be the change

Can you today, in one day influence the world around you? Can you change your country, your city?

Leave it be, your profession at least? 

Javed Miandad, he of our growing up times, with one low, self-confident swing of the bat in the late eighties, did, and that too, in much less than a day. In one inspired moment of ‘can do’, he seemed to have inflicted a deep and mortal wound into the psyche of the Indian cricket team. The team thereafter just could not beat Pakistan it seemed. At least, not in Sharjah. Whatever score they put up, it appeared would be hunted down by the Pakistani batsmen. And between the Indian batsmen and any small target, seemed to arise a fearsome Aaqib Javed out of nowhere, conjuring up magical hat-tricks at will; and fantastically, only against the Indians it appeared. The air of defeat seemed to cloying and suffocating, and perennially hanging around, and the self belief that a bunch of fabulous cricketers had, seemed to be locked away safely back home in India.

It was in the mind. Most of it at least, if not all.

Be careful what you think, for your thoughts become your words.
Be careful what you say, for your words become your actions.
Be careful what you do, for your actions become your habits.
Be careful what becomes habitual, for your habits become your destiny.

Google surprisingly, did not definitively attribute the above to someone. Maybe I didn’t search hard enough, but beyond doubt, the insight could not come, but from a wise one.

How many milliseconds separated Usha and an Olympic medal in 1984? How many individual Olympic medals did India win in all of the twentieth century? How many overseas test victories notched up by the India cricket team before the Y2K bug?

Said the famous tagline for a shoe brand, you don’t win silver; you lose gold.

Sport at the rarified levels of the elite and professionals, is all about striving for that little extra. That, millisecond which separates a medal winner from, literally, an also ran. Those little bits of fish fin simulating swimsuits; those carved out squash balls inside gloves; those reduced grams in a tennis racquet. Those invisible back-room boys analyzing patterns, and rhythms and swings and such other minutiae, hoping to give their boys, that bit of advantage.

That said, separating the winners from the also-rans is also another little thing. Self belief. That little thing which makes a sportsperson believe in himself or herself, when all seems hopeless and lost, and ignominy is a ton of bricks just around the corner.  That imperceptible little thing which digs deep, hard and strong, through the bloody eyed pain. That thing which deep within, says quietly first and then with a roar : This day is yours. No one can take it away from you. Your destiny is yours. Just. Once.  More. Now GET UP AND GET OUT THERE ! AND SEIZE THIS DAYYYY AND MAKE IT YOURS!

281, Kolkata. In hindsight, I believe it was not about a solitary and fabled victory at all. Far from it.

In hindsight, that knock defined a decade of cricket in India. Indeed, probably of sport in India itself?

How many overseas test victories did India win from 2001 to 2010? England, South Africa, Australia, the object of cricketing wet dreams? How many Olympic medals did India win in just 2008 and 2012? Six medals in 2012 alone ! Who would have ever thought? How little, or how much that knock of Laxman's had to do with it, who knows?

For sure it would be foolish and naive to believe that this is all the fruit of that One Day, the Fabled one; and all the doing of that one man. Beyond doubt, hundreds, even thousands perhaps have sweated collective blood, sweat and tears, so to speak, to have these results achieved. But did not the effort of Vangipurappu Venkata Sai Laxman on That Day not have anything to do with it at all? Nothing?

Did one gentle and seemingly soft human being, in the course of a day, not teach us as a sporting country, to wipe away the blood from our nose, sweat from our brow, and then say ‘Okay buster, now bring it on then; let’s see what you got’.

Did he not make us Believe?

Goodbyes.

Drop Laxman. Drop Dravid (and cross my heart, drop He-Who-Can-Do-No-Wrong?).

As is typically with Indian cricket at these times, not surprising, the mantra seems to be ‘out with the old, and in with the new’.

How silly are calls to drop players who have not delivered for a couple of series? Or even lesser number of games? How easy do we forget for eg. that Dravid was the leading run scorer, in the test match format of cricket, in 2011? A year which finished all of fifteen days ago.

But that said, let’s make no mistake.

Say goodbyes here, we must. Not for silly matters like performance or lack of it over a few games. But in the larger interests of Indian cricket. Here’s my argument around eighteen months ago, for the holy trinity to be put out to pasture.

http://untitled-bharath.blogspot.com/2010/07/time-to-go.html

Having said that, not only is there a time to go, but surely, there is a way to go too.

Tendulkar, Dravid and Laxman have been such fantastic servants of Indian Cricket, who would blame them at all of exceeding themselves if they expect some dignity in the way they exit the grand stage. Indeed, these gentlemen have done enough and more to be accorded the privilege to choose the time of their exit.

To respect your elderly and ageing generals is an important part of sport, indeed, life itself. For respect is life. If one is no longer needed, does not one expect a basic courtesy of being told so with politeness and dignity?

A bit of foresight by our selectors, and Laxman could well have had a farewell series over the past eighteen months or so. How about a calypso goodbye for the ultimate Magician, in Jamaica?

What nostalgia if Dravid would have with a heavy heart, bid adieu to his love affair with England and Lords, at Lords? The Mecca as it were?

And as for The God, what could have been better than Perth in 2012? The place where The Legend took a bouncy birth as a teen prodigy in 1991? Where it all began?

What ammunition for the television channels, those sellers of dreams; for what could be a bigger buildup to a series than : India vs Australia. December 2011. Sachin Tendulkar’s final test series. (None of that childish Agneepath business, as it were).

And if the man had ticked off the silly little affair of the hundredth ton by the side, the marketing men probably would have been in apoplexies of collective nirvana.

Beautiful swansongs were so waiting to be written. Treacle thick nostalgia awaiting to be laid out by the dollops. Honeyed words waiting to be typed out for posterity in the newspapers. Bitter-sweet good-byes waiting to be said with lumps in throats. Shoulders of the young limbering up, waiting for the privilege to carry the greats around laps of honours around the stadium. To hear a spectator say 'Thank you, for everything. You enriched my life beyond measure.'

Final wistful and teary eyes of the player, trying to capture in the mind’s eye for posterity, the ground and emptying stands. The thuds of the cricket kits being closed with a finality. For The final time. A million myriad emotions swirling in the fading darkeness -sadness with leaving the only life one had ever known, and yet, satisfaction at a life well lived.

Those, are goodbyes.

A time to go.

April 2011: when the summer in India will be flexing its muscles for a full show of strength in the days to come.

April 2011: Taking off from an article by Peter Roebuck, when the age of the Indian middle order as we know it today, will be: 38, 38 and 36 (Tendulkar, Dravid, and Laxman).

What crime then, have I committed, would ask Sourav Ganguly, for he too would – only-be 38 then?

If there is a semblance of truth in the story that Ganguly was about to be asked to leave (around the time he announced his ‘retirement’), then probably the selectors need to swallow a lump in their throats sooner rather than later, and belt up for some tough tough decisions again.

After all, try this on for size.

How does one ask Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar to consider retirement?

Hold on.

Did I just say that? No, really?

For most of us, it is impossible to paint a wholesome picture of the Indian batting line-up without Tendulkar, for he has become the proverbial ‘furniture’, a permanent fixture in the team. For that matter, as far as the test team is concerned, Rahul Dravid too may not be that far off from being a ‘fixture’, what with around 15 years in the Indian team next year. Laxman? Ditto, with 1996 being his year of test debut.

Why? Why then these words? Is it that these batsmen are not pulling their weight, not scoring runs? Hardly. Or does one perceive any lack of commitment? Perish the mere thought. Are they not serious ‘leaders’, passing on the beacon of knowledge to the next generation? Far from it, for going by what one reads, these gentlemen appear to be the epitome of grace, kindliness and tutorship.

So is this then, a mere exercise in intellectual, err, stimulation?

Hardly, I submit.

For how can one go to war, with aged (if very capable and experienced) warriors? Because at the end of the day, victory in sport, as in war, belongs to the young and brave, to the one with courage in his heart, and sinew in his biceps; to the one with a point to prove, and maybe to the one with some angst against the cruel world. To the young, does the world belong.

Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast, Grant God, he charge the bravest, Of all the martial blest! So said Emily Dickenson.

Experience is nonpareil, without doubt, for only after one has escaped landmines and ducked splintering shells and bullets, does one ultimately end up a General. But show me a General fighting in the trenches, and with some effort and luck, I may probably conjure up images of pigs flying.

So what point do I seek to make? Do I demean experience, courage, commitment, grit, the wisdom of age? Hardly.

Let me put it this way.

For a second, can we imagine a wrinkled and cranky fifty year old Tendulkar or Dravid batting and competing, taking body blows in the boiling hot cauldron of battle with the Aussies? Giving as good as it gets to a cuss-by-the-minute Protean fast bowler? Probably hard to imagine. So, if not at fifty, at what point between now, and when they turn fifty does one finally say, today, today is a good time to go?

Empirical evidence has it that for cricketers, the body takes on a mind of its own, and does not always answer the call of the ‘official’ mind, so to speak, around the ages of 35 to 37 (and then too, that generosity seems to be reserved for batsmen and spin bowlers, for it’s a much crueler world for pacemen).

So now, here are some juicy thoughts, and without doubt, much fodder for your cannonsJ.

Circa 2011.

The options on the table for the top seven:

Sehwag, Gambhir, Murali Vijay, Rohit Sharma, Suresh Raina, Cheteshwar Pujara, Dinesh Karthik, Yuvraj Singh (!) M.S. Dhoni.

Take aim. And fire.

p.s. the sad part in all of this is, inasmuch as one would want to write about the bowling line-up, for that’s where one tends to ends up winning test matches, there seems to be not much to write home about. Literally and sadly.

The curious case of the missing stone-man killer

Jeffrey Archer’s novels tend to revolve around passionate entrepreneurs seizing the moment. And making their own fortunes and writing their own destinies.

Mahendra Dhoni could well have been a protagonist straight out of one of Archer’s paperbacks. At least, in the early stages of his international cricket career.

A cricketer from the state of Jharkhand – the apocryphal small town boy who made it big in the big bad city. The success purchased using the currency of good solid hard work, innate cricketing talent, and an uncanny seemingly born-with-it ability to quickly analyse a situation and grasp it by the horns– and change adversity into success - indeed smote adversity almost literally out of the reckoning.

In a cricket-mad country which places a premium on individual performances, and especially big hits (vis-à-vis over team performance/ effectiveness) the cricket viewing population went madder still. Does one dare say some even spoke of him as the new Tendulkar? (Or the Tendulkar of old? – a discussion in itself for another day).

Add to this boiling hot cauldron, the ingredient of roguish-good looks and long flowing tresses, which if one is allowed a little hyperbole - may even have been the envy of the odd Bollywood starlet!

As with any major sport, money followed - indeed, stalked and hunted him down. Big businesses smell an investment prey a mile away. And with Dhoni, one didn’t need to be an MBA from an IIM to conclude that he sold. And sold big.

Captaincy followed – and in hindsight, seemed destined. As far as the little matter of Team India goes, it appeared that finally India seemed to be playing as a team - winning more often than losing (with due regard to the Ganguly era where the seeds of change were clearly sown, and even flourished to an extent). The young kids on the block seemed to be playing some fearless cricket. Uncluttered by the thoughts of the past, or of failure. Armed with a realization that the only way to succeed was to play unburdened and free sport – and shift the demons in the mind to alternative residences – to the opponents mind. All of this shepherded in an easy way by the instinctive captain.

The fairy tale was complete.

As Peter Roebuck might have said, hereabouts, a strange thing happened.

In fact, it might be no major exaggeration to say the ‘strange thing’ happened almost overnight. Dhoni, one fine day, seemed to have turned his game on its head. It was as if on that day, Dhoni woke up from the other side of the bed, and said to himself – today is the day of my metamorphosis. The birth of a new me. This day onwards, I shall be the bearer of the cross. The sole bearer.

And the cross was a Herculean one – the cross of responsibility.

His reading seemed to be that here he was – a leader of a team of aggressive free-spirited young men (of the likes of Gambhir, Raina, Karthick, Yuvraj, Sehwag, Sharma) – men who seemed to have the ability to make pussycats out of the most hardened of criminals - put the fear of God into them. By the mere expediency of wielding their rapier blades of wood. One could almost hear Dhoni say to himself – how does it not make sense to have someone in the team who plays percentages? Assures certainty? Brings calmness?

Without a doubt, this made sense back then. As it does today, and one daresay, will continue to do so in times to come.

Dhoni the demolisher, the stone-man killer, who till then regularly bludgeoned the opposition into submission, seemed overnight to have put on a white coat and a mask, and traded in his stone-like ‘club’/ bat, for a sterilized scalpel. Dhoni the stone-man killer seemed to metamorphose into Dhoni, the calm and clinical Surgeon.

Where earlier his trade-mark shot was deliciously scooping out near-toe-crushing yorkers through long on/ mid wicket, he now slit the field with clinical twos. Where earlier he rattled along, counting in even numbers – fours and sixes, he now added the odd numbers to his abacus – by stealing singles. Where earlier he threatened to put a few species of migratory birds into the endangered species list by regularly aiming cricket balls at them, he now looked to threaten earthworms out to get some sun, by wristily burning shots straight along the carpet past the bowler. Welcome to the ‘New-Improved Dhoni’ – Ver.2. Bug and Error Free.

Make no mistake - the new ‘career choice’ was not a misguided one. Nor in the context of a team game, unwelcome. It clearly served its purpose – give a safety net to the trapeze artists / rapier swingers , swinging merrily and with gay abandon at the top of the batting order.

The artists seemed to ply their trade with utmost confidence – secure in the knowledge that if their rapier blades missed on a given day, and they got hurt, the Surgeon operating at number six with his scalpel would stem the flow of blood. And ensured that they came out alive – to fight another day.

The Surgeon thus ensured regular success for India.

But somewhere along the line, a strange thing seems to have happened. Dhoni seemed to take his Surgeon’s role too seriously. By almost treating his initial days as something one grew out of, and only looked back nostalgically. That as captain, it was almost sinful to ‘enjoy’ free-spirited batting.

The awe-inspiring, fear-inducing batsman of yore seemed to have turned into a responsible, boring, clinical patriarch of the family.

While this was evident over the past couple of years or so, the glaring extent and effects of it was shown up in stark relief in situations where letting go was the need of the hour. Like in the free-spirited T20 matches.

It is now quite apparent that the Dhoni as we know today is struggling to put the ball out of the park - even when he decides that he wants to shrug off the Surgeon’s mask and play, ironically, as the situation demands.

Why the struggle?

Are the demons of the mind to be blamed? Or is it on account of the fear of losing his wicket, and of failure – failure of self and consequently the team? Or is it the Herculean weight of the cliched billion expectations bearing him down?

Or could it just be something as simple as having played in one ‘style’ for a long time, that is who ‘he has become’? And reverting ‘back to type’ is now a huge change for him? That the current ‘style’ itslef is ‘type’ for him? That his ‘natural game’ now means getting a risk-free 40 off 46 balls?

Is the Dhoni, the stone-man-killer, the demolisher of the yore lost forever?

I believe not.

Let us make no mistake. This man is a man of exceptional ability and intellect. And one should have no doubts about that. For we have all seen over the past few years what this man is capable of. The mere fact that Dhoni chose to become a grafter (in a sense) in a land where ‘master-blasters’ are worshipped, in itself, says that the man is special.

I think the time has come for Dhoni use that exceptional ability and intellect to change again. Consciously, and on a few chosen occasions. Change, for that occasion, if only for the sake of change.

I do not for a moment believe Dhoni should be putting away the Surgeon’s mask forever – for all said and done, it is a tremendously fine way of batting in itself.

But it is important that Dhoni re-discovers that he can choose to be either one on a given day – the stone-man killer. Or the Surgeon. And then his effectiveness would be enhanced vastly. For if not anything, the opposing bowlers would also be wondering which one has turned up before them on that day. And the demons in their mind would be stirred. (And anyways, getting a 65 ball 90 on an odd day surely cannot be a bad thing for the team on that day).

For that, I believe Dhoni should pick the odd match to re-discover himself. To wake up on the other side of the bed. Wake up and say to himself - today, I shall not wear the Surgeon’s mask. Today, I shall be what I can be. A player who can single-handedly change the course of the match. Today, I shall make the opposing team’s bowlers contemplate alternative careers.

Today, I shall come in at number three. And be free. Free from the weight of responsibility. I shall believe today, in my players ability and willingness to play Surgeon. Believe in their ability to do that, like I believed in their ability to play rapier-wielding swordsmen. Today, I shall believe that they too can be grown-up men. Believe that if their captain falls, they are capable - and willing - to carry the burden of the cross. The Cross that I am passing to them. If only for today.

Today, I will be.

'Live and let live'.

Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code :

Unnatural offences: Whoever voluntarily has carnal intercourse against the order of nature with any man, woman or animal, shall be punished with imprisonment for life, or with imprisonment of either description for term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine.

The Delhi High Court ruled today to the effect that gays can legally have fun, if both are adults nodding their head.

Big deal?

Naah.

In a country where sources would have you believe that close to 500 million people get by with less than 1.25$ per day, how does it matter that a court says men can have fun with men (or women with women for that matter)? A pinch of perspective anyone?

But then again, is something not worth a damn just because the majority doesn’t give a damn?Is not a country only as great as it treats its minorities? That while without a doubt, it should not favor its minorities; it does at the same time spare them the odd thought? And treat them as equal citizens?

A colleague of mine once said ‘Nothing you do is wrong in this world, as long as you don’t hurt another’. Methinks that's at least a great attempt at hitting upon the 'universal truth' - if ever there is such a thing. Simple and beautiful, right?

To the right wing loonies opposing this under the garb of culture, and the religious bodies opposing this (under whatever garb!), I only say one thing – the earlier law didn’t prevent a gay boy from looking longingly at John Abraham.

And after the judge spoke today, it wont stop a 'straight' boy from looking longingly at Mallika Sherawat’s curves, and make him chase John Abraham instead. Just because the judge said it was okay ! (How crazy is the thought?)

Take a 'chill pill' friends. No one’s ever taken on Mother Nature and won.

All the judge said today was let people be. And took another small step for us to become a great nation.

Now if only we stop losing sleep over such 'small issues', and put our minds to some larger ones - how about those 500 million people with half-filled bellies to begin with?

Perspective anyone?

Let's not reach for the stars.

What a tragedy.

That is, if there is truth to the balloon floating around that a reach-for-the-sky building will come up on the the massive vacant land available once the Bangalorean horses are made to gallop to the outskirts of the city (Well, I wouldnt be surprised if the horses themselves were to be saying 'neighhhh' to the idea of stones and bricks and mortar being dumped on their playgrounds!) :-)

It is inevitable that as a city develops, it grapples with seemingly opposing needs (like trees having to be rail-roaded over to allow the metro to rattle through).

But without going into facts and figures, I would dare say that it would be a fair statement to make that a city is only as great as it allows its citizens to stay in touch with nature. To give the people a sight for sore eyes. To allow some 'green' breathing space. Space to just walk. To take the kids for a stroll. To play some tennis ball cricket. To dip into lunch box sandwiches and snooze under the blue skies. To loll around on green lawns. To hear a few birds chirp. To watch the sunset mellow down over the horizon and melt into the twilight.

Sigh ! Would life not be truly greenly beautiful.

Mr. CM, give us a life. Please.



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Central_Park

Great people have to go too. Sometime.

And when the time comes, we mortals indulge ourselves by undertaking an exercise of looking back at the legacy the person has left. Some difference that they have made - if not for the world at large - at least for the limited little world that they walked in.

Mahatma Gandhi left his stamp on this country, and possibly, even the world, with his vision of peaceful non-cooperation. Amitabh Bachchan will have altered Indian cinema forever with his baritone histrionics when he finally calls it a day. And Dhirubhai Ambani would have almost single-handedly ushered in the words ‘stock-market’ into the vocabulary of millions of ordinary middle class homes across the country.

Saurav Ganguly.

What difference did he make? And to whom?

Sure he evoked joy, anger, abuse, love, and countless other (unmentionable) emotions in the hearts of millions, for he was the typical – love him or hate him, you couldn’t ignore him – kind of man. So maybe we could consider that the world that the made a difference in, was just the Indian cricket team and the way it plays?

What difference did he make? Maybe we can step back a minute and look at Indian cricket from a bird’s eye view.

Indian Cricket has generally speaking, always been about individuals. I, me, myself. About brilliant performances on a given day. When two or three inspired individuals overcame the collective will of the opposing eleven. While this need not necessarily be a bad thing in itself, for a brilliant century can do no harm at all for a team's cause, quite a few times, the bigger picture of the team cause tended to be overlooked. Needless to say, in the long term, methods and processes prevail more often than individual brilliances, and so it was no surprise that India won lesser than it lost.

Indian cricket was also about the players being regarded by the opposition as ‘nice guys’, who could be sledged/ pressurized into playing badly. The perennial nice kid in the neighborhood, who on seeing the street bully roll up his sleeves, will meekly hand over his red shiny bicycle.

Ganguly was, sorry, is a fine batsman. But I believe that his most significant contribution came not with the bat, but with his shirt! (and his angry waving of it at on the Lords balcony).

If there are two things one had to mention as Ganguly’s contribution to Indian cricket – at least during his captaincy - the first would be getting the Indian team to play as a team. No other Indian captain in recent memory, I believe, evoked the kind of ‘I’ll follow you to the grave skipper’ emotion that Ganguly evoked among his teammates, especially the younger lot.

The second would be - at the risk of accusations by school teachers of encouraging bad behaviour - a healthy disrespect for the opposition. Steve Waugh would vouch for that, when he remembers Ganguly keeping him waiting (assumed intentional) for the toss during an earlier India tour.


While this isn’t to say that Ganguly was washed of milk (the closest I could translate the hindi phrase ‘doodh ka dhula’ – a perfect man), when the curtain finally comes down for the last time, I have no doubt in my mind that it would be the end of one chapter for one of the finest leaders of men, possibly in all of India.

Go on Saurav, take off your shirt and wave it. For one final time.