Over a Cuppa...

NICE GUYS DO WIN

2011-10-02T17:11:00.004+05:30

It’s almost as if he sneaked up on court when everyone was looking the other way. But one glance at his shot-making and you know that Ajay Jayaram has worked hard to get here.

The 23-year-old made a great debut at the World Championships in London in August, toppling a higher-ranked opponent in the tournament. He shocked 15th seeded Kenichi Tago in the first round and gave sixth-seeded Jin Chen a run for his money in the round of 16 before bowing out. A good show at the Yonex-Sunrise Vietnam Open Grand Prix around a week later, where he reached the semi-finals, and Jayaram seems to be hitting all the right notes.

Validation also comes from a career-best ranking of 25, which he achieved earlier this month and has maintained since.

“He is a good player, and has had a great year with some memorable wins. Ajay has the potential to be even better. I am sure he will achieve it in the next few months,” says former All England champion Pullela Gopi Chand.

It’s surely a bumpy road ahead. Jayaram is not only snapping at the heels of India’s highest-ranked player Parupalli Kashyap (ranked two places higher), but is also racing against his compatriot for a spot in the London Olympics next year. “Ranking is important but the focus shouldn’t be on ranking or competing with Kashyap,” said Jayaram, before leaving for Tokyo for the Yonex Open Japan Super Series event which started on Tuesday. “I am looking at performing well at big tournaments like the Super Series events. I have shown that I am capable of beating top players. So now I am aiming at those victories consistently. The ranking will take care of itself. The first phase is the qualification for the London Olympics. That in itself is a race,” added Jayaram.

The comparisons though are hard to ignore. “Ajay is unorthodox, depending on an attacking game,” says Gopi Chand. “He picks good angles from different corners, making him an effective all-court player. Kashyap has a more all-round game but falters on the mental side. He has struggled more in close matches.”

Prakash Padukone, whose academy in Bangalore Jayaram earlier trained in, says it will be a close contest between the two. “At this stage, even though there are others closing in, it does look like either Ajay or Kashyap would get that (Olympic) berth. The one who remains injury-free, focused and more consistent will be on top at the end of the year.”

Jayaram’s father encouraged him to play the sport, and what began as a compulsion soon grew into an obsession. Jayaram willingly admits that without one man, his coach Tom John, this obsession would have been no fun. “He has brought a lot of change in my game. My approach itself is different now. He will push you, shout at you, abuse you and he really gets the best out of you. That’s his quality and it is working for me,” says Jayaram, smiling.

Former Portuguese national coach John was sold on the prospect of dedicating himself to the shy 22-year-old when he first saw Jayaram last year. “I spotted Ajay in Bangalore with many other players and he was in the bottom of the lot. I told him to train with me. I believed in him; he has taken that decision and that’s why we are sticking together,” says John.

Eccentric, stern and aggressive, John proved to be the perfect foil to the quiet ambition in Jayaram. He trained under his new coach in Portugal for three months in 2010 and constantly played tournaments during that time. Earlier this year, he started closing in on the big guys. He battled hard at the SCG Thailand Open Grand Prix against current world No. 6 Jin Chen (then ranked No. 4) in early June and then lost to former All England champion Muhammad Hafiz Hashim in three games at the Li Ning Singapore Open a few days later. It was no surprise then that in the space of a year, Jayaram went from languishing in the 60s to No. 25 in the world.

“Ajay is a talented player, but he lacked confidence. Playing abroad has given him the exposure that he needed and that has made him the more confident player that he is now,” says Padukone, the first Indian to win the prestigious All England Championships.

It took some time for that self-belief to slip into place. John, who truly believes a coach should be a father figure, had a plan in place to prepare Jayaram. “He plays more shots now than he used to and he is more difficult to read. If you are predictable in any sport, it is easy for your opponent to understand you. If you have a lot of variation, then you can confuse your opponent and that is the big change we are working towards,” says John.

The biggest change, though, has come from within. Jayaram has been able to work on his temperament, which many saw as a weakness in his initial years. “I want to make him an aggressive individual, not a nice boy. Nice people don’t win. You have to be mean and a street fighter,” says John, laughing.

“We wouldn’t be going through all the tough training if we did not believe that he is capable of winning an Olympic medal. When the Olympics comes, everything changes and how well you are playing a month before that matters,” John says. “He has largely played well against top players, so the pressure will be on them to perform. Anything is possible if you believe you can do it.”

Gopi Chand believes that there isn’t a huge gap between Jayaram and his higher-ranked opponents. “It is all about self-belief,” Gopi Chand says. “If he can convert those tough close games into victory, the next ones will come more easily.”

*Wrote this piece for the Mint edition of Hindustan Times*

Of Lunch Breaks and more...

2011-05-29T21:14:00.009+05:30

He sits there behind an old, rusty, over-used billing machine, spectacles perched on his nose, his eyes tired yet darting around to check on each and everyone seated in front of him.

He slouches over his little chair all day, quietly taking his plate of food to a corner of the small hall before the crowd comes in each time. He looks up at the tiny TV set fixed high up on one corner of the wall as he polishes his meagre portions of dal-chawal-sabzi, wipes his mouth and gets back behind the counter.

He has only two people helping him serve the many hungry employees who come in for a bite, a meal or just a few conversations over some wafers and biscuits.

Anna, as we call him, (at most times with irritation) is our man at the canteen. Ask him for a plate of steamed rice and he would have rattled off the entire menu that could (or could not!) be eaten with it. It really did not matter that you only wanted some chawal! Tell him you want 2 chappatis and he would ask his man to give you 4. You finish your meal at last and go over to settle the bill and he would suggest a hundred things to have for dessert!

I was never one of his favourite customers as I found one too many occasions to give the old man a tough tough time. I either grumbled about his not-so generous portions, or his watery dal, his stingy jam sandwiches, or the runny maggi.

I silently smirked with my colleagues and friends as he, with some level of exasperation, would try to find a way to shut me up. He confidently uttered 'Ho jayega.. Chaka-Chak' as if that word would do magic and transform the abysmal dish to something utterly beautiful!

But soon enough my tantrums grew on him. He got used to and even prepared himself for the many trials my friends and I put him through.

He stopped rattling off the additions to our plate, but after suggesting I indulge in a piece of the plum cake next to his cash register, he would also remind me the next day of my gaining weight - chuckling with the rest as I seethed. So the old man was finally retaliating..!

That did not stop us from troubling him. As we left after lunch, we would at times sneak up to the huge white board with the day's menu written on it and re-create our own menu. So that COLD COFFEE became OLD COFFEE, STEAM RICE became STEAM ICE, CHICKEN CURRY turned into CHICK CURRY and BADAM MILK was now BAD MILK..!

He would never realise it till the canteen broke into titters, leaving Anna all flustered and miffed.

To give him some credit, Anna learned to laugh with us and lighten up a bit.

There were many times when we skipped meals due to our shoots or ate out instead. He would then enquire about me.

We had given our old man Anna, a slice of humour to spice up his bland canteen!

Forward Planning

2011-05-22T22:54:00.006+05:30

The IPL will be done and dusted with at the end of this month. The Indian cricket team will be happily sent off and I will (hopefully) have a month (atleast) of quiet around here. Time then to do all that I missed doing all these months:

1) Take that much-needed vacation and go to some place nice and cool to just relax and unwind

2) Swimming: There is a lovely pool in my complex. Might as well check it out and learn to swim while I am at it. :)

3) Start playing tennis again with Mulls - the weekends under lights (can't wait!)

4) Read 'Love in the Time of Cholera'. That has been on the shelf for years!

5) Buy some painting supplies and draw some. I know I miss it terribly and would just love to paint all over again.

6) Read up about new recipes and experiment a bit. I loved doing that briefly this month - could make it a weekly routine in June

7) Finish that home-shopping that I started earlier this month.

That's about it for now I guess. It will be great if I could get started on these. I will consider this space hugely inspirational! :)

And now I tag Pavitra to pen down her list of things to do in June.

'SAY CHEESE MR FLETCHER'

2011-05-09T16:58:00.001+05:30

I googled Duncan Fletcher and the screen lit up with a number of pieces on his next stint with the Indian cricket team, his biodata, his wiki link, his childhood days... The number of search results exceeding that of the infamous Greg Chappell by a mile.

But I was not too keen on that. I clicked on the images tab and the page flooded with hundreds of pictures of the man in question. His chubby face in every possible angle, clothed in every english jersey that was ever made during his tenure (a handful donning the Proteas colours too). And almost every photograph had Duncan Andrew Fletcher looking hard at something (or someone) at a distance, his gaze fixed on the target and the mouth in a firm thin line.

I rummaged through the snaps, marvelling at the limitless patience with which all these lenses waited and ended up capturing the now-to-be-familiar stoic-ness of Mr Duncan Fletcher.

He was pensive and then he was curious. He was stern, he was all discipline. At some places, he was worried. At other times, a tad cautious. The cameramen snapped the seemingly reclusive Duncan Fletcher in every emotion that registered on his jawline and the wrinkles on his forehead... but never reached his eyes.

Even the title of his book, 'Behind the Shades', probably gives away a part of his innate nature and his core. There have been stories of his not-so-happy times with the English side. And incidently many of his dispassionate-looking photos have appeared in the blues of the poms.

After pouring through the many images of the unflappable Duncan, I managed to chance upon a picture at last of the old man letting out a laugh. And truly could not fathom what brought upon that rare moment in the canvas..

I imagined a joke being cracked - one that the old man had probably never heard before. So in one of those hard-to-imagine conspiratorial moments where everything fell into place, Duncan Fletcher grinned.

I smiled thinking of the lucky photographer who managed to get the shutter to fire at exactly that moment!

Just one photo in a myriad of otherwise glum, ponderous, almost sedate snapshots of the next Indian coach. It's clearly a position that not many fancy, a few stay away from and others whisper the horrors of, in empty corridors of big air-conditioned offices.

And I wondered, surely Fletcher would think of arming himself with more than just those glares, piercing eyes and smoldering expressions if he were to come out of the 2 years unscathed..!

A joke book maybe, videos of the best stand-up comics, the top 10 english comedies perhaps.... the options are endless.

That's because Mr Fletcher, you are about to coach the number 1 squad in Tests, a team that has just won the World Cup and is led by, whom many claim, the coolest customer in cricket and a man of many laughs.

So at times, a hearty chuckle could probably be the lone thing that will see you through the day...!

OUT OF EXILE...

2011-03-07T18:30:00.001+05:30

A soulful search along the shores of my memory
For the core of what made me...
The waves that lashed over me to recede away from something new
each time...
The winds that blew past me
and changed her course from the cold
each time...
Feet burying into soft wet sand
sinking into footprints that live a second
each time...
My skirt is damp sticking to my thighs
The skin tingles in the cold...
shivers as the chillness
hangs around me like an icy cloak ... moulding what is me.
The waves come and go...
with a new thought in my head.
a new shred of a new self...
slipping into place
effortlessly
like it was always there
embedded under my skin
unmindful of its birth, its origin

I change
but eyes can't tell
how or when.

I change
unaware to the self.

I
am always a new me.

Musings of Melbourne Park

2010-02-03T23:05:00.002+05:30

Don't cry Andy. You are just 22.

The Australian Open in my opinion is probably the most under-rated of the four Grand Slams (my apologies to the Flushing Meadows). I guess the Melbourne Park should garner more fans purely because it's the first Slam of the year and more importantly it somehow consistently throws up newer and unseeded players in the last four atleast.

However great my job description sounds, it's quite difficult to be able to catch all the action or even most of it (in the initial stages for sure). But I did end up watching some of Australian Open 2010.

The good part is, after yet another Slam, a player like Roger Federer reiterates that he is infact one of those few sportspersons who arrive once in a lifetime. We are all pretty sure now that no other generation will see one quite like Federer.

The bad part is, I hated admitting that.

Federer has his follies. Or maybe people like me, just love scrutinising a bit more.

I was surprised by what I witnessed from Andy Murray on Sunday. He showed me, if not anything else, that he had heart... and a lot of it. The scoreline says nothing much. It says that Roger Federer re-claimed the Australian Open beating Andy Murray in straight sets. But I guess this was one of the most intense, emotional matches the Scot has ever played. And not only because it was his first final at the Australian Open.

He had thrown a lot of himself into this match.

The tears told me a lot about Murray. Here was a shy, not so articulate, visibly un-smart, churlish even, quiet, i-try-my-best-not-to-be-so-funny guy who was crying after losing to arguably the best player in the history of the sport.

All I wanted to say was 'Andy don't cry..' Not because you didn't deserve to lose, not because you didn't get to win a Grand Slam title.. but because you want to bet there is more heart left.

But what can I say about the man who went on to win the title... He made sure his not-so-clever joke on Britain unable to shake off the 1,50,000-year drought (I am sorry Federer if i got the figures wrong), did not fall flat. And yes, the effort probably did not sap him much. He however, will most definitely think twice and some more, before scorning the Spaniards.

But scrutinies aside, Federer seems quite invincible really. Critics like that... and dislike that too. It's great to see someone reach dizzying heights, better his own self and challenge all. But it is even greater to see someone else shake him up once in a while.

Rafael Nadal left many disheartened. He limped out of his quarterfinal against Andy Murray even as many willed for him to continue. I cannot help wondering if it is time for this Hailey's comet to disappear.

There is this nagging doubt in the back of the head that this boy-man has probably given the sport his last and its best. You would hate that, because Nadal somewhere has been the only man who succeeded in getting under the skin of Federer.

But more significantly Federer, if he were indeed the true champion, would hate it even more.. because Nadal, 'is just too much fun.'

..... NOT A FULL-STOP

2008-10-02T02:05:00.002+05:30

I am writing after a long time. Lot of reasons for that. I have been compelled to write about the great Wimbledon victory... India's gold at the Olympics.. India's defeat at the Davis Cup tie. But I let myself believe I never had the time.
Soumya Viswananthan has probably made me pause.. and write what's on my mind.
I have always been a very emotional person. The entire incident did not hit me until I came to work that night and saw one of my colleagues just watching the TV screens and almost willing it all to rewind to the minute before it all allegedly happened.. He was to have dinner with Soumya the next day. Soumya herself was about to go on a vacation to spend time with her family.
Life is very strange... In that it keeps telling you how wonderful it is... And just when you feel it is all oh-so-very beautiful.. Something comes along to make it all seem an illusion..
I do not know what happened that night.. And I am beginning to feel I really wouldn't even want to be told anything.

I sat for hours with a friend at work.. Just wondering. I suddenly felt weird being part of a channel that was covering all this. To think that my channel actually took up the news just because another station did (I am led to believing this) is making me feel worse.

But I think what made me tremble a bit was that this was close to home. I knew her.. I knew her well enough to shed tears and feel angry at whoever did this! You always think these things do not happen... unless it happens to someone around you.

I do not know if this was a freak accident.. Or if it was planned... And heaven knows what really happened.. But everytime the bulletins re-rolled and her pictures splashed across the monitor, there would be a dull, painful knot twirling in the pit of my stomach, refusing to go away.

These things do not happen. And should not happen. I (for the first time) felt scared to leave for home the night later (I am on a 6pm to 2am shift). I waited till I could see the sky and took a cab home.. I feel safe when I see a blue sky. And see my folks & friends around me.

I have had innumerable fights with my folks.. More so my dad.. who would stay awake till I came back home.. Got into bed and gave him a call.. And he would ask me mundane questions at 3 in the morning - 'Are you inside your house?' 'Locked your doors?' 'Goodnight dear'.

I do not feel like fighting with him anymore... because some day during one of those fights he had said that he & mum were always restless till I got home..
I know what he means now...
I feel for Soumya's family.. because... no matter what!.. This should not have happened! And no one deserves this..

I pray and hope that her family finds the strength to be able to move on.. To look at her photo on the walls in their homes, say a prayer and walk on.

Soumya will live on.. In the times she spent with her friends.. In the schools and colleges she studied in.. In the friends she spread joy to.. In her home and her workplace..

M.I.S.S

2007-10-16T01:10:00.001+05:30

I don't have a safety pin....
I miss you then
I need a second opinion...
I miss you then
What earrings do I wear with these...?
I miss you then
Need a partner for the movies....
I miss you then
Feel like having my favourite sambaar....
I miss you then
Couldn't tell you what I felt like at 4 a.m
I missed you then

THE T20 MAGIC......

2007-10-02T21:18:00.003+05:30

Sport is beautiful & cruel..
It was cruel months ago in a certain cricket ground in the West Indies... when India was humiliated and sent out of the World Cup.
Sri Lanka beat India in that crucial match.. And no one.. not even someone who never followed the sport would have been able to erase those images that played out on every channel, everyday hence on...
There was shock, tragedy, pain, utter disappointment.... and sadness... writ large over all those faces.. sitting in the pavillion. That was probably the better place to be at that moment..
And I am sure Dravid and his men would have prayed with all their hearts for the clocks to rewind...
No one likes to lose. That is what sport does to you. I am not saying this because I am part of a country that follows cricket with its every breath..
Any sport would have the ability.... to make you wish you never lost.. Because no one wants to be on the other side of the fence....
That moment was one I never wanted to witness again in a while to come.. Not becuase India lost.. but because a team had lost.. especially in the way it did..
A team stood desolate.. alone... stranded.. deserted in a world which looked up to the victorious..

Fast forward to the 24th of September... A final that a cricket lover would probably rarely get to see..
Pakistan taking on India in the finals of the Twenty 20 World Cup..
I will not take up much time to tell you what I felt about India's performance in the tournament..
It had showed great heart.. grit.. determination.. fire.. hunger... that got them a berth in the final..
No one could take away that from this team...
And the final played out only like it should have.. Till the very last ball of the match.. till Sreesanth took that catch..
And when India won... I had tears in my eyes... Why?
Because here was a team that had won... a team that had won the way it did... experienced how it was to 'win'....
It's great to win.. to succeed...
And here was a team.. that not many months ago.. had suffered their worst defeat in years!
I cried.. because this win, had in a sense... purged me of all the gloom that the Caribbean defeat had brought along with it..
I saw them celebrating.. I saw Dhoni.. pulling all his boys in a huddle.. I don't know what he said to them.. But the gestures and the emotions flowing in that unit.. was enough to make me realise how much they had wanted this.. How much they had yearned for it..
and seeing the happy faces.. I knew they deserved it...

Here was a team that had just tasted success..
And you felt for this bunch of boys.. who in that moment had transformed into men.. happy.. guts flowing.. powerful.. dream weavers...
Here was a squad.. that had realised its dreams.. and had done it with all the zest that they possessed.

It may not be fair for anyone to live in the past.. but memories are what we are made of.....

A NOTE

2007-05-01T17:49:00.001+05:30

I saw a girl crying today...

From the C to the D

2007-03-30T14:04:00.001+05:30

Walking in the rain
Picking flowers in the morning
Screaming down the road on a bullet
Steel Helmet
Sitting on freshly cut grass
Eating samosas and sipping lime juice
Padded up to play some cricket
Fete and festivals
Chats and chaats in our corner
The magic show and the star
The knives and the black T-shirt
The mime and the mystery
Coming in.. You sleeping... Going out.. You still sleeping
Spicy dosas in the middle of the night
Some parties and some music... some...
Mahabs and more....
Straight out and not quite
The empty halls
Sister Hilda... Ha ha ha ha ha
From C to D........
It's been long...... Yes.... long.....

Tangerine Dreams....

2007-03-29T16:18:00.001+05:30

Loyalty is a very tricky word... Loyal to a person, to a relationship, to a company, to a brand even...
Sitting on the beach, under the sun, listening to music... but where are the waves? You feel betrayed in a sense...

Coming home and not finding your folks there to welcome you...

Waiting for the much-awaited, oh-so mouth-watering match to go down to the wire.. . and then at the end of hours, it is so one-sided....

Waiting for the underdog to overcome goliath.. and then see history rewritten...

Getting up one winter morning all excited... to find cold water trickling down the taps...

After months of begging and cajoling... mum and dad decide to get my brother and I a pet after all.. I remember getting all excited, waiting outside my house.. Seeing the van pull up near our apartment. My brother and I could not wait for the dog (who cares about the breed) to enter our home... And then.. van doors open and out come men carrying a fish tank.. A FISH TANK!
I feel like smiling now, thinking about that morning years ago.

A thousand sms, many long drives and a lot of conversations later... All that remains is the word later.

How come I was not the first to know...

There is so much of expectation, that I guess one just fails to realise what is there tightly squished between your palms... Maybe there IS some sense in letting go... There should be... when there may be the possiblity of it coming back(?)......

The Jar is Gone

2007-02-02T18:19:00.001+05:30

The sun
The moon
The star
The drop
The heart even
The blob
The steel-blue green silver white black
I don't see the jar on that desk anymore
Holding all that I said and had seen

My Board

2006-11-09T02:30:00.001+05:30

2:44am

So what really happened?? I decided to tell a senior to 'just relax'.. What was I even thinking?? Did I even stop.. think.. and then react?? NO..

No matter that I was not wrong..
No matter that I was in the office the whole day.. Continuing into the next morning..
No matter that my brother had come to Delhi from Chennai just to spend time with me and he landed only yesterday..
No matter that I did'nt spend even an hour with him..
No matter that I got him to do the plumbing work that happened.. coincidentally(!) that very day...
No matter that I am still waiting for the only bite that I need..
No matter that I got yelled at for no reason....

Actually.....

It really doesn't matter.....

Because someone somewhere says... Great job Rupha.. Well done.. Good work.... A smile.. A look of appreciation.. admiration.. That says... You can bank on her....

And the day is made.....

Point is... I can't weidly enough.. look at myself and say that... After this... I can't.. I somehow seem to have lost that.. In simple asking someone to 'just relax'!!

Job satisfaction is a very weird term....

It makes you almost believe that you are satisfied with your work..... Almost.....

......

2006-10-24T10:00:00.001+05:30

disappointed
disappointed
disappointed
confused confused confused....
don't like life that way

BUTT WHY ZIZOU?

2006-07-14T08:46:00.002+05:30

The World Cup is finally over.. For me it is the end of my night shifts (I'm still trying to figure out if that is a good thing) But if I were to pick out one particular moment that left its impact on me in some way... I would have to call on the Zidane-Materazzi incident. I still remember how I felt that morning when it all unfolded.. We had run a special show at 3:00 in the morning... and the adrenaline and excitement kind of fuelled it.. I felt that I was in some way so close to that event... happening miles away..
Zidane's greatness tarnished by this single act.. Materazzi's unsportsmanlike behaviour (or can we pen it that way really).. When I saw the first replays, I was shocked, angry and upset even... And I immediately shifted loyalties.. How could Zidane have been so foolish and stupid to have thrown away his team.. his country..?? And I bet it was more than that for a player who had worked his way out of all discriminations to become the captain of a country.. to represent one of the best teams in the world.. and then lose it all, playing in the last match of his entire career.. illustrious career! And it comes down to that now doesn't it.. A black mark.. rather a 'red' mark on his football career...
Zidane was never an ordinary guy.. Zizou was the god.. an idol that millions adored...
Then the postmortem began.. And suddenly.. My hatred evaporated and redirected itself... Materazzi took centre stage..
Sledging is an age-old game in itself! I do not know where that phrase was truly born. But If anyone asked me to close my eyes and uttered the word -'Sledging'... Images of Bodyline cricket would appear... Cricket has had its share of the jeers.. The Englishmen probably gave birth to one form of it against the Australians, particularly Don Bradman.. But it is probably the Australians themselves who have perfected it..
Sledging is a sport in football as well.. And Italians have had their tryst with it.. for long now.. Popularly cally 'Furbo' meaning cunning and savvy.. the Italians have found many ways of winning.. I can't help but smirk at this sad reality.. Many would berate this point. But whatever happened to playing fair?
And if only Zidane had kept his head on his shoulders before directing it towards Materazzi's chest.... there would have possibly been another team celebrating.. another country rejoicing.. another captain holding the Jules Rimet in his hands.... Zizou... It could have been you.....

The first times...

2006-07-03T19:59:00.002+05:30

There is always a first time. Always. Like when I decided to start this blog. Like when I decided to personalize it. When I decided to do journalism. When I decided to be the best. When I decided to take this road. When I decided to taste beer.. and decided that I hated it. When I decided to wear a skirt.. And actually liked it. When I decided to get into sports. When I decided to be a leader.
There were a lot of firsts that I experienced. Of being a daughter. Of being daddy's little girl. Of being the first child. Of being awarded my first star. Of being a woman. Of being complimented. Of being courted. Of being loved. Of being admired. Of being away from home.. Of being away from family..
There were a lot of firsts that I indulged in. My first walk in the rain. My first crush. My first trip to a beach at 2 in the morning. My first gift to a dear one. My first report. My first essay. My first birthday party.. and I decided I did not like birthday parties for some reason. My first dinner with family outside. My first conversation about the guys in my life. My first letter.
And I have learned. A lot from my firsts.
I do not know how to explain this feeling of experiencing and doing things for the first time. I feel weird in a sense and a little tentative. And then... It goes away... And becomes a part of this whole bunch of memories hidden in some neurons of my big head.. and chooses a place and gets stuck there.. until I feel the same thing or do the same thing.. again.. Then that memory frees iself and come out to hit me again.. And I do not feel the same way I did the first time. This becomes a little familiar..
There are some memories I like.. And some I don't. There have been times, when I wished for that memory never to have been born, because I know I didn't feel right when that first hit me. And I abstain myself from doing or experiencing things that had brought out that emotion..
There is this conscious effort that I take... I do not know if I am stopping some things that are natural.. Or that are meant to be experienced.. But nevertheless, I continue to avoid it.
And I learn... And I have in a sense evolved... But I don't like change. I don't like altering something.. Or maybe I do not like discovering things about me that I never knew probably existed before... Maybe, like my friend said.. That part of me was always there.. And it emerged when that memory was born.. And another facet of mine emerged when I tried to either stash away.. or rekindle it...
I am me... I am what I have been... Or maybe I have been changing...

I had to say... Football!

2006-06-13T21:32:00.001+05:30

Till now I always thought that soccer was about 11 people vs 11 others. But I am a little happy to tell you that I am wrong.
I am with the sports desk at CNN-IBN. And the people around me have helped me change my opinion. Soccer, or football as we prefer to call it, is more than just a game.. How often have we heard that phrase?! But I honestly have begun to experience this! There are thousands of people out there who are watching every minute of every game of the World Cup that has just begun in Germany.. Either at home on their TV sets.. or in sports bars and pubs.. Many are actually there in Berlin to watch the matches up close (1000 Km away from the field). No, but seriously.. this is one game where there are unbelievable amounts of passion involved..
Wayne Rooney probably had more than half the world praying for his recovery.. People cried when news came than Cisse was out of the World Cup due to an injury.. Thousands were anxious when Ronaldo missed a training session..
Now, a lot of things about the game struck me.. One, music...
There is so much of music involved in this sport! Starting with the Brazilians.. (isn't that obvious)... Have you heard their new Portuguese number? If you haven't, I strongly insist you do! What about India?? We are not even part of the World Cup.. But does that stop us from being part of it?! No! Indians everywhere are so driven and have been so taken in by this game, that cricket, has been forgotten.. And it will remain this way till 9th of July atleast.
What about advertisements?? Go watch the new Adidas football ad... It infuses an adrenalin rush like none other.. Wannna watch the Brazilians in action off the field? Watch them in the new ad where all the players keep kicking the ball around, in their dressing room, while they are changing out of their team outfits after a game...
I was one of the first people to hear the World Cup song.. And it made me very nostalgic... giving me goosebumps...
I have been pouring over football sites, reading up books just to feel like am a part of this giant wave that washing over half the world.

yes.. I could not act nonchalant and ignore all of that.. I had to say.. Football Football!

Tirupathi.. The hills are alive!

2006-04-26T15:37:00.001+05:30

Travelled to Tirupathi with my parents. Learned a lot of things and cherished some moments :

1) Travelling with parents can be fun at times. Unless of course you end up arguing there as well. In which case you have the three of us (mum, dad and I) walking our own ways up the hills, until dad cracks a joke to lighten the mood (as usual).

2) Glucose water is good.

3) There is no difference between Goli Soda and Paneer Soda.

4) People never grow up (yes ranj hard as it may sound ;)). Even if they are at a temple. We were walking up the hills as you know and there is a stretch of the road (towards the end) winding up to the temple. Now, the road is mainly used by the buses that transport people (who have already climbed the hill) back down to the foot of the hills. So as we were walking along the pavement, a van passes by with a bunch of guys in their late 20s and as they cross us poor souls walking in the heat, they scream and point out as if to say - "oh look! People climbing still!! We finished! Yay!!" And I was muttering - "Obviously you morons! We are still climbing. People still will climb. And even after I finish I know people are still climbing!!"

5) There is a huge diffrence between buying stuff, like water or even a chocolate bar at ground level and buying the same stuff at thousands of feet above. Yes.

6) You do not lose a lot of weight climbing 7 hills (hard to believe).

7) There is a second golden temple in a place 12 hours from Mumbai!

8) Kids have it easy at Tirupathi. All they need to do when they are tired of climbing steps, is stop, drop and roll.
9) If you need to get to any place in Tirupathi you have to, I repeat, have to climb atleast a two flights of stairs.

10) Karma doesn't work here.

11) The deer is very greedy. (O yes, there are lot of those along the hillls)

12) Basically you are travelling in circles. I remember starting out with windmills at my back. And when I reached the temple I saw the same bunch of windmillls right in front of me, on top of a hill.

13) All roads leads to the sanctum sanctorium. The only difference is the cost it takes. Pay a 1000 and you can take the shortest route.

14) Once inside the temple, everyone looks the same. Shaved heads is all you get to see standing in the queue.

15) Men and women are extremely immature when they visit temples.

16) People like to strike up conversations, which will lead to the topic of comparing the different temples. That's when you act as if a sudden lightning struck out of nowhere, leaving you speechless.

17) Riding down a curving multiple hair-pin road in the night, with the breeze hitting you is just an awesome experience.

18) Curd rice at Kalyan Residency - with finely chopped chillies, grape pieces... is yummy!

19) When you are checking your weight, be absolutely certain that you are not carrying a 100 Kg bag! I realised it after i read my weight slip and almost fell in shock.

20) After climbing every step, you will somehow be forced to take out your wallet and pay.. for something or the other.

2006-04-13T16:13:00.001+05:30

I know it now. I have lived in this bubble. Always a foot above the ground. Floating along at my own pace. Stopping once in a while to escort another bubble. Maybe. But I will not say that I am entirely oblivious to things and people around me. I would be lying then. But really. I cannot help but look at my reflection in the moving transparency and feel ashamed. I cannot help feeling grossly misunderstood at times. I cannot help looking down at my green slippers and feel... nothing. All these years of living and... nothing.

There is a difference between grabbing a pen and holding one. When you are grabbing a pen, you are not even familiar with the contours of the object, let alone trying to understand it. But when you are holding a pen, you know what is in your hand and you know how to use it. I don't kow how to hold a pen. And I so wish I did.

I so wish for the sun to set when I want to. For the sun to rise when I am awake to see it. I wish for the moon to be red. For spring in December. For wild flowers outside my house. For that hug. That kiss. I so wish for 15 degrees in Chennai. For that smile on that little girl's face. For that frown to vanish. For that applause. For that praise. For that kindness to knock unlock my heart. I so wish to see that generous soul standing beside me, praying for me...

There is a huge difference between writing and essaying. I write. I always did. I don't think I ever learnt to essay. You write out a shopping list, a things-to-do list, notes in the class, telephone numbers...

You essay letters, love letters, cooking instructions, notes in your diary at odd hours, a journey, a dream, a thought an ambition...

There is a wall of a difference between grabbing a pen and holding it... between writing a note an essaying the same........

I take a sip of watermelon juice and sit back in my chair... When will the pen be held. When will the note be essayed. When will the moon turn red. When will the faces smile and the frowns recede..

2006-04-12T19:34:00.001+05:30

A river of flowers meandering down the road
... and I know a funeral march had come this way
Splatter of sugar and a rocking hand
... and I know the wails will subside...

Got a Job!

2006-04-04T18:55:00.000+05:30

And after some interviews CNN IBN decides to take me in so that I could be a part of their TV 18 family.
I am happy (really happy). Delhi is where I will be heading, staying for a year. Don't know what's happening
after that.

A job finally. It looked like that is what I was doing all along in ACJ. Practically living here.
Sleepless nights. Empty stomach. Hunger. Editing. Voicing over. Scripting. Producing. Did I say Editing. I
mean lots of editing! Shooting... What am I complaing.. I loved it all!! I probably never spent so much time with
my parents this year... But I know I made many friends. People I am never going to forget, few of whom I am
going to continue working with...

Ahem... don't know what's in store for me. But I'm surely ready for it.

?

2006-03-15T16:57:00.000+05:30

waiting at the corner.
bhel puri. pani puri. kachori. samosa.
the smells of chat...
santro. or was it matiz?
long drives down the flyover, U-turns
up the flyover. and back around
soft songs. music in the car.
flowing through me...
long drives and long conversations.

Getting old...

waiting across the road.
taking books, notes... act anagram...
miming a strange language
trying to guess what the other is trying to show
are we always miming instead of talking?
really talking...

Diwali

i love gulab jamuns.
always did
a ride in the car with the taste of rose buds on my tongue...
and something else...
crimson velvet seats
at the ice-cream parlour
near my place
butterscotch and chocolate?

Text nothings...

or were they?
hours of pondering and fighting
over this and that
here and there...
professor sarcasm perched right above us
very happy with the progress we both had made.

Graduated with honours..

Last day...

he jokes about the name
i do not find it funny
always talking about 'us'...
about something that isn't there...
pictures being taken...
digital memories... only.

No more.

*punches in the last key. clicks 'publish post'*

2006-02-19T14:39:00.000+05:30

That's all of ACJ 2006 - Broadcast, New Media and Print. Me - 1st row sitting, 7 from left.

it's almost there... time to take on the world... future broadcasters of India!

2006-02-17T15:06:00.000+05:30

find your element
at mutedfaith.com.

Untitiled 2

2006-02-10T18:09:00.000+05:30

1

It was a blue.
Dark and rich. With 2 streaks of red and gold.
Running across the surface.
Just above the head.
A 2-inch gap between the red and the gold.
The thick coloured threads
neatly woven.
Moving in and out. In and out. In and out.
Neatly. In order. Arranged. Correct. Almost perfect.
A thin strip at the back of the head.
Knotted. Tight.
Not loose.
To fit the head. Correctly. Almost perfectly.
It is complete with the shade. Yes the shade.
At the front.
With an embellishment of a pawn in red.
The pawn in red. Red? Why red?
Pawn in red.
Pawn.
The red pawn, crested on the blue shade.
Yes. The shade.
Shielding the eyes.
Sheltering. Blocking. Screening.
I try to look up.
To see and stare.
To see.
But the shade. Almost guarding. Almost.

2

I remove the cap from my head.
Take it off. Get rid of it.
The shade the strap the red the gold the blu the strips......

And see.

2006-02-03T13:19:00.000+05:30

not today.
the thoughts again
the serious tumult of things
blacking out the vision of my wants
seamlessly flowing, like
a rippling rage.
confusion
that word again
striking out, echoing.
three stumps in lush green fields.
me sitting in the stands
against the winds
watching.
i pull the cap
down on my forehead
closing my eyes to the sun... and the sun
i can't think anymore
pause. stop. halt.
freeze.

1:43pm and counting.

Untitled

2006-02-02T10:31:00.000+05:30

The bed beckoning me. Callin me.
My eyes tempting to shut.
Only for a minute
if it may so. Rest. Sleep. But
hours lie ahead. Like a never-ending road.

Stretching below me. Like a lazy cat.
Smirking. Hands straining
against blocks of letters.
Type. Type. Type. Type. Error.
A frown. Seconds wear on to minutes...

to hours...to days... to frames....
to stills... to shots...
The road smirks,
suppressing a snigger.
The eyes strain against the monitor.

Straining to read. To correct. To look
through the eyes of the other.
To adjust. To capture.
To take. To store. Write.
Talk. Read. Script. Re-write. Converse.

Record.

The magic is in the eyes. Seeing.
Touching. Feeling.
Remembering.
Reams of memories. Spools of
dreams. Tapes of moments. Tiresome.

Yet...

The cat smirks again knowigly. Twirling its tail. Knowingly.

GREG CHAPPEL – PUSHING THE BOUNDARIES

2006-01-28T16:53:00.000+05:30

February 1981: New Zealand versus Australia. New Zealand needed just 6 runs to win the match and there was just one ball remaining. It could have been any match, between any two teams. But it was a match that people would not forget, years later. A match that would make critics sit up and stare disbelievingly. Trevor Chappell was bowling that crucial last over. Just before the run up, his captain has a word with him. Decisions are made. The fielders get ready, tense. The batsman takes his stance, nervous, preparing himself for that last big haul. Trevor runs in and in one of the most astonishing moments in the history of cricket, bowls an underarm delivery. The first-ever.

His captain – the man who had made that decision and had commanded him to bowl the last ball in the manner in which he did – was Greg Chappell, one of the finest batsmen Australia had seen.

Chappell, for his time, was a player possessing near-perfect batting techniques and was a delightful slip fielder. But his greatest weapon was and still is, his way of taking bold decisions and wholly relying on his convictions. It is this quality that made him the cricketer he was and more importantly, the coach that he is.

February 1981 was just one of the many decisions Greg Chappell took, indicating very important aspects about him. He was a bold decision-maker, he was a postive thinker, he stuck to his convictions, broke conventions and was highly innovative and most importantly knew the rules of the game. By telling his brother to bowl underarm, Chappell in no way breached the rules. But nevertheless, it showed a lack of sportsmanship on his part. The brothers may have expressed their embarrassment over this incident later. But Australia had won that match, and that was probably running in Chappell’s head. Chappell, furthermore, was part of the Packer team – a team that broke old conventions and made new boundaries.

It is this spirit that makes Greg Chappell work as the coach of the present Indian team. It has not been long since he took over as coach of the team and already significant incidents have occurred, recreating that image of 1981 – the bold decision maker.

The most prominent call that he made was very obviously the decision to drop Ganguly – the then captain of the side. Such things were never heard of Indian cricket. How could you drop a captain? But Chappell had made that decision and stuck to it. By this, he was indicating that in this profession there were going to be no sentiments involved. The team had to do well and it did not need any liabilities. That was the bold message he sent out.

Since then, he regularly made changes in every aspect that he was dealing with as a coach. He intoduced new and innovative training methods in batting, bowling and fielding. One that comes first to mind is his innovations in the nets. He would constantly watch over the nets sessions and as soon as the batsman had hit, would shout out a number – indicating the number of runs he had to take.

Imagine sending Pathan out to open an innings. That is what he did against Sri Lanka in the Test Series. And he repeated that with Yuvraj. It was a treat to watch the reaction of the fans in the stands when a young Pathan came striding out (but India was batting) all padded up. That is another streak that is distinctly Chappell – always throwing surprises and keep the opposition thinking. His actions hence have always projected the idea that he wanted the team to carry an attitude that said that they desired ‘to win’ and not ‘avoid defeat’.

He did not stop here. Pakistan Series – Chappell instructs Dravid to go out with 5 bowlers. This is again a novel move. Inspite of the fact that the batting might get weakened he goes ahead with his convictions, pushing five bowlers into the team.

And there’s more to come. Unquestionably, it is a man like Greg Chappell who makes cricket the game that it is. Through his decisions he has made the audience enraged and at the same time be amazed of the kind of cricketing mind he posseses. Cricket, for Chappell is just an elastic that he can stretch, pull, mould amd remodel to suit his ways and his temperament.

Cricket may and may not need thinkers like him. But he sure makes everyone guessing – what next?

Guntur - the memories

2006-01-16T20:52:00.001+05:30

My face made it to the papers. Captured during a discussion with the collector of Guntur (Andhra Pradesh). Guntur - one of the places chosen for our covering deprivation course. Asian College of Journalism is the only college in India that has a Covering Deprivation course in its syllabus. I was one of the 30 students, trying to make something out of our trip to Guntur. For me, this was more than just a part of the course that I had to complete in order to get my degree – my passport to professional journalism (whatever that means).
Apart from making me realise how lucky I was, Guntur gave me many moments to cherish and remember, cry and laugh over, think deeply about, capture and keep…

* * *

Soujanya. An 11-year old girl, she carries a tin of ladoos instead of books, hands clutching the little money that she gets instead of a pencil. Soujanya. Her feet bearing the mark of her labour… We met her during our initial days selling ladoos at the quarry. She did not want to join a school and learn to be able to read and write like the other kids. When we spoke to her she was pretty sure that her life revolved only around the quarry and ladoos. Few days later, we made a stop at a school-cum-orphanage and came to know that they were getting another child to join the others – Soujanya. I experienced a sense of satisfaction, relief, a tinge of excitement, but not before a wave of unexpectedness and surprise. One of my friends, Pia, had met the people of this school, telling them about Soujanya and had urged them to take her in. We went back to the quarry and there she was, holding the tin for the last time… hopefully… I sat next to her and tried to converse using the few words of Telugu that I had managed to pick up. She giggled initially at my lack of knowledge of her language, but we were able to understand each other. She then presented us (Rads, Pav, Yogi, Max and me) with a flower bouquet. And I still have it with me in my book…

* * *

From Guntur, where we had a brief meeting with the Joint Collector, we went to Vinukonda – our base camp. We were hardly ever at our lodge, except during the nights of course. We would set out every morning in our jeeps, lugging around our video camera and tripod and return hours after darkness took over. I got so used to that system that I kind of miss the rush of it all now. We always made sure that we somehow got to travel in this one particular jeep because we felt (especially Max), that we bonded with the driver. He had never spoken much to us, probably because we didn’t speak the same language. And still, we bonded… As soon as the jeep revved, he would switch on the tape player and instantly the jeep would throb with Telugu beats. And we enjoyed every bit of it. I did not understand the language. But I simply loved those moments, traveling with a mission with the beats and the rhythm taking us there. I remember our first day in the jeep. He had not used the tape player at all and after quite a long time, we were beginning to get bored of the silence. So we had begun singing! Yogi and I were doing the seconds and Max, using the camera bag as the drums, provided the beats.  I really do not know how our driver put up with us that day! Maybe that’s why the tape began playing and never stopped since then…

* * *

After hours of debates, we decided that we would target the education in these areas. I had researched a bit before leaving and quite obviously found that this aspect highly troubled me. So we went about visiting schools in the different mandals and interviewing the mandal officials, trying to gather as much information as we could. There were no colleges in most of the mandals. Bollapalli was by far the most backward mandal with a literacy rate of barely 33%. We met many students and teachers there. The easy way out was to get one of the Telugu speakers to help out. But I was determined to try and converse with the students there. On one such day, we didn’t return to our base camp and chose to stay back at this town called Durgi, in an ashram. We spent most of our time in the terrace there, because it was much quieter. It was hard for me to believe that I was in a place entrenched in naxalism. The huddled conversations, the chill breeze, the memories, the moon, Wikham (Yogi’s man) shooting the moon oblivious to everything around him, the bhajans, Max sleeping… it seemed like we were in some dream. The tensions, the fear was not there. Yet there was an undercurrent. And it was then that nishat sir came up, pulling in a boy. He called Rads and me and said that this boy, Cheenu, had come looking for us. The boy looked up and gave a shy smile. It was considerably dark and I could not catch his features. From what sir told us, Cheenu had seen us in one of the schools. Wanting to meet us, he had enquired around and had reached the ashram. On one hand this thought scared me (we had so easily been traced). But on hearing this, a few of my classmates sitting around us, appreciated the fact that we had been able to reach out to him, prompting him to come to us. Yes. I did feel very nice. I did feel nice to have been able to create some impact (little it may be). And we did talk. Pav was fluent in Telugu and we spoke to him about his school, his dreams, his parents, his society, his life… then very carefully tip-toed into the realm that we really wanted to venture – naxalism. We skirted around, cautious all the while. Lunged a bit, then withdrew, kept repeating before we were able to get into a good rhythm. And it amazed me. How naxalism affected every soul here, young and old...

* * *

Max slept in every mandal! Wherever we went there was a stop, initially for 15 min and later extended ones to give us more time to take the shots and talk to the people in the villages. Max, the big guy that he is, got stares from every quarter. In one of the towns, Durgi, one guy went to the extent of asking whether he was a nawab! That was probably the last straw for the rest of us. From that day on, Max went around using Pav’s dupatta making a turban out of it (like the ones sheiks wear) proclaiming his authority as the ultimate nawab!

* * *

An encounter. A dead body. A naxalite. These were the first images that hit us as soon as we landed in Vinukonda. Jayraj had enough contacts to ensure that the body would not be removed until we had a look at it. I really could not say if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But honestly, the days of moving away, not getting close enough to things that would alarm us were gone. At least for us. We were journalists and it was more important for broadcast journalists to get right there. It was Amanda Harper, a BBC journalist who had come down to teach us a semester, who made me realise that it was our job to get there up close because no one else could. We were the journalists, the people’s link. However, I could not ignore the sadism that had seeped in. Here we were, students of journalism, the first journalists ever to step into these areas and we were excited. Excited to see a dead body. A dead naxal. Frankly, I do not know what to make of that. I still have the footage…

* * *

‘I am breakfast Puri’. That is what I ended up saying at one particular restaurant and from then on, it stuck. But it didn’t stop here. I was rechristened several times during our trip. So were a few others. It was like we had lived different lives there and we had to have different identities, different names. And it was mostly related to food. We think when we are eating I guess. Pav was ‘Mirchi Bajji’, Max was the nawab (who ate a lot so we could not really name him), Rads was the ‘Goodie Bag’ (she had the yummy things from home), Dhara was the ‘Alam Chutney’. Many others went nameless and we do feel a sense of regret. But life moves on. Even after returning home, we did not forget our alter IDs. I’m still breakfast puri, Pav is still Mirchi Bajji, , Rads is still the Goodie Bag and Dhara is still the Alam Chutney, Max is no longer the nawab (we absolutely refused to boost his ego any more)...

Can the Raja be the Mantri?!

2006-01-07T15:27:00.000+05:30

How is it like, when instead of leading the team, like you had so often before, you are being led? What is it like to work under someone, whose position you had once been in? Do the equations remain the same? Does everything add up to how it was before?

In a rather stormy and dramatic turn of events, Sourav Ganguly, the captain of the Indian cricket team, was shown the door by a relatively new coach – Greg Chappel. After traversing the rough seas henceforth, there seemed to be some relief when Ganguly, the ex-captain was brought back very briefly. Not as a captain, but as a player, in a side led by Dravid.

Here is a potentially volatile scenario, where an ex-captain is playing under another captain. This has happened a lot of times in Indian cricket before. Nobody can forget the times when Kapil and Gavaskar shared grounds. A little later, Ganguly and Tendulkar, Ganguly and Azhar and now Dravid and Ganguly. Was Greg correct in excluding Ganguly completely and ushering Dravid in as the new captain? The ex-captain and captain playing together – what significance does this have on cricket?

There is so much of psychology involved in this state. As the popular adage goes, cricket is more of a mind game than a physical one. Battles were fought and won, not because army A was physical stronger and more powerful than army B, but because they overpowered the opposition by wit and possessed the power to think them out. The Trojan horse was a product of the mind and not the carpenters who worked day and night to build that horse that brought them victory.

In such a situation, it is fair to say that you will in no way do something to show that another person is in many ways better than you. It is plain human tendency. This always plays in the mind of an ex-captain, playing under another captain. The effort that he used to give earlier would not be there at all. Every cricketer dreams of making it to the test team. Every test cricketer dreams of becoming the captain. That motivates them to perform and play. But for an ex-captain that motivation does not have a place anymore.

Sadly, statistics and individual glory has become more important than the team. It was always more important than the team. It cannot be proved that the ex-captain in the side does not play hundred percent anymore in order to make the team win. But truth is this notion is always playing in his head. There is furthermore, that sense of competition that may arise between the captain and the ex-captain. And most certainly this kind of tension transgresses into the dressing room too.

Look at (arguably) the best cricketing nation in the world. Australian selectors have always made sure that an ex-captain does not work under a captain. Never. There might have been captains for a series or a match. But never have such tensions been enforced upon the team. Right from Richie Benaud, Bill Lawry, Ian Chappel, Greg Chappel, Kim Hughes, Border, Mark Taylor, Steve Waugh, Gilchrist and now Ricky Ponting.

Their policies are very simple. Make the team members feel comfortable with each other. This policy of giving one captain his full run and then stepping down to give the successor the captain’s cap, has a lot of advantages. First of all, the captain and the team members (for that matter) do not live in fear of being thrown out the next minute. They know that they would be given a fair chance to prove their mettle. This in turn enables them to take bold decisions. Steve Waugh, for instance enforced a follow-on while playing against the Indians in the Kolkatta test match – something that Australians never do.

Since there is no threat of being dropped out of the captain’s seat, there is a percolation of knowledge, wherein the present captain shares all that he has learnt ( as captain) with the future captain. Therefore there is a relatively mature head taking his place, ensuring that there is no break in the momentum of the team.
Australians lost the Ashes. If India had been in that situation, the odds that the captain would have been dropped, are a 100 to none! The clear message a selection board gives the team in such a set-up is that the captain is as good as the team. If the team does not perform well, it is not the captain’s fault. So ultimately, the team benefits as a whole.

It is probably with this in mind that Greg Chappel did what he had to. He most certainly perceived the situation using this yard stick. The issue could have been less pleasant, but at this point no one can be blamed because the selection policy is such that cricketers are forced to feel insecure. Instead of looking forward, Indian captains are forced to look over their shoulders.

Love thy Job

2005-11-28T17:06:00.000+05:30

So I made the cover of the Metroving page of the New Media website Digantik ;)

I have to thank Mangala (for taking the pic and more importantly) highlighting the difficulties that journalists undergo in transport.

But don't get me wrong. I am in no way complaining because this is what I love to do. Grab a requisition, write it and get it signed by the instructor, grab the video cameras and the tripod, check if everything is in order, cue the tape, record a blank, pack it all and get out on the road, haggle with the ever-persevering auto drivers, reach destination, shoot the story and all the while white-balance each shot (thanks Amanda :)), catch a rick, work on the script while your on the way, write out the link and the headline, get out at college, sign out the camera (or face the wrath of Solanki sir), get into an edit room (if there is one that's free), digitise the tape and start editing...

I love it all. Who am I kidding! It does get tiring. But that is all part of the 'package'

P.S - the editing procedure would probably take up another post ;)

First Term Nostalgia

2005-11-28T16:35:00.000+05:30

The first term in college is where we were all together - the print, the broadcast and the new media. We produced our own show, designed our own website, presented seminars. We did a bunch of things together. I would never forget the day before our Key Issues presentation. We stayed in college working on the power point presenation, loading the pictures and working out our points. I was pushedout at midnight because I was one of the speakers. I will never fail to thank Ridhi, Ruchi and Rashmi, who satyed in college till 5:00 the next morning and worked on the presentation. Andwe did a great job. Our broadcast show was a few laughs but at the end of it, we made sure we learned a lot and had fun too.

That is a picture of our group at the end of the show. All smiles.

main zorro banna chahta hoon!

2005-11-12T10:18:00.001+05:30

Want to watch a Bollywood movie in English?? No no. Not dubbed at all! This one is for real and it won't take you much at all. Just head to Satyam and buy the tickets for the 'Legend of Paaro'..oops.. Zorro. Trust me. If you ever wished to see the heroes of the past return; if you ever wished to see a wounded Bachan clamouring the temple bell and hanging onto it for dear life crying out - "ma! mein aa gaya ma!";if you want to see Rajnikanth's (not only the heroes of the past) gravity-defying acts, then you have simply got to watch the 'Legend of Zorro'!

For those of you who did not watch the prequel, let me brief you on the story so far. The hero,(played by Amitabh Banderas)is a Lawaris and a petty thief in Spain, until he is completely transformed into Zorro. He also has a horse that always disobeys his commands. But the good thing about the horse is that it was trained by Rajnikanth himself, who helped it master the art of defying gravity.

So Amitabh / Zorro rides out to save his home town and in the process also manages to fall in love with the heroine (played by Parveen Zeta Jones). The only way in which the movie deviates lies in the fact that there is no running-around-the-trees dance. Instead they do a bit of salsa. The Zorro saves the people and hence becomes a Shehensha. He marries his love and the two live happily ever after.

Cut to the sequel. The Zorro now has a family. He, his wife and his son (played by Dharmender Junior), are living away from the town. Junior does not know that hs father is the great Zorro that he has always admired. The Zorro is meanwhile a house-hold name. everyone respects and loves him. But the wife (parveen zeta jones) feels that Zorro is neglecting his family. So she announces to her husband that they should separate. Furthermore, his son thinks he is a softy and that he cannot even throw a towel (let alone a punch)! he even goes out to show his father how to fight the goons.

The Zorro is hurt and depressed. So he becomes a Sharabi. What will happen to the home town and the people. Will Zorro return and save the day?? Will the family get back together and live happily ever after?? Find out what happens in... the 'Legend of Paaro'

ALONG THE LINES

2005-11-03T08:54:00.000+05:30

Where to draw the line? Is there a line at all? Do you at times feel that the line is so blurred that you do not know which side you are on?

Maybe I should begin by telling you what sparked this off. I am a broadcast student at the Asian College of Journalism. But I really cannot call myself a student because I am standing somewhere in between a trainee and a journalist. Every day passes with my having gone one step closer (in a seemingly endless flight of stairs) to becoming a journalist. And it was one of the many seminars held at college that made me think along these ‘lines’.

A journalist has so much power. But it would be all too well not to get heady with such power because as the old adage goes, 'with power comes responsibility'. More than anything, journalists need to be sensitive and reactive to the things around them. The litmus paper immediately tells you whether you are dealing with acid or alkaline. Journalists, according to me, are like the litmus paper.

Media over the years has begun to enter areas and spaces it never had before. We are in a sense invading a lot of areas, opening up a whole new dimension to journalism.

On one hand there is this compelling urge to relay the truth. And on the other hand, the journalist may most definitely cross the line and encroach upon someone’s private space. How far can you go before there is this feeling that you have stepped into another’s territory, rather forced your way into the subject’s space, in order to get your story?

I have treaded into this field knowing all the challenges that are going to come my way. And it is (in a sense) this thought that fuels me. It is not just about being a journalist, because I am almost sure that quite a few can. It is about being a journalist and following the principles that you have set for yourself. And let’s face it – in journalism (or any other profession for that matter) ethics are extremely important. It is not about doing the job. It’s about doing a thorough job but being sensitive all the while.

I admit it is not at all easy to know where the line is and sometimes it might get blurred. But journalists need to consciously make an effort because it is ultimately your call - where is your line drawn? The acid has to be identified as the acid and not alkaline and vice versa.

NO MATCH!

2005-10-20T18:38:00.000+05:30

The greatest players in the world have come together to battle with the unrivaled team in the world. Imagine seeing the best bowlers spinning or seaming the ball and the most outstanding batsmen dotting the ground with their classic photo-framing shots! Nothing can ‘match’ this sight, right?..... Wrong!

If anything at all, the Super Series so far, stands proof to the fact that there is so much more to the game than players. It is not about the best pacer and the best pinch-hitter and the best wicket-keeper coming together. Frankly and quite obviously, it’s about a team. Now, I am not saying that Australia would have won the matches anyway. No. What I am saying is that even the most average players up against the paramount Australians could defeat them!(unbelievable as it may sound).

It happened in the 1999 World Cup, where Bangladesh, a team little known (till then at least) beat the mighty (at that time) Pakistanis. Kenya did it when they reached the semi-finals of the World Cup in 2003.

The fact is that players have become bigger than a team. In the early days, Don Bradman was a genius with an average of 99.94. HE was a true genius. Today, superlative terms are used so loosely, that even a Dhoni (of one-match brilliance) becomes a ‘master blaster’. Truth is, even 11 of the finest players cannot beat Australia (or any other team), if they cannot work together as a team.

But I really cannot cast aspersions on a team that has just assembled and are (most) probably groping about even now because team work does not seem to be on the top of the list in any team for that matter.

A few days ago, I had an argument with my friends regarding this very lack of spirit. From what I have seen and read so far, I have come to believe that the colonial impact of individualism and individual glory has not entirely been effaced. Not surprisingly, traces of the Raj linger even today, on the cricket fields.

Picture this – the Indian team has lost 3 or 4 wickets and Tendulkar comes out to bat (he is batting at number 5 for some weird reason). There is a set batsman in Dravid, at the score of 70, at the other end. Tendulkar does not seem to be getting his shots as he has already faced two overs with his score still at 0. A run-out situation occurs and Tendulkar is faced with a choice. If he runs back to his end, he is saved. But a set batsman goes back to the pavilion. If he runs to the other end he will very obviously get out.

Hmm… so what do you think he should do? The answer will arguably determine what is bigger….. The player or the game itself.

Mangal Pandey... An Accidental Hero?

2005-10-18T18:50:00.000+05:30

Was Mangal Pandey an accidental hero? This question has been much debated after the release of the Ketan Mehta movie. With the release, what ‘Mangal Pandey: The Rising’ did was open various arguments delineating the role of this martyr. Was he the hero that ‘The Rising’ showed him to be? Did his lone act of brashness actually result in the mutiny that followed?

On 29 March 1857, Pandey came out and challenged the British, even as he called out to his comrades and fellow sepoys. He attacked and injured his superior and wounded an adjutant with a sword. As the British, reacting to this sudden outburst closed in on him, Pandey tried to shoot himself but failed and was hanged for his act of ‘rebellion’.

After Aamir Khan’s portrayal of Pandey, a lot of discussion has risen as to whether Pandey was the hero that the Khan portrayed? Wasn't he intoxicated and in a frenzy when he decided to attack the British?

Rudrangshu Mukherjee has debated Mangal Pandey’s role as the instigator of the revolt in his book ‘Mangal Pandey: Brave Martyr or Accidental Hero’. He puts forth a series of arguments supporting his statement of Pandey being an accidental hero. He vehemently says, “Nationalism creates its own myths – Mangal Pandey is part of that imagination of histories.”

The point that supports this claim is that not much has been written on Pandey. He probably figured in a few lines in the pages of Indian history and the struggle for independence. But then again, it must be noted that this argument relies heavily on the British records of the 1857 rebellion. The British underplayed the event as just a sepoy mutiny and did not attach any importance to Mangal Pandey.

Mukherjee goes on to say that history had recorded nothing about him that could be used to reconstruct an individual and locate his springs of action. It is true that there have been no documents to show Pandey’s thought process or his reactions to the introduction of the cartridge greased with animal fat. To reiterate - Mukherjee’s argument cannot be acknowledged precisely for the same reason – that there has been nothing written about him.

The main argument that Mukherjee makes is that Pandey was intoxicated with bhang when he decided to revolt. There was no record of his life except his one act of doubtful valour under the influence of bhang. But drinking was not something that was uncommon in the army. Every sepoy drank and not everyone ran out to nearly get killed after drinking.

Rudrangshu Mukherjee also says that “a rebellion is a collective will to overthrow a rebellious order. Pandey acted alone. He was a rebel without a rebellion.” He went on to say that Mangal Pandey meant nothing to the sepoys who raised the revolt in 1857. To hold his argument, Mukherjee cites the practically-unheard-of mutiny in Barrackpore itself 33 years before Mangal Pandey's action. Over 200 soldiers were killed, yet the first full-scale study of the 1824 mutiny in Barrackpore (which managed to spread only as far as Rungpore in Assam the year after) appeared only in 2003.

So, in effect there is a view that Mangal Pandey was an ordinary sepoy who, in a state of intoxication, committed a foolhardy act for which he was hanged and his infantry dismissed. He was just that – an accidental hero, a man who got lucky. But if that is the argument then one cannot say that Mahatma Gandhi, for instance, was an accidental hero just because he was kicked out of the train! Maybe the truth lies somewhere in between...

HERE... ALMOST

2005-10-18T07:47:00.000+05:30

So I finally did it... Created my own blog. My space. Do not completely know why. But there were just some things that inspired me to.
I have always wanted to voice my opinions, always wanted to be heard. I can just sit over a cup of hot chocolate or even munch through wafers (don't know the connection) and go on contemplating various issues.
So blogdom... you finally got me and I'm going to be here for long...