself saying, “Come Kingsmead and I will be back.”

A year going by

The year seems drawing to a close.. and its been a helluva ride this year... Yesterday, I was quite pensively browsing through the net and hit across some articles which would try to rate the event of the year, events which made or broke our lives for better or worse but left quite an indelibile mark. Most people seem to believe that that the most incredible event of the year seem to be sudden endearment with Bush / Hu or for that matter the blockbuster "fiction" of the year "In the line of fire"... Yes, a nuclear democracy seem to be more important than a resounding blast that shook the smithereens of Mumbai.... A bubbling stock market and real estate seem to be more important than Singur or Kohlapur gone awfully wrong.... The tryst in a Varanasi temple seem to take much more air time than a "misdirected" capital sentence gone completely misplaced....
In this respect, I would still believe that the most memorable event of the year could well be tomorrow when a certain arrogant brat goes out to bat for his umpteenth comeback, to prove the best underhand bowler wrong and to provide some crispy sound bytes right from the meat of the willow.
So, without much adieu I would like to request you guys, what do YOU think would qualify as
1. THE EVENT OF THE YEAR, the event that has really left a mark, a scar which has ruffled you, for better or for worse.... and
2. THE PERSONALITY OF THE YEAR

Needless to say, the wackier the better... Get cracking....

A SIGNATURE IN WILLOW

“Grandpa, what do you do, when people all around you do not believe in your abilities?” asks young Rahul.
I recited to him a line from my very favorite poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling… “when all people are losing their heads and blaming it on you..”
“Have you ever seen such a thing happening?” he asks again.
“Yes,” and then I depicted before him ball by ball about whatever transpired in the small picturesque town of Potechfstroom in South Africa. How the phoenix desperately tried to resurrect himself from demons internal and external, known and unknown, doubts and malice, short pitched and full length stuff. How he tried to let his actions speak.


That’s how I dream to describe today the 7th of December 2006 long after I am retired. Although not the finest craftsmanship, but undoubtedly the dogged spirit of not throwing in the towel, simply because I do not carry it on a cricket field. Hats off to the human mind, hats off to the underdog stature… Hats off to the spirit of the game we hate to love and love to hate