In.A.Deep.Trance

[inadeeptrance]

A Chain of Events

I couldn’t recognize him at first glance. Who gives a second glance to a dope laden junkie in a seedy coffee shop anyway? I noticed something he had placed on his table though. It was a worn out photograph. I knew a guy who had cause to be passionate about a certain childhood photograph. Contradicting my thought process, I glanced again at the junkie. I allowed my eyes to rest on him long enough to identify his features.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was him – Bala! Bala, the engineering student who used to be my roommate a couple of years ago and as any other engineering student the guy had a set plan for the rest of his life. I remember him having a job offer from at least one big name every week in his last semester. The same guy was now wearing ragged clothes that obviously didn’t fit him, had a beard as shaggy as a crow’s nest and eyes that were sunken deep into their sockets. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I was working as a freelancer at that time in Madras. I had a regular flow of writing work. It was mostly for the local newsletters and was invariably insignificant interviews of local bigwigs. It was enough to get me some steady income. My major source of income however was the house I lived in. I owned it, passed on to me by my late Uncle, and had a steady procession of paying guests – all bachelors – paying me a token rent and generally paying for everything else.

Yet, my personal life was a big void. With a much elder sister as the only living relative and no friends of any sort, the roommates became my one big relationship. Bala was a great roommate. I developed a kind of rapport that made me even protective of him. I admired him for his penchant for cleanliness and his car which I could borrow from time to time. He was a full time student and his tuition fees were taken care of by parents who had planned for it a long time ago. We bonded well and he became my best friend yet. Those were good times.

During his last semester, Bala forced a change into our regular schedule.

“Would you mind having another room mate?”, he threw a poser.

“Male or female?” I grinned.

“Sorry to disappoint you buddy, it’s a guy called Giri”, and in a more serious tone he added, “He wouldn’t be contributing monetarily though, at least not immediately. I am even prepared to move if his coming here is not okay with you.”

I thought it over. Bala’s anxious face forced the decision in the end. I did make the routine inquires though.

“How long have you known him?”, I asked him.

“All my life!” he said.

“That is enough credibility for me.”, I assured him, “He is most welcome!”

I actually felt less assured than those words. I am usually very wary of new people but I didn’t want to disappoint Bala.

My anxiety was further enhanced when Bala brought home Giri! Giri was a far cry from normalcy. He looked extremely undernourished. For some reason Bala didn’t bother to introduce him in face which I found to be odd. That really piqued me. as I fancied myself to be an emotional benefactor to Bala. This new person with whom he had his own private world was a looming puzzle. Giri, on the other hand refused to be a challenge in the overbearing friend department.

It was clear to me that he had issues. He was shy beyond reason – a champion among introverts if ever there was one. He had just landed a job in Madras after a long struggle and had no place to stay. He had written to Bala, who consulted me and offered him temporary lodgings. I’d heard of Giri before from Bala. In his school days, Bala, always the benevolent, had taken the meek Giri under his wings. Giri had lost his father, a Brahmin priest, at a very young age. That didn’t stop him from being extremely pious himself. In fact it was whispered among the locals in Bala’s town that he was some kind of a seer.

I was told that Giri kept most of his thoughts to himself and his talents never got the frenzied fan following usually reserved for people of his caliber. Bala however saw him only as a friend in need of compassion and refused to believe his supposedly divine powers.

“Hello!” I said to Giri.

“Hi!” replied Giri to the wall behind me.

-

“Doesn’t he bother you?”, I asked Bala.

“Who?” he asked with that pleasant manner of his.

“Who?”, I couldn’t think of anyone else the past few days and he was asking who. “Giri, that’s who”.

“What do you mean?”, he asked me. “Bala, that guy is living off you and he doesn’t seem to mind it. Every time you give him some simple job to do around the house, he hides himself behind God and other rituals. Personally, I don’t have anything to do with him, but I don’t know man… I mean… doesn’t he bother you?”.

I stopped talking as Bala left the room ending that discussion right there. My thoughts, however, persisted. I was convinced that Bala was being used. Yet he refused to see reason.

After Giri’s arrival, I hardly spent any time at home. I was traveling with a theatre troupe as their PR person all across South India. When I came back, I found the two old cohorts back to a routine which Bala had mentioned about them having in high school. Giri’s workplace was close to Bala’s college. They traveled together all the time. They never got tired of talking about their times at their old school and their town folk. Both of them were strict vegetarians and shared a common interest in most other things. In fact, sometimes I found myself missing the laid back debates I used to enjoy with Bala. Around this time I got a regular job with a weekly magazine doing a city round up of cultural events. I didn’t notice anything amiss until much later.

Despite their obvious companionship, Bala and Giri had one major bone of contention. Bala refused to believe in Giri’s divine abilities. In fact, he chided Giri’s elaborate rituals every morning. Bala was born into a family of engineers. To him logic preceded divinity. Given his over-protective nature, he couldn’t tolerate Giri’s “blind” religious beliefs.

The daily teasing underlined Giri’s prayer sessions. Initially Giri didn’t seem to mind it. But during the month of November, an auspicious month, Giri’s chanting was loud and resonating and took place in the evening on a daily basis. This particular month was also the time of Bala’s mid-semester examinations. Bala wanted some silence one particular evening. Giri seemed to be really fervent in his rendition that very day. It was a clash of either person’s most beloved subject. The debate ran well into the night – Prayer and Studies long forgotten. It left both of them bitter and on uneven terms for quite some time. I couldn’t help being a mute spectator having no contribution to offer whatsoever in either subject.

An interesting turn of events took place. Giri started advising me on stuff. I took his advice because his predictions unfortunately came out true. “Call your sister!” He said to me out of the blue. I hadn’t called her for quite some time and decided to make a phone call anyway. It turned out that she had just suffered a mild stroke.

I rushed to be by her side. She recovered in a few weeks time. I returned with a sense of awe over Giri. He didn’t seem to be even aware of this new fan of his. Bala took extra pain in pointing to the genetic defects in my family. Almost everyone over thirty had some form of cardiac problem. “Don’t go around and start making a God out of that bloke!” he lamented. I didn’t argue with him and couldn’t take Giri’s side readily. My sister did mention that she has sent me a mail a month back detailing her deteriorating health. That mail never reached me and I could only blame the postal system. Did Giri intercept that mail? I wondered.

Life was however returning to normalcy. Giri brought an audio cassette of a religious discourse. He made it a point to listen to it in the wee hours of the morning everyday. Surprisingly Bala didn’t seem to mind it that much. One Saturday morning however Giri started the cassette player with the cassette and instead of the voice of the Shloka exponent the latest rap song resounded across the room. Giri went red with rage but Bala was laughing very hard to even notice it. I think it was after this event that they dropped all speaking terms between them.

Giri never rode with Bala in his car after that. Bala spent more hours in the college library than at home. They were drifting apart. I was an emotional cripple in more ways than one. I did not find it in me to bring about a truce between the two.

“How about having one of those long drives that we used to have?” I was egging Bala back towards better days. I wanted him to get back to that time when emotional turmoil was never in the agenda. I could see that he was warming to the idea.

“Yeah” he sighed. I could do with something like that”. Giri was hovering in the background.

“Bala, I just had a vision. During this trip, make sure that you drive the car all the time. You could be in grave danger if you don’t”.

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Bala started hollering loud peals of laughter. Giri hung his head and left the room.

“Where did you catch this sick nut?” I bellowed. To prove a point Bala left for the trip asking me to drive his car. Our first destination was the firing range in the nearby hills.

It was a narrow trail with barely enough space for one vehicle. I was a frequent visitor to these parts and drove the car at a speed far from normal. Bala was recalling the “Rap music” incident and I couldn’t stop laughing. A bit sober, Bala added, “However, I do plan to make up with that bloke when we get back. We go back a long way man.” At this precise moment, I lost my concentration at the wheel. A near blind turn came along. The road suddenly went in a near-perpendicular curve but the car kept going straight at 90 mph. And to our utter horror the brakes failed.

Bala’s first reaction was to clutch to the sides of his seat and his eyes were closed even more tightly. The first bump forced him to open his eyes and he was no longer sitting in his seat. He was on the side of the driver’s seat and was now holding to the gear box. I was meanwhile trying to stop the car – hoping wildly that we would meet some flat terrain soon enough. My foot was now pressed firmly on the brake but I couldn’t get past Bala to reach the emergency brake or the gear box. The car was still traveling downhill. The thought “What am I doing…” just kept repeating in my head. I was trying to push Bala away from the gear box. He clutched his seatbelt and tried to lift himself away from me. He was not even seated now… just hanging and holding on to his seatbelt. I had tried to shut down the car by all possible means.

The enormous cloud of dust and what looked like a crack to the side window made the task of locating a flat terrain difficult. Eventually, the car did seem to slow down and finally with a heavy crunch emanating from the hood it stood still. Bala, on impact, fell back on top of me. Then, still tied by the seatbelt, propelled up, managed to open his door. Without unclipping the belt, he wriggled out of it and levered himself on top of the car and sat on its side. He then turned to see what I was doing but lost his balance, slid across the side of the car, over the gas tank, rear tires and fell to the ground. Now all he could see was smoke. I moved up hill and to my right all the while trying to maintain my balance and just as the smoke cleared I bumped into Bala. Instinctively, the two of us ran uphill.

We’d hardly reached the road when the car actually blew up. The sound was short but deafening. And it slowly echoed off the hills. Bala felt a stinging pain in his thighs and now knew that they were burns and not just bruises. He had actually slid through fire when he fell out of the car. I was relatively unhurt. Not a soul crossed the road as the two of us just stood there gazing at the burning car. The smoke cleared eventually and it was visible that the car had been held from falling off the cliff by a bunch of what could only be called as thick shrubs. Some of the shrubs were still burning.

Bala was in a real dark mood. That was understandable. He wanted to vent all his anger on Giri. The godman had gone to his home town for the weekend. The insurance people analyzed the accident and suggested that there could have been some tampering with the brake lines in the car. They were not sure. Bala got this idea into his head that it was all Giri’s doing. Did Giri cross the line to prove his supernatural prowess? Did the means to stage an accident precede the prophecy in Giri’s mind? Bala saw this as an attempt on Giri’s part to stage a prophecy.

On his return from his hometown, Giri went straight to his office. Bala who was fuming like a volcano burst into Giri’s office and gave him the kind of tongue lashing that would wither any bloom. Giri all the more embarrassed in front of his colleagues never got a chance to talk back. Later that evening his protests that he had nothing to do with the accident fell on deaf ears. He started packing his bags. Bala personally threw them out. It was a nasty end to their relationship.

“You should have listened to me in the first place”, asserted Giri.

“I’ll get back to you, if that’s the last thing I do!” replied Bala.

In the coming days, Bala felt remorse and felt he had acted in haste. His anger was still there. His mental conflict in overcoming his ego and apologizing to Giri was very evident. He was faltering in his studies. His behavior on the whole took a downside turn. His whole demeanor was that of a listless person. He was desperate for a closure but was not sure how.

Around this time Giri’s boss started getting crank calls over his godman-like behavior. That and Giri’s own faltering performance finally made him lose his job. I got the whiff of the news that Giri had become a sort of recluse and that he had eventually forsaken all his possessions. He joined a charity mission and moved to North India.

Giri’s mother visited us even when Bala was packing his bags, having dropped out of college. She stood there in the doorway – no words were spoken from either side. Even I felt a chill run down my spine. I could only imagine what was going through Bala’s mind. She stood there for something like fifteen minutes. She dropped an old faded photograph and left without a word.

It was a photograph of two kids – arms over shoulders – without a care about either the present or the future. I tried reasoning with Bala and gently persuaded him to complete his studies. He seemed to take it amiably but that was the last that I saw of him until of course today.

I couldn’t bring myself to go near him. I left the place with thoughts on what had happened and what could have been prevented. We used to have great times together. He was well set to become an engineer. I had my first real friend. Giri should have never come into our lives. He took away my friendship. I would have done anything to bring Bala back to his old self. Anything. That’s exactly what I did or at least tried to do.

The two idiots were busy blaming each other that they didn’t even stop to think that there was a third person in the house. Anybody could record on audio cassettes, anybody could make crank calls and anybody could have tampered with the brakes. Jealousy does strange things to the best of people and anybody who knows me knows that I am a jealous freak.

[inadeeptrance]

Pep Talk

Years later my dad and I would discuss the millions of faceless honest blue collar and white collar workers toiling away in government jobs, in banks, schools; anywhere really where corruption has become the standard modus operandi for not only making progress but also for just plain sustenance. Some like my dad were lucky to have the right mixture of education, integrity and fearlessness that allowed a nomadic lifestyle; a lifestyle that allowed their honesty to prevail and were able to relocate when the opposing forces gained an upper hand. He would rattle off names of ex colleagues who ended their careers in positions lower than their worth by sticking to their principles and also circumstances that prevented them from migrating. My dad found a way to reach out to them and keeping them in good spirits. I found this technique of his quite accidentally. I was in high school and had to buy an academic book that was available only in stores near my Dad's bank. Being a Saturday, both of us had half-days and the plan was for me to take public transport from school, buy the book, go to my Dad's bank and hitch a ride back home with him. I lost my way and didn't reach the bank until something like 3 pm. As I climbed up the stairs, a person was writing a 'Hindi word of the week' on a blackboard using multicolored chalks. The only other person in the rather big circle office was my Dad sitting sage like in his desk and writing something. He correctly guessed that I had lost my way and asked me to wait a few minutes more and went back to his writing. On the ride back I quizzed him what he had been writing back in the office. Just some words for some friends, he said. Want to read? Sure. I fished out a printed copy from his briefcase and started reading. In the colored paper, in the characteristic style of the dot matrix printer font was a single page narrative with the title 'Pep Talk'. Very simple words that included a witty anecdote, some serious words that ended with a pun and some clip art. I loved it. The following Saturday he brought home another edition of 'Pep Talk'. I started looking forward to Saturdays and Pep Talks. He had somehow figured out a way to condense a cohesive narrative into a single page - just the right size to slip under the radar of pesky superiors and reach the intended audience. I borrowed some of his work and started fusing them into the writing and debate competitions that I regularly took part in. While not being preachy, Pep Talk would be written in a cheery note and would find a way to extol a virtue. More often than not that virtue would be honesty. In my mind, Pep Talk was a weekly blockbuster and my dad had a following befitting a superstar. So, I was a little surprised when he told me that he hardly ever got any feedback. He did it without expecting any gratification because he romanticized that through the inter-bank correspondence it reached fellow employees and gave them solace and the power to sustain in an otherwise corrupt world. It was intended for the clerk sitting in his stifling office after yet another defeat to the forces of caste and politics, nursing the semi-cold tea in his glass or steel tumbler, going through the bank correspondence more out of habit than anything else, discovering pep talk and letting out that sigh that pushed him on for the next few days with the comfortable understanding that he was not alone. It was intended also for those that had succumbed to greed but were now trying to regain their conscience. It is quite possible, my dad would say, that Pep Talk didn't change anything and didn't influence even a single person. Well, it influenced one person.

[inadeeptrance]

My Hero

Laidback folks are the most misunderstood of the lot. Add a competitive field like youth cricket and you become a case for constant confirmation. I wasn't there but I heard an account of how you were limping in the field during the game against Seattle. I remember that you were getting more opportunities to bat and you also found your voice as a leader in the field. It was surprising to see that you asked others to go ahead of you in the batting lineup. There was no visible injury and you were vague about the pain. After the Seattle tournament, you were reluctant to go for training. You would complain that your knee ‘might’ hurt. This was March 2021.

We couldn't quite understand what the issue was. You too we're getting frustrated in trying to explain the mystery pain that shot up only when playing cricket. You refused to check with a doctor as you repeatedly said you couldn't explain the sporadic pain. There was no swelling or any other telltale signs We were getting convinced that you were making it up and I remember the long talk we had about first, showing up for training and pulling out if your knee hurt, and second, to work with your coaches if you had any issues. You reluctantly agreed. We were worried that there was a confidence issue.

We did not sign you up for the Atlanta tournament in May as you were short on practice. I was saddened by that. It didn't look like you were concerned about missing the tournament. How wrong was I? With the team away, you had some personal time with your coaches and you also finally agreed to a doctor consult. Within a few minutes into the session, the physician diagnosed that you had ‘Osgood Schlatter Disease’ or OSD - a fairly common problem for athletes who were in the middle of a growth spurt. While relieved that we now knew what the problem was, your mom and I were worried when we heard that the potential layoff from sports activities could be anywhere from six months to a year.

You gave us the solution. I think once you realized that we were on your side, you decided to put your quiet strength to use. First with Coach Mario and then with Coach Narsingh, you switched to bowling spin at the nets. They realized that you were not able to put weight on your foot and helped change your run-up. Suresh uncle and others pitched in with useful tips to manage the pain. You were on the way back.

I saw your pain as you waited for your teammates to finish their running drills - a part of training where you used to have the most fun. I felt your pain as you continued to miss your games but accompanied me and your sister to her games - offering to umpire and manage the U11 games. I realized the mental pain you felt - when we weren't ready to believe that the pain, the sporadic but intense pain that you felt was real - you must have felt alone at times. That is a pain I will always carry - for not trusting you unconditionally when you needed it the most.

I was proud when you wanted to sign up for the July Bay Area nationals even when you had just started to train again. You went against character and took efforts to manage your pain with ice packs and stretches. You jumped three shoe sizes this year. The growth spurt finally spread evenly across your legs. You stood tall in more ways than one.

It is but a footnote (pun unintended) that you joined the spring league halfway through but you finished it as the highest wicket-taker. I fed off your success and you are my hero. Your mom pointed out your high threshold for pain. She still rates the four-year-old you higher, the one that didn't cry even a wee bit as he received stitches for a gash on the head. Indeed, there was no physical demonstration or tears from you through the pain and the frustration. If people call this being laidback, so be it. Yours is a quiet strength and is a rarity. If at any point of time in your life you need inspiration, recall the spring of 2021 - you will get all the motivation you need from within.

No new pictures by our agreement but there will be no shortage of cutesy name-calling from your sister or sloppy kisses from your mother or excellent dad jokes from me. Besides that, happy national sons day.

[inadeeptrance]

A sport like no other

Against all odds, the Indian team beat the Australians at the venue, where the hosts were deemed unbeatable. It was close to midnight here in California. I had already stirred the house when I yelled involuntarily at the umpire's call that took Pujara out. It was a school night, after all. Pant hit the winning boundary. I gingerly opened the backyard door and stepped out into the cold winter night to roar at the top of my lungs. Instead, even as I could see my breath join the night air, I held back the urge to shout. The moment was surreal. I kept grinning from ear to ear for a good five minutes. The smirk sustained me all of last week. Leading up to that victory, I was mentally writing and tearing off this write up. In all of those drafts, an Indian win was not on the cards. In one draft, I had the Milkha Singh analogy. 'It is okay,' I consoled myself, 'even if we don't win at Brisbane and lose the series, as we did for Milkha, we will celebrate the win over adversity. We stretched the game to the final day with a neophyte bowling attack. This thought process was at lunch. I was listing all the rearguard actions that resulted in a draw. I had a draft by tea, including the  one in the earlier test that resulted in 'the great escape.' I even had visions of Steve McQueen sitting in a cell and bouncing a ball back and forth against the wall - he doesn't win at the end, but he doesn't surrender either. I briefly entertained the thought of a tie as Pant lost partners in quick succession at the end. Pant prevailed, India won, and my procrastination in writing those pieces helped me avoid any embarrassment. They won; We won; I won. The new draft took me to the milestones in my life as a cricket fan. The 1985 World Series in Australia. Getting up when it was pitch dark outside and eager to join my father in watching the game when the world around us was still sleeping. I've written about that experience here - https://inadeeptrance.tumblr.com/post/116066955849/richie-benaud-me-and-dad - as a tribute to Richie Benaud. This series was the beginning of my life as a cricket fan. My Dad pushed it further by subscribing to Sportstar and kept my interest in the game going. Until I joined him to watch those games, the game was just something between him and the telly. My kids would have gladly joined me to watch the game with me, but it being a school night, the Brisbane win gave me the chance to live one evening in the pre-1985 life of my cricket-loving father. Alone with the telly and the love of the game. The game's appeal survived the mediocre form of the Indian team in the ensuing years until it hit a new high in the middle of a sand storm in Sharjah. Watching it live late with my Pondy roommates, some of those goosebumps are yet to go down. I was still giddy with my own income for the first time, and Sachin helped me enjoy it to the fullest extent. After a dress rehearsal in a penultimate game, in the finals, the mighty Australians gave in to the calculated assault of someone so close to my age that the game felt more personal than ever. India won when they shouldn't have. Thanks to the skill and the belief it birthed in one man. My roommates and I shouted over the crashing waves near the Gandhi statue by the beach, dissecting every bit of the game. There is no looking back we said. We have Sachin. Greed crept into the game at the turn of the millennium. I was willing to look past the betting scandal but didn't know if the game had anything new to offer. I was also making a big move in my life, having accepted an offer to move to the US. I packed my bags and weighed them with a weighing machine borrowed from a relative's relative but had an eye on the Eden Gardens game where my idol Steve Waugh and his unbeatable team were dictating terms. The night I said goodbye to loved ones, India following on, Dravid and Laxman at the crease, and my Dad saying that we'll get them at Chennai, among many other assuring things. I landed in the bay area, disoriented, excited, and at my uncle's place joined him to check the scores on dial-up to see that Dravid and Laxman were at the crease. Do you get news like a day late? I asked him before he showed me that Dravid and Laxman had batted a whole day, and India lost not a  wicket during the entire time I was on that 36-hour journey. My uncle, a former cricketer, and I high-fived each other while I secretly cursed the timing of my trip for missing the pivotal day in Indian cricket. My co-workers might have been surprised at this upbeat guy from India, but little did they know that the reason for the enthusiasm was the mother of all come-from-behind victories. A new era of competitive cricket presented itself with a fierce team that started making winning a habit. From that moment when I found Sunny Gavaskar and co regaling my father at 4 AM to watching the ball cross over the boundary ropes at Rahane’s Gabba heist at midnight - it has been a long day in the life of an Indian Cricket fan. I can't wait for tomorrow.

[inadeeptrance]

A Chennai Winter

The early 2000s. The mobile phone was not that indispensable. Yet, he carried one that he could fit in his normal-sized palm. He waited for her outside her workplace, having already requested the security guard to inform her that he was there. He used this time to try and nail down something that was bugging him. He liked her. Having met through family friends and with most exchanges through instant messenger and emails, they had a little awkwardness about them every time they met in person. It was that awkwardness that was bothering him. He wanted her to be comfortable around him, shut him up when his jokes didn't land, or even better, counter him with some of her own. They were not there yet. There was a little bit of forced formality accompanying them at every stage. How do I make her comfortable? he worried. He came out of his reverie as he saw her walk towards him. She looked lovely. He liked her very much. He was conscious of the indulgent grin the security guard was giving them. He smiled at him first and then gave her his full attention.

'Any plans, today?' he asked her. 'Just going home or engayaavadhu velila...'

This was another issue he had cultivated unintentionally. They stuck to English most of the time. Two sentences in English and then either a phrase or word in Thamizh somehow became the format for their conversations. He couldn't get rid of this custom that he was sure he didn't apply with anyone else. Somehow, he had sucked her into this mode as well.

'Nothing much. The usual shopping and maybe velila dinner.'

Much like Chennai's pedestrians, they moved with a start-stop approach, extremely watchful of the surroundings and avoiding pitfalls of all kinds. He didn't drive in the city, and neither did she. They would typically hop on an autorickshaw and go to either a coffee joint and then drop her off at her place. She was telling him something about her work. With the hustle and bustle, conscious of how close they were and holding her hand gingerly and releasing it immediately, and the zillion thoughts in his head, he couldn't catch all of what she was saying. On top of it, he was also trying to flag down an auto. They had covered a lot of ground. He had failed on the auto front. 'Do you want to stop for coffee? There is a 'Coffee Day' right under the overpass if I am not mistaken.' 'Yeah... I was just asking you that.' she laughed. 'Sorry, missed that. All this saththam...' Seriously, who talks with such bilingual proficiency? As he had no idea what she had been talking about this whole time, he felt he had to open up a new topic. Given that she grew up in Bombay, he wanted to impress upon her that he knew a few Hindi songs. 'So, tell me this... Kishore Kumar or Rafi?' he blurted out. 'Oh, wow, does it have to be an either-or?' she asked. 'Well, it doesn't, really...' and he didn't have a follow-up. 'Actually, I think I will go with a song rather than the singer,' she said, trying to help him out. 'Do you have a preference?' 'You are right. They have both held their own. Nalla range of songs.', he said, with a mental apology to Kishore Kumar. 'So which song is your earworm these days?', she wanted to know. He couldn't think of a single Kishore Kumar song. The kind of brain freeze that was several degrees below freezing point led his mind as far away from Kishore Kumar as possible. He was also eager to share that he had an eclectic taste when it comes to music. All combined thoughts came out as 'Kiss from a rose.' She slowed down in her walk just a bit. Oh god, I didn't slip in words like kiss, trust me, he wanted to say. He felt that giving any such explanation would only make it even more cumbersome. So he let it hang there. Seal probably didn't have him in mind while singing the lines, 'There is so much a man can tell you, so much he can say.' But he kept these thoughts to himself. 'That is not a Kishore Kumar song, illa..?', she said. 'Haha... no. I listen to all kinds. This is Seal, I think. I saw the movie which had this song on the soundtrack, and I've been humming it. Nalla smooth song...' he continued while thinking, 'Dei brain, stick to a topic and stick to one language. What the hell...' They made it to the coffee shop. In general, Chennai and 'Coffee Day' in particular seemed to be embracing two traditions at once. This being December, there was a Christmas star at the entrance, right above a bright Rangoli for maargazhi. 'Chalo, we made it to coffee,' she said triumphantly. 'Chalo Chalo,' he added while cursing in his mind for now having to deal with a third language. They ordered their coffees, and he offered to pay. 'You don't have to do this every time, you know?' she said relatively lightly, but he wasn't sure what she was referring to. Was it the paying the bills or the agreeing to everything part. He was happy to do both. As they sat down to enjoy the coffee, he asked her what song she was into these days. 'Vellai PookkaL' she said before he could even finish his question. 'Oh yes, Rahman, right?' 'Yes, from Kannaththil Muththamittaal,' she added. Did she give the slightest wink, or was it his imagination? Nice segue from 'Kiss from a rose' to 'Kannaththil Muththamittal' (Kiss on the cheek) if she had planned it that way. He relaxed a bit and decided to get it clarified. But, she spoke first with an 'it's a light piece that you can easily hum along to,' and he found himself agreeing to it rather than getting the risky clarification out in the open. Yeah... he said. The silence set in, and it was deafening. He couldn't help thinking that he was blowing it. He was having more conversations with himself than with her. She was rummaging her handbag, and he was sure she was doing it to avoid conversation. 'Can you call my phone? I might have left it back in the office.' she said. 'Thank god, she is genuinely looking for something,' he thought with relief. He picked up his phone and called her - hoping she didn't notice that he had her on speed dial. Her phone rang from somewhere inside her bag. She smiled at him and continued to sort things out in her purse to find the phone. He, however, went all quiet. It was her ringtone. Despite the low-tech format, the ringtone was quite distinct. The Mouna Raagam theme. She looked up, phone in hand and a smile that hit him with force. She noticed his expression and said, 'What...?'. 'Unnoda ringtone...' he said. It was still playing. 'Oh, sorry,' she said. 'I let it ring without interruption. It is such a lovely piece. I often miss calls just to hear the ringtone play in its entirety.' There was an absolute clarity forming in his head. She continued with 'what a lovely piece. This is from an old movie. I like it as much for the heroine's character, Divya in Mouna Raagam, as anything else music-wise. I think the music captures her so well with this piece. Have you heard it before?' 'Tell me more,' he said and proceeded to hear from her everything he already liked about the movie, about Divya, and about the music. He then shared how he likes how IR uses different instruments for the same tune, depending on the situation. It can be uplifting when it is the guitar strings. It can be pathos when it is violin-heavy and even more so if it is a solo violin. It is Divya's theme, and her narrative rolled into one. At some point, he realized that he was sticking to Thamizh and was having an actual conversation with her. Somewhere between the coffee shop and her place, which they covered by walking all the way, they talked about a million things and even fought over half of them. While saying goodbye to him that evening, she confided, 'I like Kishore Kumar more. I thought you should know.' He loved her.

On cold winter mornings, he will catch her gazing outside their window, sipping steaming coffee. Like him, she will have this far-off smile, and more often than not, they will go for a walk around the block hand-in-hand.

"God gave us memories so that we can have roses in December."

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

[inadeeptrance]

Dare I say it?

From Kishore Kumar to Asha Bhosle to a little bit of Mumtaz and Kajol - this is a Sunday Rangoli show in my head. I am teeing off a three-minute conversation with Raju and Aftab. We did a collective sigh of the micro nuances Kishore Kumar brought to his songs. We marveled at the lines

'Thoda hai, thodae ki zaroorath hai'

He has sung for one brother (in the movie Khatta Meeta), romanticizing his future with his girlfriend. The same lines are sung by KK for another brother thinking about his white whale, a van he is trying to fix. With Raju singing those lines and mentioning KK's 'gayaki' genius, it got embedded in my immediate consciousness waiting to resurface. Here is a little insight into how my mind maps songs to situs. Suppose Chandra asks me what uppuma should we have. I typically go 'saboodhaana doondtha hai, saboodhaana doondtha hai' in a poor offkey imitation of Bhupinder Singh's

'Ek akela is sheher mein... aabodhana doondtha hai'.

I know. She suffers a lot. When she quizzed me about certain 'surprise' birthday parties that may or may not occur this week, I did the blasphemy of singing a KK song.  

'Keh dhoon thumhein? Ya chup rahoon? Dil mein mere aaj kya hai... jo bolo tho janoon, Guru thumko maanoon, Chalo ye bhi waadha hai'

This song quickly became the earworm for the week. I am tying it back to the gayaki discussion and KK's clear as sunlight genius. The possible brief for the song from Yash Chopra to RDB, poet Ludhianvi, singers KK, and Asha Bhosle - 'this is a Salim-Javed show that I have to direct. One brother is intensity personified, and his story arc is one of escalating personal tragedy. We need this song for the other brother as a pressure valve. This brother is a happy person with a future to look forward to with a girl who guarantees normalcy. What have you got?' RDB comes up with a beautiful tune set in a conversational style with dips and pauses and a banter space. Through the poet, Neetu Singh's character throws situations at the Shashi Kapoor character with some pre-conceived innocent outcomes. He squashes them with more thrill-seeking alternatives that she probably wants to come from him. The opening line itself is challenging to reproduce, even if it is for an audience of one. KK starts with a ballast - Keh dhoon thumhein - the slightest of pauses - ya chup rahoon - more questions in three short words, but the rahoon also has his freakish yodeling. Any hopes of doing anything other than just listening goes out of the window. The quintessential Asha surfaces in her 'are na na' and then 'nahin re, nahin re, nahin re'. You can capture an era with those lines and how Asha renders them. The second set of 'nahin re' has the slightest of changes compared to the first as Shashi Kapoor gets that more demanding and Neetu Singh has to be a bit more decisive with her 'no's. This Asha note was the point when I made the jump to Mumtaz and

'Jai Jai shiva shankar'

from aap ki kasam. Lata sang that number where Mumtaz excels with the 'gir jaaoongi, mar jaaongi' down the steps taken to an art form for drunken trance. I let my mind wander to a what-if - why not Asha instead of Lata in this number. The Asha notes and gayaki would have made an already intoxicating song giddier. While it would just be impossible to dance like you don't know how to dance while being drunk, the way Mumtaz does, Kajol comes mighty close. The closest we have is Kajol's

'Zara sa jhoom loon mein'

And it is now the male singer forced to say no with 'na re baba na.' It felt like a complete circle in my head, forcing me to stop branching any further. It's raining outside. It is a Sunday. Holidays are looming. Time again to hit this playlist a few more times and see where the mind wanders.

There I said it.

[inadeeptrance]

The Seventh Roommate

The first year of college. I was officially out in the world. Life in a hostel with only a small corner to be called your own. I recall my roommates from that pivotal year quite fondly. There were three versions of Lord Karthikeya and two of Lord Krishna, with me being the odd man out. The Karthikeyan trio was Saravanan, Murugan, and Arun. The two avatars of Lord Krishna were both Gokuls. What bound us then was Raja's music. We went from strangers to mates, as we bonded over music. Murugan's cot was right by the door. I don't think I've ever seen him lose his temper. Despite knowing him and seeing him in close quarters for an extended period, I can't imagine him without his glasses. He had the Sarath Babu vibe about him. The Raja song I remember him by - "Pattu kannam, thottu kolla, otti kollum" - one weekend as we lounged listening to songs, this song came about, and he got quite animated and yelled at all of us to be quiet and wait for the SPB chuckle. I still think about him when this song comes about, and I go silent, waiting for the laugh. Opposite to the door was the first Gokul and the second of the spectacled trio. He was the most laidback of the lot with sudden bouts of rebel behavior. On one such rebellious spurt, he decided to belt out 'Poththukittu ooththudadhi vaanam' in the middle of the night in what was widely followed as 'silent hour' by the hostel. The assistant warden reported the noise to the warden who paid a visit to our room.  When asked if anyone was making noise, in a rare show of honesty which left the warden speechless, Gokul explained in great detail that it was not noise but him singing without realizing it was the silent hour.  The warden, probably at a loss for how to deal with the situation, reminded him not to spoil good songs. In between the two Gokuls, was the last of spectacled roomies, Arun. He was the last to join, and the one thing he cannot do, even worse than me, was sing. This little detail never stopped him. He almost spoiled 'Senthazham Poovil' for us. He joined us a little later in the year due to a severe leg injury. He faked mumbling in sleep and invented stories of his childhood, which we still tease him over. Some stories he claims are valid to this day. Arun was fun to be around but almost ruined that classic song with his off-key singing. The other Gokul was in the corner that was right opposite to my spot. A studious fellow with a clear sense of right and wrong preferred the classical numbers. He did give allowance to 'Kanne Kalaimanae' when it was playing. He helped me focus on the finer nuances in the songs. In this case, he alerted me that it was one of the last songs by lyricist Kannadasan and corrected my understanding of some of the words. We still have sessions over WhatsApp calls on Raja's songs. Saravan was between my corner and Murugan's. A loud and boisterous character, he would regularly pull all our legs. Most of our friends call him Kallupatti after his native place. His specialty was in planting earworms. One week he hummed the song 'Poojaikkeththa poovidhu' over and over, especially the line 'Kokku onnu kokki podudhu.' When I say over and over, he was relentless. Once he sensed it was irritating me, he took special care to sing it only in my presence. He had a hearty laugh when he caught me humming the song inadvertently and moved on to his next antic only then. Except for Gokul 2, I've lost touch with the others, and I was saddened to hear that Kallupatti passed away with cardiac arrest a few years after college. We are miles apart today and are once again strangers. But that year, when we were inseparable, we found camaraderie through our seventh roommate, Raja's music. The tunes played a helping hand in keeping homesickness and loneliness at bay. Reminds me of the song I 'discovered' during that time - 'Ninaivo oru paravai, virikkum adhan siragai..."

[inadeeptrance]

Thaatha

Dear Kids,

You know by now that grandparents are the best. I too have been spoilt by the unconditional love from them - especially my first partner in crime, my badaa thaathaa. Tall, lanky, indulgent and extremely patient is how I remember him. The secret trips to the corner shop for my benefit and the pages and pages of ‘sriramajayam’ that he wrote are some of the other traits that come to mind. 

February 1982:

The latest fad among kids in Madras was to collect bottle caps of the drink “Gold spot”. Each cap had stickers of different characters of Disney’s “Jungle Book”. You collect 50 unique stickers and you get to have the glossy comic book of the movie in exchange. Every kid that I knew was on it. The whole frenzy was going to end that month. The offer was to go off the shelves. I still had to collect 2 elusive stickers. Doing odd chores around the house, I managed to save some money to buy two stickers. These however turned out to be duds. I was at my wits end. At school, I went from one kid to another looking at his/her collection haggling with them, trying to exchange one of my repetitive stickers with one of those that I didn't have. I got “Sher Khan”. “Kaa” was still elusive. My Grandfather was as much into it as I was. And on my birthday that year, I had my first official birthday party. The cake arrived early. I had everything going for me. All the kids had assembled. I was going through the motions of blowing candles and the like. It was then that I saw those crates. Three crates of “Gold spot” were lined against the wall. I was thrilled to bits. I am told that it was my Granddad’s idea. Today, I am not even sure if the whole party was affordable to my family consisting of two working individuals. My father was a 9 to 9 accountant and my mother, a teacher, supporting both of my grandparents as well. I picked up every bottle cap that fell on the floor. Needless to say, “Kaa” blessed our household that day.

November 1985:

It was a disease beyond the acumen of the doctors. It was first diagnosed as Jaundice. This further led to complication of vital organs. His last six months was spent in four different hospitals. My grandfather breathed his last in a hospital bed. My father’s work had taken us to a different town. We traveled by bus after hearing the bad news. I took only one book with me to read along the journey although I’d read it a million times before. I didn't bring it back with me. Although I don’t exactly remember, I think I’d left that copy of “Jungle Book” near my Grandfather.

April 24, 2020

Thaathaa would have turned 100 today!

[inadeeptrance]

Me, God!

Playing with the idea of serializing short stories - some of my own and some retellings.

Ten sentences a day. Here we go: A retelling of a sci-fi story I read eons ago.

--------------------

The pulsating hum of the oxygen machine. I am not ready to open my eyes. I let my free-hanging head move forward and backward with the rhythm of the machine. I am putting away the prospect of discovering my surroundings as much as possible. The logical part of my brain decided to retrieve survival skills. That’s right. Take deep breaths and get the life-giving air back into the system. Let the first thought consume your being. It did so with the rush of a dreadful rise of bile from the bottom of my being.

Yup, I have crash-landed on an unknown planet.  

I can't keep putting this out much longer. I need to check my surroundings. The fact that I am conscious and breathing is a good sign. Perhaps I am indeed still alive. What is the next step in that lovely survival routine? Check for injuries. I felt no pain. The sickening feeling was more shock than anything else. "God, let there be no surprises.", I told myself and immediately chuckled. I am not supposed to believe in God.

I allowed myself to open my eyes. Either I had lost vision or there was no light. These were not good options. I waited for a decent amount of time to see if my eyes adjusted well enough to identify objects. Just as I was about to give up, a green light flickered in the console. Tears welled up in my eyes as I realized it was the indicator for the ship’s oxygen being available and stable.

‘Wow!’, I told myself, ‘I am capable of emotions!’ What is this place doing to me? I’ve thought about God and cried within minutes. With that thought, I slipped out of consciousness once more.

I woke up to light hitting the side of my face. Light! I had no hesitation this time in opening my eyes. The planet I had landed on had enough revolutions to get light from a benevolent star somewhere. The light was pouring through the one porthole to my left that had its shades up or maybe the shades were broken. I stumbled to the porthole equal parts groggy and delirious. I had blacked out much before the ship entered this planet’s gravity field and had no clue what it looked like. I had woken up in the dark the first time. In the few steps that it took me to the porthole, I imagined ten different terrains and kept switching back and forth on the prospect of finding life.  

I peered beyond some odd smoky whiff of a cloud. My first thought as I took in the view was that I had been teleported on top of a giant tiger. There was no other way to describe it. The different shades of melanin that give a tiger its orange, black and brown stripes made up the prairie-like scenery. The blacks were probably shadows cast by the orange structures that stood out of the ground in odd shapes and sizes. I need to switch on the thermal sensors to see if any of these were living breathing lifeforms. That thought brought my focus back to the inside of the ship.

The navigation cabin looked pristine suggesting that the ship hadn’t completely nosedived. There was no fire damage that presented itself. The small vessel was designed for all terrains. Apparently even this one. The TAU-73 is a minimalist expedition vehicle with living space for two. Two. A ship built for two. A ship assigned to two. There should have been two people on this expedition. I wasn’t ready to think beyond that just yet. I looked out of the porthole once more. Light. Land. No life.  

I sat in the pantry, working out a plan to explore the surroundings. I will need the ship's diagnostic kit and some form of honing device to get back to the spaceship. I marveled at my capability to think logically under these conditions. It would have impressed the bastard who didn't give me my right to man this ship. Maybe not. I used the anger to focus on the task at hand. The spaceship was undoubtedly not mobile anymore. The navigation and communication controls were dead. The pantry was stocked with water and oxygen plants in functioning mode. I'll live. Tomorrow, I shall explore.

Tomorrow didn’t arrive for several hours. The inky darkness seemed to last forever. I used this time to explore the spaceship from the vertex to the basement with the aid of a flashlight. I could potentially live here for eternity. Imagine that! No, that is not right. Did I deserve this? Were there opportunities that I missed? I stopped myself from getting caught in that web of guilt.

When the light did present itself again, I suited up and stepped out with several tentative steps. 

The gravitational pull was manageable. The orange surface was a bit spongy, and as I bent down, I noticed that it was porous. I realized what had happened. I wasn't on a planet. I remembered now that I was in deep space with no celestial body in sight. It must have been a meteorite or a shard of a distant planet explosion. In all of the galaxies, it found my tiny spaceship and crashed my party. What are the odds! I got out of my reverie and rose to my feet as I felt the ground move. It felt like the whole place was going to cave in.

I ran as fast as I could back to the spaceship. Although I hadn’t ventured far it felt like an eternity before I reached the entry port and locked the door behind me. I looked back through the porthole. It made no sense. There were several shiny gems all over the surface and it looked like they were all vibrating. I couldn’t hear them but it seemed like there was a collective hum in the air. Then several of the gems popped and tentacles grew out of them. They went shooting straight up for about five feet and stopped before beautiful colorful fluorescent flowers bloomed all over the meteorite floor. I was flabbergasted, to say the least. I knew what was happening.

The ship I was manning was not just an expedition vehicle. It was also called the “God Ship”. In the ship’s payload were everything needed to start life on a dead remote planet and accelerate evolution. When I had argued with my partner and left him behind, I had left with the full payload by mistake and in the crash, the seeds must have scattered all over the surface. Now, they were growing and evolving. The materials also had the ability to create an ecosystem which while not able to create water can create the conditions for rain. I looked out again. No, it wasn’t raining and I couldn’t see water anywhere. As I kept looking out, a chill ran down my spine as I realized the next steps possible with the evolution kit. Amphibians and Invertebrates will quickly come to be but the water was critical. The big orange rocks started to move on cue.

Except, they weren’t rocks. In the absence of water, something strange and horrific had taken the place of amphibians. They looked like reptiles and were as tall as the plants that had sprung all over. They walked like foot soldiers and organized themselves under the plants. They paid no attention to the spaceship. I looked at the one closest and saw that he was looking up at the sky. All of them were looking up. I followed their gaze. What looked like a dark cloud descended and started separating. Wings flapping a swarm of locusts checkered the sky and they flew down to the flowers. 

A feasting orgy unfolded in front of my spaceship. The flowers swayed and attracted the locusts. The locusts fed on the nectar from the flowers. As they started flying back, the lizards jumped in the sky and quite a few of them caught the locusts mid-air and swallowed them whole. The rest of the evolution kit got into the action - the ones that were supposed to create rain. In the absence of a thriving atmosphere, electric sparks ignited the sky with no rain to show. Some grew into full-blown lightning hitting the meteorite floor which in turn would trigger more plants to be seeded. I was enthralled by the food chain I had inadvertently created. When the lightning stopped, the light wherever it was coming from died and the inky darkness returned. I could make out the surviving locusts fly away and the lizards going back to their coiled state. It was dark once again in my world. The one I had created.

[inadeeptrance]

:)

Dear Kids, During the Genesis 2020 awards ceremony, when asked what they learnt from the tournament, little Ranjiev piped ‘Sportsmanship’. I was standing next to Coach Raghu and told him that I’ve never really understood what sportsmanship meant. Having done this for a long time, pat came Coach Raghu’s earthy reply - Sportsmanship is when you are ready to cry inside and let others smile. Smile! That undervalued trait in a sportsman. Just minutes earlier, it was that quality that dominated my thoughts in a completely different manner. An interesting passage in the Under 13 finals. The 12th over. Eagles needing 8 runs to win with three wickets in hand and the Hawks fighting with everything they had. Here are a few things the scorecard might not capture. 11.3 Rajul S to Aameer K, 0 runs The ball went right through the stumps - between the middle and leg stump. The bails didn't fall and this scenario was not covered by the rules book. Play got held up. The umpires in consultation with team mentors decided to allow the batsman to continue. 11.4 Rajul S to Aameer K, 0 runs Aameer smashed the ball towards mid-wicket and Avi Aggarwal got in line but couldn't hold on as the ball popped out of his hands. It will go down as a dropped catch. Groans from the fielding side but they quickly recovered to stop the single. 11.5 Rajul S to Aameer K, 4 runs As if the previous two balls happened to someone else, Aameer hit a glorious straight drive for the only boundary of the game. It went all along the ground. The ask was cut down by half. 11.6 Rajul S to Aameer K OUT! CATCH Aameer Khan c Aryan K b Rajul S 10 Rajul who created opportunities with each delivery finally got his man. Aryan who threw himself at the boundary a ball earlier, held on to the skier under pressure. In all of this, young Aameer never once stopped smiling. He had a big smile wondering out aloud how the bails didn't fall. He had a big smile when he survived with the dropped catch. He had a big smile pleased with his straight driven boundary. He had a big smile when he walked off the field. Smile. When you enjoy the game, irrespective of the results, you smile. That too is sportsmanship I think. What about you? Genesis 2020 The start of something big!

[inadeeptrance]

Seetha Paatti

Dear Kids, Somewhere around the time, Maya was born, I took to wishing everyone a little differently on their birthdays. WhatsApp came into our lives. With no prior warning, I was forced to wish folks that I would probably never meet in person. Talk about peer pressure. In all fairness, it was the least bit I could do. A lot of these friends and relatives choose to remember us on our special day and it is only fair that we reciprocate the good spirits. My special way of wishing however has a strain of melancholy attached it. I have told you about my Seetha Patti - your Jaya Patti's mom. I borrowed this particular way of wishing from her. She and I were roommates for about six months before I moved to the US. I loved every minute of it. She followed cricket as best as she could. She hated test cricket and preferred the shorter form and its rapid pace. I've had hilarious debates with her over the merits of test cricket which she dismissed as being all too consuming of people's precious time. She even predicted that her favorite, the new kid in the block at that time, Yuvraj will never waste his time in test cricket. She was right. I introduced her to Pizza while she introduced me to ’ellam indhu madham’ and other works that she was reading at that time. She passed away when Jaya Patti was visiting us just before Maya was born. Yuvraj’s career too had the high of World Cup MVP and almost immediately getting diagnosed with cancer. He battled back but Seetha Patti wasn't around to discuss it. When she left the US to pay respects to her mom, Jaya Patti reminisced and left me with the suggestion that I find a way to remember my Grandma in some way in our everyday life. I tried to jot down my thoughts about Patti and especially the last time I met her. It was pouring down in Chennai when I was there for a short visit. I was planning to go back to my hotel after saying hello to her. She was upset that I didn't plan the trip well enough to bring Roshan along. There was no power the entire night and I couldn't get a ride back to the hotel and ended up spending the night with my old roommate. Is it the rain or maybe the power cut that I will remember her by? I wondered. No. It was her trademark words of blessing that she uttered one last time when I prostrated before her that kept coming back to me. Any opportunity that I get to wish someone, and WhatsApp gives a lot of those, I take a selfish route and remember my Grandma in the process. ”Dheergaayushmaan Bhava!” Have a fulfilling long life! Happy New Year!

[inadeeptrance]

What Would Gilly Do?

The text of my speech at the 2019 East Bay Youth Cricket Association Awards night - What Would Gilly Do? (I made the kids shout this a couple of times) Gilly is Adam Gilchrist. Former Australian captain, wicketkeeper an all-time legend. Many aspects of his career would help our young players understand the mental side of the game.

Let's take a look at this scorecard of the first game of the 2002 Australia-South Africa test series in Johannesburg. To me, this scorecard epitomises the dominance that this Australian team had in the period. http://www.espncricinfo.com/…/south-africa-vs-australia-1st…

Mathew Hayden and Justin Langer at the top gave their team century openings on demand. Ricky Ponting, an aggressive no.3, was also a spectacular fielder and a captain in his own right. Mark Waugh is probably the most elegant Australian player and was a dependable slip fielder. His twin and captain, Steve Waugh, of steely stares and ice in his veins gave the team the steering it needed. Damien Martyn at no.6, was like a second Mark Waugh, adept at playing with the tail. The bowlers - the metronomic McGrath, the raw pace of Bret Lee, the untiring Gillespie and the wizardry of Shane Warne - never required a regular fifth bowler. Tying them all up as an explosive no.7 and an excellent keeper was Gilly.

Let's come back to this scorecard.

Instead, let's go to his debut one day game, in Faridabad against the same opposition, South Africa. Stranger in a strange land, he went in to bat at no.7. Spinners were bowling, and he went with his cap. Alan Donald came on to bowl and Gilly, with all his naivete, was shy to ask his senior teammates to fetch him a helmet. Donald shouted at him, "Where is the respect?" and got his wicket at the end of a fiery spell of fast bowling.

What Would Gilly Do? (Some kids repeated with me) He treated it as trial by fire and was better prepared and less awe-struck from the next game. He improved.

He grew up in New South Wales and moved to Western Australia. There he was replacing the longtime wicketkeeper and crowd favourite Tim Zoherer. Gilly was unwelcome in the dressing room and got booed by the tough loyal West Australian crowd.

What Would Gilly Do? (A few more kids shouted with me)

He won them over, one player at a time, one game at a time, learning and translating into good performances, leading up to the championship trophy for the state. He became one of their own.

Let's go to his debut match against Pakistan in Melbourne in 1999. There were two debutants in that game. One was Gilly, the other, any guesses? I'd be surprised if you remembered who he was. Again, let's save that for later. Here too, he was replacing Ian Healy, a legend in his own right. The scale of booing only got bigger. Critics didn't give him a chance.

What Would Gilly Do? (The kids' table shouted in unison)

A skilful 80 on debut, followed by a match-winning hundred in the second game, was the beginning of a remarkable start to his test career where he didn't taste defeat for 15 tests. He soon became the glue of the team.

He substituted as Captain for an injured Steve Waugh during the 2001 Ashes. On his first day as skipper, an unreliable Slater reported late for practice. When Gilly called him up, Slater had a meltdown, and the heated exchange made it to the papers.

What Would Gilly Do? (A few parents also joined in)

Gilly had his first child at this time. It was a difficult birth, and young Harry had some complications. Gilly found it hard to leave his wife and newborn, but he had to go to that South Africa tour. He was a professional, and he made the trip. Meanwhile, silly rumours were circulating that Slater was the birth father of the child. In that Johannesburg game, which I mentioned earlier, Australia batted first and were 200 odd for five, when Gilly walked in to join Martyn. Two idiots in the crowd had a banner that read 'Who's the father of Gilly's baby? Slater! Slater! Slater!'. He couldn't miss it, and even if he did, the partisan crowd was chanting 'Slater! Slater' as he walked to the middle.

What Would Gilly Do? (silence)

He broke the 20-year-old record for the fastest double hundred. That's what the mentally strong Gilly did. Australia went on to beat a very strong South Africa by an innings in their own backyard.

Now for that other debutant in that 1999 game against Pakistan. Anyone, remember Scott Muller. A blond haired fast bowler, hand picked by the coach, he had everything going for him. He had a decent first game, but in the second game, his bowling got erratic, and at one point he threw from the boundary to the middle of the pitch. The tv mics picked someone saying "Can't bowl, can't throw". He came to know about this and completely lost it. When it was rumoured to be Shane Warne behind those words, he had a public fight with him despite Warne denying it all. Muller got dropped from the squad after that game which was, in fact, his last game of cricket. The person who was booed by the crowd, through his mental strength, overcame it and the one who was expected to have a great career, lost everything by focusing on the wrong things.

When you are playing, you are out in the middle, and things are not going your way - there will be many voices in your head: a. What would my dad say on the ride home? b. Have I let down my mother? c. What can I say to my siblings and teammates? You will be tempted to throw a tantrum. I want you to listen to your own voice which would hopefully say,

"What Would Gilly Do?"

[inadeeptrance]

Captaincy and Integrity Dividend

Prologue: I started writing this when folks were questioning Kohli's batting and captaincy. We then witnessed his excellent knock in the first innings of the second test against South Africa. Now people are questioning (just) his captaincy.

The questions posed around Kohli's captaincy include: 1. Is his constant shuffling of the playing XI affecting team morale? 2. Is his body language intimidating his team more than anyone else? 3. Should he be stripped off his captaincy?

My assumptions are no, no and no.

To validate my assumptions, I am leaning on Tony Simmons' thoughts on 'Integrity Dividend.' For a leader such as Kohli to execute his plans he needs a core characteristic and the credibility to force it on others. Kohli has both. Let's check in with some of our (Indian team's) more recent captaincy success stories.

Saurav Ganguly brought in the era of irreverence. When he made Steve Waugh, then captaining an all-powerful Australian side on a record-breaking winning streak, wait at the toss, Ganguly got under Waugh's skin. He was able to challenge an established power structure. Dada has inspired the likes of Harbhajan Singh, Yuvraj Singh, Zaheer Khan and even Rahul Dravid to tap into their irreverent side. He was the symbol of irreverence and brought self-confidence to a team battered by the match-fixing scandal.

MS Dhoni ushered in awareness for the big stage. Dhoni and his team thrived in charged occasions and made winning in finals and crunch games a habit. Granted, this skewed his success stories to the limited overs format, but to be one of only a handful of players to have captained their side to world cup wins and top the test rankings become evidence for his leadership skills.

While Kohli treads the thin line between aggression and intent, he has built a reputation for being a stickler for routine and fitness. Fitness is Kohli's defining quality. We somehow overlook this when he occasionally gets petulant. His personal goal is well published - to be the fittest athlete in the world (an upgrade from a previous goal to be the fittest cricketer in the world). He now has a team of fit individuals and a host of young cricketers trying to emulate his work ethic. Cricket has changed under Kohli.

Is his constant shuffling of the playing XI affecting team morale?

I don't think so. Individual interviews over a couple of years have suggested that the players are comfortable with this and have recognized specific tasks for themselves. The captain has tinkered with every position, and his goal is always to field what he thinks is the best side that will win him a game. We only get to see the games. I doubt that the players don't know about the tactics and their chances of playing well ahead of time.

Is his body language intimidating his team more than anyone else?

I don't think so. If IPL post-game videos are any evidence, Kohli uses his twinkle feet just as efficiently on the dance floor as he does on the cricket pitch. Good dancers are often social creatures, and I expect that he has a game face that is reserved only for games. The old culture of seniors and juniors with a different set of privileges is not sustainable in this setup.

Should he be stripped off his captaincy?

No. Kohli is the glue that keeps these talented individuals together. He does lack on-field guile that might help him turn around a lost cause. Kohli does not seem to be the kind that thinks on their feet while defending. For all his vibrant nature, he is someone who spends more time deciding on team composition and man management before a game rather than during one. Picking a five-bowler side, relying on traditional plans for pre-conceived situations and other strategic traits are all well and good, but he is found wanting in the tactical area. Captains grow with losses. Captain Kohli is experiencing back to back defeats for the first time, and I expect that to have a positive impact on his captaincy.

So, integrity dividend. Virat Kohli has built truckloads of credibility with his teammates with his approach to life and cricket. Virat Kohli, the batsman, is one of the best in the business. I expect him to cash in on this and continue to lead and improve as a leader. As fans of the game, we should give him that space.

[inadeeptrance]

An Idea

I have this epic idea that has been in gestation for close to 25 years now. I am jotting this down to mark its silver jubilee and also to create prior art in case there is litigation down the road. It is that big an idea. Now that I am in the middle of a Mahabharata retelling, I was reminded of my old story. Here goes... Imagine a teenaged me on a Sunday afternoon migrating from Doordarshan's 'Mahabharata' to Star's 'Jeeves and Wooster' with a stack of Asterix comics by the side. That's when the idea germinated. The saga will be narrated by two friends born in Hastinapur around the same time as the Pandavas. The story will be told from their perspective devoid of any mythical component but as day to day life in Hastinapur. They will probably go to the same Gurukul as the princes, work at the palace, get torn between the Kauravas and Pandavas, meet all the main characters and have their own adventures. Their names and the name of the story keeps changing. For now it is Bharathram and Jeevan (inspired by Bertram and Jeeves) Hastinapur Times

[inadeeptrance]

ARR50

(Reproducing an old blog)

Prose in praise of AR

“Thank God its Friday? Whoever came up with that phrase?”, he asked himself one more time. It had been a rather stressful day. He couldn’t remember when Thursday had ended and where Friday began. The date line faded amidst cross-country conference calls; Phone calls that tried to put out a major fire and retain a major customer. The day and the work week was thankfully over – only embers and mild embarrassment remained from the situation. He dragged his heavy legs to the car standing alone in the parking lot. After tossing his trusty bag on the passenger seat, he eased the car into the deserted streets and finally on to the highway.

Smooth sailing for a full five minutes and then a sea of red; Brake lights everywhere. He was too tired to play the lane switching game. He just settled his right foot on the brake and stared intently at the license plate of the truck in front of him. “Maybe I’ll call someone and while away the time”, he thought to himself. The cell phone was in the bag that was just out of his reach. He tried leaning towards his bag which inadvertently made the car move forward a little. He panicked and gave up on that effort. Radio – at least I can have a one way conversation – he mused and switched on the talkathon. Three different favorite stations were cribbing over the economic downturn. The music stations had all synched up on advertisements. Is the iPod there? – he glanced at the coffee holder. Hooray for little mercies – there it was the 2 GB freebie he had got two years ago through a friend. It still played all right but looked like it had spent some time under the car’s wheels. It still played all right – that was the key. He had purchased an album the beginning of the week and hadn’t bothered to listen to even one song.

Delhi 6

Rahman was everywhere the past two weeks. He was quietly showing up at the Golden Globes, BAFTA and a few other award shows that seemed to have been put together for the first time. Rahman had already won in every one of those award shows. That warmed his heart a little bit. “Good for him. Jai ho!” he passed a mental note of appreciation to AR. He randomly chose a song from the album and continued staring intently at the slow moving traffic. A drop of rain splattered dramatically across the windshield. The first of the conquerors staking claim on a new land. Will more come? He leaned and looked up at the sky. The dark clouds, if they were there, were well camouflaged against the dark sky. A few more drops now gave company to the pioneering drop. He went back to staring at the brake lights. The song was ‘Dil gira dafathan’ – according to the marquee in the player. – and it was playing unobtrusively in the background. Another new playback singer for sure – he thought to himself – maybe the joke that Rahman walks down the streets in disguise and picks random people to sing his songs has some truth in it. What IS Dafathan anyway? These Hindi songs are getting to sound more foreign than Desi – he lamented man hi man. Dil gira Dafathan – The heart fell Dafathan? - maybe Dafathan is the squishy sound a bloody heart makes when it is dropped to the floor – he chuckled at his own gross humor. His mirth was cut short by stronger signals reaching his brain via the ear drums. Wait a minute… this was actually good. He clicked the relevant button to make the song play back from the beginning.

The music evoked all sorts of memories for him. The first time the strands of Roja thrilled his senses was an evergreen time – he was on a picnic with his high school friends soaking in the beauty of Manjolai hill station. They hadn’t stopped playing the movie’s songs for the rest of the academic year. He mulled on his friends from what seemed like a previous life. That year was a transition in many ways – end of school life – moving out of the house – responsibility kicking its way in – new music from a newcomer.

He broke away from his reverie. The song that had consumed his car was now in repeat mode and had started playing from the beginning again. As if on cue, the traffic started moving with the crescendo of the instruments. Will the first strands of the guitar in this song inspire a new generation as the ones from Ilaiyaraja’s “Sendhoorapoove” did for a previous one? Without a visual aid, this particular song, dil gira dafathan, somehow triggered images of the song “En vaanile ore ven nila” - specifically the slogan “Music the life giver” from a carefree Rajinikanth’s T-shirt flashed across his inner eye. Thoughts of content and hope warmed his soul as he continued his journey home – to loved ones – to a weekend of music and relaxation and of course the Oscars. Thank God its Friday!

[inadeeptrance]

Winter soldier

[inadeeptrance]

Retro Dangal

Dear Daughter of Mine,

Last night I saw this movie about norm-defying girl wrestlers. Some might call it populist and others sappy. By now you must realize that I (and your brother) love to get lost in the fantasy world. So, naturally, I loved the movie which was part biopic part fantasy. I am not sure if you will take after your pragmatic mother or me. Anyway, this is a film I want to watch with you someday. The story involves a devoted father who trains and helps his two eldest girls succeed in the sport of wrestling. In the process, he goes against every recognized custom in his world. People who have watched have been inspired to get their daughters involved in sports (apparently), and there is even a #PhogatsInspire trend initiated by well-meaning people. As is my privation in these matters, instead of looking forward I started looking back. I remembered one other father-daughter duo who set a trend of their own back in the day. I can't imagine Kumbakonam of the 60's to be anything but ultra conservative. From that settlement, from a school teacher's house, their eldest daughter put on the National Cadet Corps uniform and left home for a month and a half training camp in the large cities of Madras and then Delhi. Her father sent her off from Kumbakonam by train. She had a police escort, a Havaldar in uniform, for company and protection that trip. A complete stranger by her side and an entirely new destination. To ensure that she got treated as part and parcel of the police, she had to travel in her uniform. The gumption to drown out voices inside and outside on the attire that you are not familiar with comes to a chosen few. You have to understand that the revolutionary step of sending your teenage daughter to an NCC camp aside, this was not something that family could afford. Where did the spark come from, what inspired them to see through the accepted mist and do something memorable we'll never know. The girl made her father proud. I am not sure if she thought of herself as a rebel and if she did it consciously throughout. She made the journey. She did not see or hear from her family for those 50 days. She trained hard. She made new friends. She saw the world outside her village. She marched in front of the Prime Minister in Delhi. She did hold some disappointment that no one from her family sent her any mail. She must have pursed her lips in her characteristic way and found a way to deal with homesickness. Back home, the father made arrangements with a friend of a friend to see his daughter in the camp and check her well being. He kept tabs through the local NCC director. He had to keep assuring his panic-stricken wife that all was well. He got his fair share of jibes from the community over a variety of topics. He was known for his wit and had a ready repartee for every negative comment that came his way. Those 50 days - a time seemingly before telecommunication - where hope and faith consumed you more than any other human trait - did get over. The daughter came back, and it will never be known who inspired whom, but they wrestled with society to achieve their dreams. With no one to sing their praises, let alone recognize the remarkable thing they just did, they went about their lives. A year later when she got to know that her camp friends from Kashmir were in Pondicherry, she just had to mention it to her father, and he mustered money and accompanied her to visit them. She would go on to work in prestigious institutions in Bombay and Hyderabad living on her own. She would herself become a teacher. She would write award-winning articles. She would become the chief editor of a health magazine. Best of all, she became your grandmother. If and when the opportunity comes in the future, I ask myself today, will I be brave enough to buck the trend and help you with your dreams? They say I take after my grandfather in looks. Here's to the hope and faith that I will be there with his resolute spirit as well.