Nimish Dubey's Blog

A man called Freedom - my tribute to Chandra Shekhar Azad

2012-02-26T23:48:00.000-08:00

(Picture Courtesy: Wikipedia)

Eighty one years ago on this day, dozens of policemen surrounded a man in Allahabad's Alfred Park. A fierce gun battle ensued at the end of which, the man lay dead, as did a few policeman. He refused to surrender till the end, and saved the last bullet in his pistol for himself.

He was one of the most wanted people in British-ruled India. He was all of 24 years old.

Today marks the death anniversary of one of India's proudest and bravest sons - Chandra Shekhar Tiwari, better known as Chandra Shekhar Azad. He picked up the name "Azad" when as a teenager accused of participating in a protest, he proudly told the judge "My name is Azad. Freedom is my father. And the jail is my home."

The park where he was killed today bears his name and bears a statue of him typically twirling his moustache. His was one of the stories I wrote for my first book, Kesariya Bana. And I am putting the story here as my tribute to a man never bowed to his oppressors and believed in freedom. (The book incidentally can be purchased from Flipkart.com, and is also available at the stall of Ponytale Books, at Hall Number 6 at the World Book Fair in Pragati Maidan - apologies for pushing my title, but an author has got to live.)

Azad…finally!

The constable almost jumped out of his skin when the alarm sounded. It had been barely a month since he had joined the police station in central Allahabad. A relatively quiet period, apart from the odd demonstration and of course, the rumours that extremists were planning a major attack on one of the city’s major buildings – the high court, the railway station, or…

A slap on his shoulder brought him back to the present, and he found himself staring at the sub-inspector.

“You heard the alarm, man?”
“Sir,” he answered, snapping to attention.
“It is not a signal to start daydreaming, is it?”
“No, sir”
“Unless the rules have changed, the sounding of the alarm generally means that you have to pick up your rifle and assemble in front of the station. Have the rules changed, constable?”
The constable felt his face redden with embarrassment. “No, sir,” he murmured.
“Then stop standing looking like some Romeo and get cracking, man!” snapped the sub-inspector, walking away.
Still blushing, the constable ran to the armoury, picked out a rifle and ran to the small field in front of the station. But there was no assembly there. Instead, constables were lining up and getting into vans. He tapped one of them on the shoulder.
“What’s the matter, bhai? Why the hurry? Sudden inspection?”
“You have taken a supply of bullets?” the man asked.
“Just the two shots in the rifle. Why?”
“Have you been sleeping? Grab a box of cartridges and come back before the vans leave! If you are late, you are guaranteed late night guard duty for the next month.”
The constable was surprised but he knew better than to ask questions. He went back to the armoury and picked up the extra ammunition, managing to get back just as the second van was leaving.
“Late Latif” murmured the driver as the constable got inside..
As the van moved off, the constable noticed just how nervous and tense his colleagues were. There were more than a dozen of them in the van and they were whispering among themselves even as it jerked and jolted along the dusty road. The constable could make out a few words: “He’s in the park”, “Is he alone?” One of the older policemen noticed his curiosity.
“You jointed last month, didn’t you, beta?” he asked in a kind tone.
“Ji, huzur,” the constable answered.
“You are very young. Married?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. At least there will be fewer people to cry for you when you die.”
The constable felt his throat suddenly go dry.
“Why do you say that, sir? Are we on some dangerous mission? Have extremists attacked…”
“Worse than a hundred extremists attacking us, beta. We are going to try and capture Chandra Shekhar Azad.”
“Relax, baba,” one of the constables spoke up. “You are scaring the bachcha. Our source told us that he is in Alfred Park with one of his friends. There are dozens of us and just two of them. Once they see how many we are, they will surrender.”
The older man burst into laughter.
“Surrender! You are talking about the man who gave Azad as his name and the prison as his home when he was fifteen. He has sworn he will never be taken alive.”
He paused and looked at the young constable, and seemed to take pity at his nervousness.
“If you know any prayers, beta?” he said gently. “Now would be an excellent time to start saying them. Because whether we get Azad or not, not all of us will return to the thana. ”

***

Half an hour later, the constable understood what the man had been talking about. They had arrived near Alfred Park and had managed to silently surround the two men they were after. But what had followed had been a nightmare. Although surrounded by nearly forty policemen with rifles, Azad and his friend had refused to surrender and had opened fire, taking refuge behind a tree.

It should have been a massacre. More than three dozen rifles with almost unlimited ammunition against two pistols . But it was not. Instead, two of the constable’s colleagues lay dead and a few others had been wounded when they attempted to get closer to the tree. There had been a brief moment of hope when Azad had been hit in the leg by a bullet, but the gunfire from the tree had continued.

Whenever the firing paused, the police would attempt to close in, only to be driven back by a hail of bullets. The officers in charge of the operation had urged Azad to surrender when the firing had paused for a while. Azad’s response had sent shivers down the spine of the men surrounding him.

He had laughed. A loud, carefree laugh. And then had asked the police to come and get him – an invitation no one had the courage to accept.

Hearing that laugh, one of the policemen had muttered, almost in admiration, “What a man! He laughs at his own death.”

“Shut up and fire,” an officer had snarled. “He is injured in one foot. And he must be running out of ammunition. It is only a matter of time before we get him. Once his bullets are finished, we will drag him through the streets of Allahabad like the dog he is. We will see how much he laughs then.”

But that had been several minutes ago. And Azad was still firing. Suddenly one of the policemen shouted.

“He is getting away!”

Sure enough, a person had darted from behind the tree and was trying to get out of the park.

“Get him!” screamed an officer. But the words had scarcely left his lips, when another figure emerged from behind the tree. Broad-shouldered, he was dressed in a bloodstained kurta and dhoti and in his hand was a Mauser pistol. And then the constable saw the moustache. A moustache whose twirling had become a trademark gesture among Indian freedom fighters. This was the man they called Azad.

“Run, ” Azad shouted. “I will take care of these gentlemen.” And with these words he let rip another volley of bullets at the policemen who were trying to go after his friend.

The man turned around for a brief second, and started saying something, “Panditji,…” But Azad just waved him on, shouting “Run, run. Get away while you can. One Azad is enough for fifty policemen!”

The sight of Azad, bleeding as he was, had unnerved the police, who forgot all about his friend and instead tried to get a clear shot at him. But such was the terror the man inspired that most of the shots missed.

“Fools!” screamed an officer. “He was in the open. Close in now. Forget his friend. We will get him later.”

Slowly, they crept closer and closer to the tree, but Azad kept firing. The constable was now close enough to see Azad peering out from behind the tree and firing.

And then a bullet had ripped into Azad’s hand. The Mauser fell to the ground.

“Got you!” a policeman had screamed in delight and rushed forward towards the tree, eager to be the first one to arrest the famous Indian revolutionary. No one would forget what happened in the next few seconds. Azad, covered in blood, had rolled out from behind the tree, somehow gripped the Mauser in his other hand and then shot the advancing policeman at almost point blank range!

So shocked were the police by this sudden turn of events that they stopped firing, giving Azad a chance to drag himself back behind the tree. There was a brief pause and then the battle resumed, Azad firing as accurately as ever.

One of the constables, bleeding from a bullet that had grazed his chin, turned to the officer who had asked Azad to surrender. “Kyon, sir? “ he asked cynically. “Won’t you ask him to surrender? I don’t think he can even walk now, and one of his hands is injured. What happened to the programme to drag him through the streets of Allahabad? This is not a dog, sir. Ye Hindustani sher hai! ”

The officer looked at him and gritted his teeth. “Shut up and keep firing!” he snarled. “And report to me at the office tomorrow!”

The soldier shrugged. “If we are alive tomorrow, sir. If we are alive tomorrow!” But he reloaded his gun and continued firing.

And then Azad fell. No one knew how it happened, but suddenly he was lying at the foot of the tree, not moving.

“We got him,” an officer exulted. “Finally. Come on, men. Let us finish him off.”

No one moved.

The officer looked around him in disbelief. “Arre,” he screamed. “He is lying there. You can see him. He is either dead or dying. Come on, if he is alive, imagine the information we will be able to get from him.”

A wounded policeman answered in a bitter tone, “If he is alive, he will kill you! Just look at what happened to the man who tried to go near him. You go, sir. We have wives and children at home and want to see them again”

Uttering a shout of anger, the officer reloaded his revolver and took a step towards the tree.

“Look out, sir. He moved!” someone shouted from behind him. The officer felt his legs turn to jelly, and before he knew what he was doing, he turned and ran back to the other policemen. Some of them burst out laughing at this, but he was too scared to notice them.

“Is he moving?” he asked, his voice trembling with terror. “Is he moving?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” one of the men answered. “But he has his gun in his hand. You never know…”

“All right, then,” snarled the officer, still shaking with fear. “There is no need to risk more men. We can see him clearly from here. Fire at him. And keep firing until you are sure he is dead.”

And so all of them opened fire at Azad as he lay unmoving. Bullet after bullet hit the body, which quivered but did not move. When they finally had the courage to go close to it, they discovered that Azad’s gun was empty. He had used the last bullet to kill himself. One of India’s greatest revolutionaries had been finally silenced.

***

That night, the young constable sat down at the small desk in the room he had rented and started writing a letter to his parents.

“Respected father and mother,

Saadar pranaam. I have good news for you. I was part of the group of soldiers that surrounded and killed extremist Chandra Shekhar Azad in Alfred Park. We have been praised for our courage and some of us will receive cash prizes…”

The constable paused. His mind went back to the events of a few hours ago. He thought of the man who had refused to surrender and had laughed in the face of death. A man who had risked his life to let his friend escape. A man whose dead body had scared dozens of polcemen so badly that they did not dare approach it without riddling it with bullets. A man who had taken on the government in an attempt to free his motherland. A government, the constable realised with a shock, that he himself was serving. And he had played a role in killing him.

The constable folded the letter and tore it to shreds. And then holding his head in hands, broke down and wept.

It was February 27 1931. Chandra Shekhar was finally Azad. But India was not.

(One of the most charismatic figures of the Indian independence movement, Chandra Shekhar Azad’s (1906-31) real name was Chandrashekhar Tiwari. However, he became famous as ‘Azad’ when he gave ‘Azad’ as his name to a judge, when he was arrested for taking part in an anti-British demonstration. He was a mere 15 years old at that time. Not surprisingly, he went on to become one of the foremost revolutionaries of his time and is considered by many to have been the mentor and friend of Bhagat Singh.

Disillusioned with peaceful protests, Azad and his friends targeted British officials who they felt were oppressing the masses. Their activities included the Kakori train robbery (1926) and more famously, the assassination of Deputy Superintendent of Police, JP Saunders, as revenge for the death of Lala Lajpat Rai, who had been brutally beaten up by the British police. They also formed the Hindustan Socialist Republican Association (HSRA), which was committed to complete Indian independence and socialist principles. One of the HSRS’s most famous documents was “The Philosophy of the Bomb”, drafted by Bhagawati Charan Vohra in consultation with Azad, which spelt out the organisation’s ideology and approach in reaction to criticism by Mahatma Gandhi.

A devotee of Lord Hanuman and a superb marksman, Azad had sworn he would never be arrested by the British. He never was. )

The Indian Wedding Format

2012-02-22T11:55:00.001-08:00

I am not exactly the most social of people, but I have attended a fair number of weddings. And I really do believe that the last decade or so has seen them becoming increasingly predictable - especially the Hindu ones in north India. Blame it on Bollywood and the Barjatiyas, but these days, when you attend a wedding the last thing you expect is a surprise. And just like Bollywood, not too many people seem to mind it - after all, this is supposed to be a meeting of two souls, rather than a thriller. It is all about celebration, even if it is in an oft-repeated format that goes along the following lines:

Everyone arrives, except the bride and her trail and the groom's baaraat.
People get restive, start snacking - seventy per cent ask the waiter "yah kya hai" before eating something.
DJ starts playing music (generally stuff that has very little to do with matrimony), and some sub-five-year old gets up and does a few steps on a dance floor that has multi-colou lit tiles - mummy and daddyji record epic video for YouTube "aww" moment.
The groom arrives on a horse, generally only an hour late. Cue crazy explosion of dancing, and sighs of relief from road, which NOW knows that traffic will not held up for random dance efforts
Some playful joshing between the "boys" from the groom's side and the "girls" from the bride's side. Generally settled by first financial transaction of the evening.
Groom walks slowly down to sofa on stage, and then plonks himself down on it. Meanwhile, "girl's side" and "groom's side" mingle.
Righto - NOW, the lady of the evening makes an entry, generally to the strains of a Punjabi song whose words I know not, bar a constant refrain of "mera sajna." If you thought the groom was slow, watch this - this redefines slowness. It is slow motion in real-life, for which the photographers thank God (they will not need to replay it in slow motion!)
Bride reaches stage and pauses. Groom gallantly gets up and offers his hand to help her climb on to stage. Cue lots of whistling and clapping. Six times out ten, the official photographer will scream "HOLD" or "Onnus moar" (once more) at this stage.
Generally, a prefunctory exchange of garlands takes place on the stage, sometimes with both parties perched VERY precariously on shoulders of well wishers (I have seen people fall off...painfully!). Much applause and more photography. At this stage, the waiters miraculously appear with soup.
The crowd now splits into two groups - the smaller portion lines up to meet the bride and groom on stage, hand over a present, and stand at their side and smile at camera. The other group gets stuck into dinner. After a while, the two parts interchange roles. The photographer takes multiple pictures of eaters and eatees, both!
As dinner is being consumed, a third section of the crowd emerges and dances thoroughly on the dance floor. Music played has more to do with "what's hot on chartus" than matrimony again.
After the row of present-bearing folk has moved into the past, the bride and groom are at the mercy of the official photographers. Depending on their temperaments and patience, they could be stuck there posing for anything from ten minutes to an hour.
Most of the guests taper off into the night. Bride and groom have some dinner, and settle down for the REAL wedding, complete with rituals and close friends.

Note: Anupama and I got married in a tad more offbeat manner - at an Arya Samaj Mandir with our closest friends for attendance and a Panditji who went through the entire matrimonial vows and pheras routine in forty three minutes flat. Yes, we did have a more formal reception later in which some of the steps outline above took place. Yes, it was fun.

Sacking Sachin: Humiliation? What humiliation?

2012-02-21T10:57:00.001-08:00

The past few days have seen an increasing number of critics baying for the blood of Sachin Tendulkar and asking for his exclusion from the one day side. And one must confess that if performance is what counts, they do have a point - the man has failed to get a fifty in his last ten international innings, and averages 18 over five matches in the ongoing tri-series. I can understand Sachin supporters however asking that he be retained on the basis of an incredible record.

What I, however, fail to understand is the argument that many Sachin supporters are parroting about letting Sachin go "in dignity" and not to "humiliate" such a great servant of Indian cricket.

Humiliation?

Call me naive, but is dropping Tendulkar from the one day squad going to erase his amazing achievements in the shorter form of the game? Is it going to put a single dent in that statistical Everest that he has built up - one that is unlikely to be scaled for a while? Are we going to remember him as arguably one of the greatest cricketers India has produced or one who was dropped because he performed poorly towards the end of an undeniably great career? Have we already consigned Ricky Ponting to the rubbish bin just because he got the sack from the ODI squad - I certainly have not. The man's career speaks for him. As do those of Steve and Mark Waugh, David Boon, Mark Taylor, Dean Jones and Merv Hughes - all of whom were given the selectorial boot from the ODI stage.

And so does Sachin's. Dropping him from the squad might be cruel, will be shock but what it will certainly not be is humiliating. What, however, is humiliating is carrying a person of his stature purely on reputation. Tendulkar's 100th international hundred - a stupid statistical milestone carved out by those who little of the game know - has become a bit of a joke now, and things are coming to a pass when people are saying that his NOT reaching it would be Bradmanesque as it would leave him stranded on 99, just like the Don was in terms of career average.

Whatever transpires on that front, what cannot be denied is that Sachin is right now perhaps in one of the most embarrassing phases of an illustrious career. And it is no use saying that the entire Indian batting line up has failed as well - there are five players who have scored more runs than him in the tournament. The fifth, incidentally, is Ravindra Jadeja, which tells a story. The only mainline Indian batsman to have perhaps fared worse than Tendulkar in the current series is Virender Sehwag, who has scored all of thirty runs in three innings.

No, I am not advocating that Sachin Tendulkar be dropped. That is a decision totally up to the team management. Which might decide to keep faith in him. After all, the man has been through worse trots before. As I mentioned on my Facebook page, he scored 249 runs between 21 January 1993 and 18 February 1994 in 19 ODIs at an average of about 17.7 and yet was kept in the Indian team. Faith was kept with him again after scores of 0,0,0 and 8 in Sept-October in 1994. And then again in 1999-2000 in spite of a run of scores of 1, 2, 0, 13, 12, 1. And YET again in 2002-03 when he ran up just 55 runs in nine innings at an average of less than ten. Each time, the man came back in style, scoring runs by the wagonload. Each time, people forgot his frailties and revelled in his excellence.

So, there is no reason not to believe that Sachin will not stride out in the next innings and score a hundred. The media and fans will go crazy and say that Sachin has shut his critics up once again.

Oh how wrong that would be.

For, just as dropping him would not erase his illustrious record, neither would his succeeding now hide the fact that any other player in similar circumstances would have been given the boot a while ago. Somewhere in some corner of India, is a cricketer who might have done better if he had been given as many chances. Who knows, perhaps even Tendulkar himself might have benefited from being dropped from the side, and come back sharper and more focused - just like Ponting did in an earlier phase in his ODI career.

No, I repeat I am not advocating sacking Tendulkar from ODIs. Play him if you think that the next great innings is just around the corner. But to playi him just to ensure he does not "lose his dignity" would be to humiliate a legend.

Drop him if he does not perform. I am sure he would agree with the decision.

And then come back even better than before.

Why I bought the iPhone 4S - FAQ

2012-02-20T04:30:00.000-08:00

So I have finally gone and done it. After a few months of honest financial dithering, I steeled mine heart and decided to expend more than half of what existed in my bank account on the iPhone 4S (16 GB). Of course, this has led to a flurry of queries and congratulations. While I would like to thank those who handed out the latter (am showing them to me mum as proof of the soundness of mine massive investment), most of the queries I have received have fallen into five categories. And here are my answers to them:

Isn't it way too expensive?

I am the first to concede that it is. I wish it was cheaper. But on the flip side, I know it is unlikely to get outdated for at least a year as of now - even if Apple releases an iPhone 5 (or whatever they choose to call it) by October this year, developers will still be coming out with apps keeping the 4S in mind for quite a while. So yes, I have taken one hell of a crazy clout in the financial department but I doubt I will be needing a handset for a while now for my primary usage. Which surely counts for something in the mad, mad world of smartphones. Yes, I will be investing in other handsets, depending on professional needs, but for my basic handset, I am assured for a while now.

You have the iPhone 4, you idiot. Isn't that virtually the same thing?

Erm...not quite. You see, the iPhone 4 is without doubt a close clone of the iPhone 4S when it comes to appearance and screen resolution, and also runs the same OS. But the differences beneath that similar looking hood are significant - a dual core processor which makes a MASSIVE difference to gaming and picture tweaking, an eight megapixel shooter that makes point and shoot cameras sweat, and well, there IS that little matter of Siri. I mean, how often do ye get handsets that you can not just talk on, but also talk TO? That said, if you are not the gaming and shooting type, the 4 remains a very good option, even though it currently costs only Rs 7,000 less than the 4S - yes, Rs 7,000 is quite a sum, I know, but in the overall equation, if I am set on spending about Rs 37,000, I would be tempted to squeeze the wallet for an extra 7k and get a superior handset.

Why not a better-specced Android like the S2 or the Note?

Let me get categorical on this - I LOVE ANDROID. When Rajat Agrawal and I picked up our HTC Hero handsets in 2009, I felt I had never seen anything like the OS. It was incredibly good at multi-tasking, was seamlessly connected to social networks and was a wiz at browsing. But then, I sat and waited and waited for the handset to get the latest version of Android, even as new handsets were released with newer versions of the OS. Still not wishing to give up on the OS, I bought a Motorola Milestone. And went through the entire "wait-for-an-update"routine again for a year. What's more, notwithstanding all the blather from the Android crowd, one fact was becoming clear - the best apps were simply not coming to the platform, which was becoming a quantity rather than quality player in the app space.

That did it. I had busted close to Rs 55,000 on two handsets which became outdated within months of their release, thanks to updated versions of the software which their manufacturers refused to release, and which did not get the best apps out there in celltown. For me, that effectively spelled the end of using Android as my primary phone. I do have Android handsets, but I prefer spending my money on a phone whose software does not get outdated within months of its release. I love the S2 and the Note has the most awesome display I have ever seen on a handset, but I would rather stick with a device that its manufacturer supports with regular software updates, thank you very much.

That said, the Galaxy Nexus would have run the 4S very close. But then it was not released in India.

Are Siri and the camera worth it?

Take my word for it, they are. The camera, in particular, is nothing short of magnificent. Grab some apps from the iTunes App Store and the next thing you know, you literally have an image tweaking studio in your pocket. As for Siri, it needs some fine tuning to get used to your voice, but once it does, it is so much worth it. Also as apps increasingly come with support for it, I reckon it is going to get really handy. Always was a fan of the Star Trek tradition of speaking to a gadget rather than tapping buttons on it!

Is this an Apple fan boy decision?

Is it? I love Apple - something that goes back to seeing Steve Jobs on the cover of TIME when I was not even a teenager. And yet, my move to Apple devices has been fuelled as much by the competition's idiocy as by Apple's undeniable tech prowess - I started out with Windows computers, but Vista and its bugs pushed me to Mac OS. In phones, my first three phones were Symbian devices (the N70, the E61i and the N95 8GB) and the next two were Android ones (HTC Hero, Motorola Milestone), and my first tablets were the Android 2.2 OlivePad and Galaxy Tab. And in each case, I was let down by the manufacturer when it came to software updates and features.

Today, my primary computer is a MacBook Pro, my tablet is an iPad and my primary phone an iPhone 4S. You cannot accuse me of not giving the competition a chance, but I DO like to invest in products that do not get outdated within weeks of their launch.

So, there you have it - my rationale for getting the iPhone 4S. Call me loony if you wish, but at the end of the day, I am pretty content. Which I think is what counts most.

Remembering the Flowers of Manchester

2012-02-06T02:13:00.000-08:00

It was on February 6, 1958 that an era in English football came to an end. British European Airways flight 609 carrying members of Matt Busby's promising Manchester United squad and a number of the football media crashed while taking off at Munich. An entire generation of football players and writers was wiped out - twenty three people in all died. Football would never be the same...at least for a while. Fifty four years after the event, here my tribute to those who perished - a chapter from my book, Not Out: Heroes From the World of Sport. It might not be the greatest piece of writing ever done, but has been written from the heart.

The Flowers of Manchester

Manchester United vs Manchester City.
It is known all over the world as the Manchester Derby. One of the fiercest rivalries in the history of sport. Between two teams of the same city – the Reds (Manchester United) and the Blues (Manchester City). Irrespective of when and where the match is played, feelings generally run high among players and spectators.

No quarter is given. None is expected. This is a match for local superiority. And before a match starts, it is common to hear the supporters of each side shouting at the other – an exchange that continues throughout and well after the match.

But something changes if the match is played in early February in Manchester United's home ground, the massive Old Trafford stadium. Yes, the crowds are as boisterous and noisy as ever. And the fans of each team have plenty to say to their rivals. It seems just like another Derby.

Until the teams step out on the pitch.

Normally, the arrival of the teams is good enough to set off a roar from the tens of thousands of people in the stadium. The players wave to their supporters and the whole stadium takes on the look of a battlefield. This is, after all, one of the most fierce rivalries in sport.

But not this time. If anything, a hush falls over the stadium as the teams file out. Walking ahead of them is a single piper.

The tune he plays has little to do with the match. It is not a war tune. It is not a happy one. It is not a tune that proclaims victory. Or even breathes defiance in defeat.

It is full of sadness. It is a song of death.

And as he plays in the silence, many people break down and start weeping openly. Slowly a few start singing the song whose tune he plays. They sing in hushed tones, as if to sing loudly would be to insult the memories of those to whom the song is dedicated. Slowly but surely, the words echo gently around the massive arena:

One cold and bitter Thursday in Munich, Germany,

Eight great football stalwarts conceded victory.

Eight men will never play again, who met disaster there,

The flowers of English football, the flowers of Manchester.

It was indeed cold and bitter that day in Munich. The day almost an entire generation of English football was wiped out.

February 6, 1958...

***

It was cold at the Munich-Reim Airport when the Manchester United team got ready for the flight back home after playing a European Cup match in Belgrade.

They were the considered the future of English football. Young and immensely talented, they formed what the world knew as the “Busby Babes,” named after their manager, Matt Busby. Many of their names were already legendary – Roger Byrne, Eddie Coleman, Duncan Edwards, Bobby Charlton, to name a few. They were young and yet had already won the English league title for two years in a row and were in line for a hat-trick.

And many felt that their best was yet to come.

“Matt Busby's Manchester United will one day be the greatest football team in the world. And the players will surely make England win the World Cup sooner rather than later,” were just some of the predictions that many had made about a team that simply seemed to go from strength to strength, defeating better-known opposition with its skill, enthusiasm and above all, clear enjoyment of the game. Fans all over the world loved them. Even their opponents were known to applaud the “Babes,” as they were affectionately known.

Today, the Babes were cold. And not a little irritated.

They had expected to be on their way home already but their aircraft had twice aborted take off attempts after what they were told had been engine problems. Now they stood at the lounge in the airport, stamping their feet to stay warm, wondering when they would be back in England. And as it started to snow, it seemed that they would have to spend the night in Germany. One of them, Duncan Edwards, even wired his landlady telling her that all flights had been cancelled and that he would be back the next day.

A few minutes later, the captain of the aircraft announced that they would be trying for a third take-off. Visibly nervous, the players got on board. Some of them asked their teammates if they could sit in the rear of the aircraft, thinking that it would be safer if the plane failed to take off.

It was to be a fateful decision.

As the engines started whirring, a few of those on board murmurer prayers. The aircraft started down the now snow-covered runway, picking up speed.

And never took off.

***

All he remembered were a series of crashes.

It was as if the aircraft had been ripped apart.

He did not realise it then, but that was exactly what had happened. The plane had been unable to take off and had crashed into a fence. One of its wings had ripped into a house. The tail was torn off too. And part of the fuselage hit a hut full of tyres and fuel, exploding into fire.

And then there was silence. Silence, except for the sound of the flames. And of people groaning in pain.

Harry Gregg, the Manchester United goalkeeper, opened his eyes to see the wreck of what had a few seconds been their aircraft. It seemed to be dark, but above his head was a shaft of light. His head felt dizzy, but he reached up and pulled himself out. He walked a few steps, then collapsed to his knees on the tarmac.

Something was very wrong, but the pain in his head did not let him think. He looked around. And slowly, realisation dawned. Their plane had crashed. And then as he saw the flames licking the aircraft. His teammates! His team was in there. He looked around desperately, trying to clear his head. Think, he had to think.

He felt blood trickling down his face and raised a hand to feel it. Damp. The weather was...cold. He could smell the burning wreckage. And there were sounds too. The crackling of the flames and the groans of people. The sound of death. He got up and took a few steps towards the wreckage.

There was someone shouting. At him. From just behind him. Gregg turned to look at the man waving at him. He could barely hear the words.

“...un...run!”

He shook his head, trying to clear his head, sprinkling the tarmac with blood. It worked. He could hear more clearly now. Someone was shouting at him.

“Get away from the plane, you fool! It will explode.”

Gregg stared at the man who had uttered the words. He turned towards the plane. Yes, it was burning. People might have died. People...passengers, journalists, his teammates. Still dazed by what had happened, Gregg remained rooted to the spot as if turned to stone. And then he heard another scream. It was the voice of a child crying. Coming from the wreckage.

“There are people alive,” he whispered, and started running as he best could, towards the wreckage. As he ran, he heard the man who had called out earlier, shout again.

“Are you mad? Do you want to die?”

Gregg's reply was a roar of contempt: “There are people in there!”

And without further thought to his wound or safety, the Manchester United goalkeeper waded into the wreckage, trying to save what remained of a great team.

***

But in spite of Gregg's efforts and those of other rescuers, more than twenty people perished in the crash. Among them were no fewer than eight players: Geoff Bent, Roger Byrne, Eddie Colman, Mark Jones, David Pegg, Tommy Taylor, Billy Whelan, David Pegg and most agonisingly of all, the man they all had expected to emerge as one of the greatest players of his generation, Duncan Edwards. Edwards had struggled for fifteen days in the hospital and had even told some of his visitors in hospital that he would be ready for practice in some time.

Brave words. He would utter no more. He had been one of those who had opted to be in the rear of the plane. Few had survived.

The heart of Manchester United had been torn out. The man after whom the team had been named, Matt Busby, was himself in hospital, hanging to life by the thinnest of threads.

Twice, a priest administered Busby the final rites. But the Babes' manager clung on.

When he did come to his senses, the doctors were terrified to tell him what had happened to his team – it would be some time before he realised that many of the players he had trained and nurtured were dead. But he knew something was amiss.

“Keep the flag flying, Jimmy,” he pleaded in a broken voice from his oxygen tent in the Munich hospital to his assistant manager, Jimmy Murphy who had come to visit him. Murphy had not been on the trip to Belgrade, having stayed behind to coach the Wales football team.

As he walked away from Busby's room and looked at the stunned survivors of the crash, Murphy realised that things would never be the same again at Manchester United.

The era of the Busby Babes was over before it had begun.

When Manchester United arrived to play their next game, against Sheffield United, fans were shocked to see eleven empty slots in the Manchester United team sheet. Murphy had not been able to scrape a team together in time to alert the printers.

The flowers of Manchester had not withered away. They had been charred to death.

***

Twenty thousand pounds.

It was a lot of money. Much more than he was earning at United. And the team was in a dreadful condition anyway. What's more, at Juventus, one of Italy's and Europe's leading football clubs, he would be in charge. Here, everyone knew that he was just keeping the seat warm for...

Matt Busby.

A manager who had seen a team he had nurtured die in front of him. A man who was still recovering from his injuries.

A man who had asked him to keep the flag flying.

Jimmy Murphy looked at the cheque once again. On the one side was a high-profile job and a life of relative comfort. On the other was his word to a man who would ultimately replace him.

He looked at the cheque.

He thought of the players in the squad who looked up to him with hope. Hope that he would somehow turn the clock back and make the team the sensation it was before the plane crash literally killed it. He knew that no matter what he did, eventually his place would be taken over by the man who had been in charge of the team when the plane had crashed. History would only remember as a caretaker if he stayed at United. On the other hand, he could forge his own identity at Juventus. And make much more money besides.

But he had been told to keep the flag flying. Matt Busby, the manager of the Busby Babes, had told him to keep the flag flying.

He looked at the cheque.

And shook his head. He would stay at United. He would never be manager, perhaps. He would always be an assistant. But he would not leave his team when they most needed him.

“Think about it, Jimmy,” one of the men making the offer pleaded with him. “Give it a second thought. That's a lot of money you are turning away.”

Jimmy Murphy stared at the man. And then uttered the words that would make him a Manchester United legend:

“Loyalty does not have a price, lad.”

***

Ten years later, Manchester United stood on the threshold of completing one of the most amazing comebacks in sport. Matt Busby had returned to take charge of the team in 1959 and although it had been a rough road, they had fought their way back, winning the English league title and the FA Cup, the world's oldest football tournament.

However, one tournament had eluded them. The tournament in which they had played a match in Belgrade and then stopped at Munich en route to flying back home that day in February.

The European Cup. The biggest title a football club would win.

When the final of the 1968 European Cup had been allotted to England, many had felt that it would be poetic justice if Manchester United went on to win it. After all, it was ten years since the disaster that had almost wiped out the Busby Babes, who had seemed well on course to winning the tournament before disaster had struck.

But no one would believed it would actually happen. It had seemed a fantasy – the stuff that only happens in dreams and fairy tales. And now Manchester United stood one match away from making it real.

The only problem was the team facing them in the final. One of the most powerful sides in the world, Benefica of Portugal had a number of stars in their line up, none more famous than Eusebio, the top scorer of the 1966 World Cup tournament.

Would Manchester United be able to overcome them and pay the ultimate tribute to the Busby Babes? There were a hundred thousand people in Wembley willing them to do just that. In the dugout where the team staff sat during matches, Matt Busby, still the manager of the team, looked on to his players, praying quietly for a miracle. At his side was Jimmy Murphy, the man who had put his loyalty to the club before money and a financially secure life.

Of those who had managed to crawl free of the wreckage that day on the Munich runway, only two were on the pitch – Bobby Charlton and Bill Foulkes. Charlton was now a legend in English football, many considering him to be the greatest player to wear an England shirt. Foulkes had not achieved the same celebrity but he was a formidable player in defence.

Today, on May 29, 1968, these two would represent more than Manchester United. They would represent what was left of the Busby Babes.

***

The match began slowly, with both teams adopting a cautious approach. The first half passed off without major incident and was notable mainly for the determination with which United kept the ball away from the dangerous Eusebio. Then, eight minutes into the second half, the ball floated into the Portugese penalty area. And the head of Bobby Charlton met it, steering it into the Benefica goal.

The crowd exploded. Justice, it seemed had been done. United would win the title after all. But they had reckoned without the fighting spirit of their opponents.

Now a goal down, Benefica threw caution to the winds and began attacking desperately. The United defence, marshalled by Foulkes, tried its best to hold on against wave after wave of attacks. The worst seemed to be over as the clock ticked away. With just ten minutes remaining, the United fans had already started their celebrations, when Benefica levelled through Jamie Graca.

It was 1-1. And now Benefica had the momentum. It was the Portugese who came on and on, looking for a winner to spoil United's dream. With a few minutes to go, United's worst nightmare came true – Eusebio managed to break free of the United defenders and all that stood between him and the winning goal for Benefica was United goalkeeper, Alex Stepney. Eusebio hit the ball with all his might and the hearts of thousands of fans missed a beat as it headed for the United goal.

Only to be blocked by a pair of hands.

Alex Stepney had made the save of his life. And had kept United's hopes alive. But only just.

With the score locked at 1-1 after the end of the regulation ninety minutes, the match went into extra time. In the break before the extra-time started, both teams collapsed on the pitch, seemingly drained by the physical and emotional effort they had put in. Busby was everywhere, cajoling, entreating and scolding his players, asking them for one final effort.

Three minutes into extra-time, it seemed George Best had heard him. Even as the stadium watched in shock, the handsome United forward calmly took the ball about 25 yards from the Benefica goal. And then ran and ran, sidestepping tackles and players who came his way. In frustration, even the Benefica goalkeeper Jose Enrique came out to take the ball from him. Only to be left lying on the ground as Best dribbled the ball past him. And then rolled it into the empty net.

For a second, there was silence in the stadium, as fans attempted to digest what they had just seen. And then, a hundred thousand voices erupted in unison. United were back in front. And this time, they would not be pulled back.

Barely had the cheers for the goal subsided, when 19-year-old Brian Kidd scored another goal for United. 3-1. A dazed Benefica had no time to recover as a few minutes later, the ball went to one of the people Harry Gregg had pulled out of the burning wreckage of the aircraft.

Bobby Charlton had already scored a goal in the match. Now, with another chance, he took careful aim and let rip a shot that no power on the earth could have stopped.

4-1.

That took the fight out of Benefica. The rest of the match was more of a victory celebration as fans sang and laughed. When the match was finally over and Bobby Charlton held the cup aloft, Matt Busby allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

Manchester United had literally come back from the dead.

And ten years after eight of them had perished, a Busby Babe was holding the European Cup.

***

One man missing from the United line-up that day was Harry Gregg. The man who had saved a number of lives on the Munich airstrip had moved to another club a year ago. But no one would forget his contribution to the Manchester United revival – to many Gregg would always be the Hero of Munich.

He would be that and much more to Vera Lukic. The wife of a Yugoslavian diplomat, Vera had also been on the flight that had killed so many of the Busby Babes. She was expecting her second child and with her was her baby daughter Vesna.

It was Vesna's crying that had made Gregg run back to the burning aircraft that day in 1958. He rescued both her and her mother.

Gregg would never win any major trophies in his career after the crash, but to him belongs the ultimate compliment that would be paid to any of the Busby Babes, one made by a grateful Vera Lukic for saving her life and that of her daughter and soon to be born son:

“To me, Harry Gregg will always be Superman.”

The Flowers of Manchester would never be forgotten.

(Manchester United, often referred to as “United,”are arguably the world's most famous football club. Formed in 1878 (it was initially known as Newton Heath), the club today is known for having millions of followers all over the world. It is also one of the most successful in the world, with titles like the English Premier League, the FA Cup and the UEFA Champions' League, in its trophy cabinet. The team are also known as The Reds because they normally play in red jerseys.
Sir Matt Busby was born on 26 May 1909. He is considered by many to have been the man who took Manchester United to another level, first by nurturing local talent (the Busby Babes) and later by signing on stars like Dennis Law and George Best. A paternal figure, he is also remembered for developing United's reputation as an aggressive and attacking team. He was knighted for his services to football in 1968, and passed away in 1994.
Although best known for being Sir Matt Busby's assistant, Jimmy Murphy played football for Swindon Town from 1929-39 and was also the manager of the highly acclaimed Wales football team in the 1958 World Cup. He remained with Manchester United until 1971 and passed away in 1989. Manchester United commissioned the "Jimmy Murphy Young Player of the Year Award", to be given to the best player in the club's youth system, as a tribute to him.
Harry Gregg, the Hero of Munich, is considered to have been one of Manchester United's greatest-ever goalkeepers. He was also voted the Best Goalkeeper of the 1958 World Cup, in which he represented Northern Ireland. He left United in 1967 and managed various football teams until 1987,m when he finally retired from the game.)

Inconsistency, thy name is Sehwag

2012-01-16T10:43:00.000-08:00

The most devastating batsman of our time. The most destructive player since Vivian Richards. The one batsman capable of changing a match with a single innings.

Virender Sehwag has been called all that. And several other things.

What all the adjectives, however, disguise is that he is a man woefully out of form in the five-day format. Yes, he did set a world record for the highest score in ODIs not too long ago, but casting a look at his form over the past year and a half reveals a picture that is nothing short of shocking.

Over the past sixteen matches, Sehwag has scored 1059 runs at an average of 36.51. And that figure is even more shocking if you drop his performances at home against two of the weakest bowling sides in the world, New Zealand and West Indies. Here are his overall stats since October 1, 2010, courtesy Cricinfo's StatsGuru:

Now take away the statistics against those two weak teams - and on very batsman friendly home conditions - and you are left with statistics that are even worse: 416 runs in ten Test Matches against South Africa, Australia and England in twenty innings at an average of 20.8, with no hundreds at all.

Yes, you could call it bad form. A bad run of luck.

I choose to call it utter inconsistency. Sehwag's greatest strength - his ability to grab a match by its horns and turn it in his team's favour in an hour of willow mayhem - unfortunately is accompanied by a penchant for failing a lot more often than he succeeds. His overall Test record is VERY impressive:

But the statistics hide the fact that his bursts of heavy scoring have been interspersed with long periods of relatively poor scores. In fact, yank away three of his most substantial innings - his two triple centuries and a near triple in 293 - and his average drops to 46, which is frankly just about par for the course in these days of heavy scores. Now compare that with another master batsman, Tendulkar, who averages a very healthy 55.71, and even with his top three scores taken away averages 53.33. Or Rahul Dravid, who averages 52.32 but with this top three scores taken away still comes in at 50.34. Even Sunil Gavaskar, averaged a tad over 51 overall but even with three of his highest scores taken away, averaged almost 48.

The fact is simple - Sehwag will give you the massive matchwinning innings. But it will come at the cost of a string of lesser scores. No one denies that he is a genius. But he is an erratic one. He is a devastating batsman at his best, and a significantly diminished one when not on song.

Indian cricket should cherish him as a hero and a matchwinner. But depending on him would be like entrusting yourself to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Incidentally, even the great Bradman's average dips if you would take away his three biggest scores. The Don averaged a mere 89 with this top three innings out of the way.

Let us see, that is about twenty nine more than other experienced players.

And they keep comparing players with him. But THAT is another story...

L'affaire Aakash: do not underestimate India's poor

2012-01-15T22:49:00.000-08:00

Have you ever seen an Indian farmer negotiating to buy a second hand tractor? I have, thanks to an internship that involved interacting with Eicher. The man generally haggles and haggles until he thinks he has got what he thinks is decent value for money. And that often means a VERY close inspection of the goods he is being offered.

For, he has very limited funds. And wants to make sure that they are well-spent. There is very little scope for wastage here. As a farmer told me, "Pet kaat ke khareedte hain, beta. Kachra thode hi khareedenge." (We are literally cutting our stomachs to buy these things. We will not buy junk.)

And yet, those who have backed the Aakash tablet seem to think otherwise. Yes, they concede that the device does not work all that well, but then we are told, "think of the underprivileged person, who has no Internet connectivity or has never used a gadget. For him, this is nothing short of a miracle."

Are you kidding me?

Take it from me - the Indian underprivileged are some of the most savvy purchasers in the market out there. Simply because they have much lesser income to spend. No, they might never be able to afford an iPad but that does not mean that they will pick up anything that comes with a low price tag. In fact, the lower the income, the more carefully a person is likely to spend. Ironically, I think that it is those with relatively more income to spare who have booked the Aakash - a classic case of the "even if it does not work, we have not lost too much" mentality blended with a decent dollop of the "Give it to the kids, not much loss if they break it"mindset.

So, whatever, your opinion of the Aakash, do not think that India's less than well economically endowed sections will pick it up just because it does not cost a bomb. If it does not perform, it will not sell. Period.

And a note to the "it-is-a-blessing-for-the-poor" preaching tech pundits - please, PLEASE, show some respect to India's poor.

They may not have lots of money. But they darn well know how to spend what little they have.

A ghazal inspired by the Aakash tab

2012-01-04T19:57:00.000-08:00

Two days with the Aakash tab have moved me to some very bad poetry. Yes, Ghalib sahab will doubtless be rolling in his grave at these lines but I hope he will pardon the author for daring to borrow from him. You see, he was the master of portraying despair after all:

So, arz kiya hai:

Har ek tap pe kehti hi ki ye tap kya hai

Tumhin batao Aakash se guftagu kya hai

Dabti rahi hai ungliyaan lekin hotanahin Aakash pe kuchch,

Ab hamare thake haathon ko varjish kizaroorat kya hai

Tabs mein ports dhoondhte rehne ke hamnahin kayal

Jo Flash drive ko na jaane, woh USBport kya hai

Jawab de degi battery sirf do ghantonmein,

Phir kehte hain hi Aakash ko bijli kizaroorat kya hai

Touch hai bekaar, Apps hain bezaar

Ya Ilahi ye maajra kya hai

Daam mein kam, kaam mein aur bhi kam

Tum hi batao ki ye paisa vasool kya hai

Tech-e-nadaan, tujhe hua kya hai

Aakhir is Aakash ki dawa kya hai

A final line about tablets in general:

Ek iPad tha, jisne humko tablet ki gaadi ka taayar (tyre) bana diya

Aur ak Aakash hai, jisne humko tech ka phateechar shaayar bana diya

Why Aakash is great for Indian students...

2012-01-03T09:35:00.001-08:00

Expunge from your mind what I wrote yesterday about Aakash or the UbiSlate 7, the Rs 2500 tablet which many hailed as the best thing since sliced bread. Those were words written by a tech reviewer looking at a gadget, totally missing out on its spiritual side. Yes, Aakash is not a perfect device, but I think it will be great for Indian students, because it is capable of delivering far more than a slice of economically accessible technology. In fact, all students should be given an Aakash tablet because it will not just give them access to the Internet, but also strengthen their value system. No, I am not raving. An Aakash tablet can teach Indian students the following lessons:

The importance of patience. Believe me, using the Aakash with its lags and stutters will enrich your reservoirs of patience substantially.
The ability to use just about any tech product. If you can get used to working on the Aakash, no tech product will ever be a challenge to you.
The importance of electricity. Far too many people take electricity for granted, but with an Aakash tablet, they will be running to recharge it two to three times a day, thus reminding them of the importance of electricity.
The importance of teachers. From what we have seen, Aakash is going to reinforce the role of teachers in our education system - students are unlikely to get too much from the tab, so they will hark back to their teachers for advice and information, strengthening India's traditional guru-shishya parampara.
The importance of giving and sharing. Students will discover the joy of giving once they have used the Aakash tablet for a while - they will feel like handing it over to someone else.
The importance of user interface. Yes, the Aakash tablet is a much better example of the importance of the UI in a device than Apple's iPad is. The latter is too intuitive and easy to use by half.
The ability to face challenges. How much can you do in two and a half hours of battery life? Where is the nearest Wi-Fi hotspot? What do you do when the tablet's USB port does not recognise the device plugged into it? How to type on a resistive screen effectively? What to do with the camera icon on a tablet that does not have a camera?- these are just some of the challenges an Aakash user will face on a daily basis. Needless to say, they will be better-equipped to face life's challenges after that!
The importance of being satisfied with what one has. No, it does work as smoothly as other tablets. Yes, its battery and display are on the ordinary side. Yes, it can be a pain to use. But so what? Nothing is perfect. Tedha hai par mera hai, as the Kurkure ad goes.
The importance of outdoor sports. With that display and that touch experience, there is no chance that our students will be turned into digital game-loving couch potatoes. All of which should lead to us becoming a sporting super power.
An understanding of what value for money means. Hint: it does NOT always mean "low price tag."

So, my advice to all those seriously considering buying an Aakash tablet - go right ahead and do it. It will be spiritually elevating, albeit a tad depressing technologically. Well, you cannot get EVERYTHING in Rs 2,500, as Aakash supporters keep pointing out. Or to use an Indian phrase: "Itne mein toh itna hi milega."

Aakash tablet ka safar...er...suffer!

2012-01-02T10:38:00.000-08:00

(Picture from http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2011-10-07/india/30256995_1_iits-and-iims-kapil-sibal-quota)

A few months ago, our HRD Minister Kapil Sibal had brandished a tablet at a press conference, hailing it as the realisation of a dream "in which every student in every corner of the country will have access to technology that defines the 21st century." And he had good reason to be so enthusiastic - he was unveiling a seven inch tablet that would be available to Indian students at a staggeringly low price - just $35 (later revealed as Rs 2,500, also under the name UbiSlate 7).

In terms of sheer price, that was amazing. Yes, the device did not have the greatest specs, but for that price what the Indian student was being offered was a device that could easily access the Internet over Wi-Fi, have a USB port and ran Android. Considering that the lowest priced tablet cost more than three times that amount. Heck, you did not get a smartphone for that much.

Yes, we had reason to be optimistic. I certainly was.

Until I used the tablet today. For about an hour.

The touch experience is not even ordinary but below that - we spent close to half an hour just entering the password to our Wi-Fi network on an onscreen keyboard that seemed to have a mind of its own. The frame of the device was rickety and seemed to sink in places. The single pin charger did not fit into the charging slot completely, and even the microSD card did not fit in, and kept protruding.

Of course, all that would have been irrelevant if the device had performed reasonably. But alas, it was here that Aakash really came down to earth. Pun intended. The touch sensitivity of the device was appalling and made even scrolling a screen a tedious process. And well, browsing the Web was rendered almost impossible by the fact that it took ages to enter a URL. The device lagged again and again. And within about ninety minutes, its battery was running low.

By now, there were some people muttering the classic excuse for a low-cost product - "what do you expect at such a low price?" Well, truth be told - I expected a device that was usable. The Aakash is barely that. A responsive touchscreen is a prerequisite for even a halfway decent tablet experience, and sadly the Aakash does not deliver that. We have seen resistive touchscreens that gave us a decent bang for our buck, but the one on the Aakash falls flat on its face in that department - navigating or typing on it is tedious, to say the least. No, I did not expect it to slay the iPad, but I at least expected a device that would let me browse the Net with some degree of ease.

Yes, it costs very little. But from what I have seen, it delivers just as little. Or even lesser. We think we could get more out of the Nokia X2-01, a phone with a full QWERTY keyboard which costs about Rs 3,850, but delivers more simply because it is easier and more reliable to use. No matter what the price of a product, it is of little utility if it is difficult to use or has problems. It is not enough to make a low cost product - you still have to make it work. And work at least adequately. Because no one - especially those with limited funds - wants to spend their hard earned money on something that just does not work well. Just look to what happened to the Tata Nano, a car which cost significantly lesser than the competition.

Price is only part of the equation. If it was all that mattered, the smartphone segment and all the tablets with five figure prices simply would not exist. No, the consumer expects value for money. And it is this value that I really think Aakash fails to deliver in its present avatar. The economically backward classes in India need devices that work - judging by my one hour experience with it, the Aakash barely does that. Further experience might make me change my views but I doubt it.

Aakash needs to be applauded for its price tag. But not really for much else. And it certainly is NOT the realisation of a tech dream, because India's impoverished masses deserve better. That said, I still think it should be given to some Indian students.

As a punishment.

Your opponents define you, not your supporters!

2012-01-01T09:53:00.000-08:00

I think it is a Pathan saying that you gauge the standing of a person not by the stature of their followers, but by those of their enemies.

I often thought it was just an excuse to get into fights and arguments with well-known people. However, a look at a rather over-the-top advertisement supporting a political leader in a newspaper today made me realise the perils of having too loyal a following. After all, most followers are simply going to back you and your point of view, no matter what - right or wrong. On the other hand, your opponents are those you joust with - it might be bitter at times - but the fact is that by existing in the opposite corner, they do tend to highlight your position a whole lot better.

Sounds daft? Well, just consider this - does Wellington not define Napoleon better than Marshal Ney? Does not a bewildered Shane Warne define Sachin Tendulkar's batting skill better than some fan waving a banner proclaiming "Cricket is religion, Sachin is God?" And did not the British rule he waged war against better define Bapu than many of his loyal followers? And do not Anna Hazare and his opponents define each other a whole lot better than their obsequiously blind supporters do?

Believe you me, see who and what a person stands against and you will find a great deal more about him or her than if you look to their followers. The followers will always give you a rosy picture - the opponents will give you a more objective one. Neither will be completely correct, but any one will tell you that it is far better to know a person's flaws than their strong points - the latter will never harm you, the former could and often do.

Yep, it seems that the Pathans knew what they were talking about.

2012: Resolutions and wishes...

2011-12-31T11:53:00.000-08:00

It is a new year. That time of the year when we go about making resolutions that we hope to keep, and wish our friends the very best.

And so on and so forth.

So let us get on with the resolutions. Well, I could go on and on here. F'r instance:

1. I resolve to lose some weight. (well, someone said I was overweight...)
2. I resolve to blog every day
3. I resolveto improve my writing
4. I resolve to lose even more weight
5. I resolve to start work on my third book
6. I resolve to be more patient
7. I resolve to develop a better smile
8. I resolve to lose still more weight
9. I resolve to frown less
10. I resolve to try and play EVERY mode of Skyrim
11. You know, about that weight...

You get the drift. I mean, ALL this stuff could be tedious. So let me keep it simple:

"I resolve to do my best for myself and those who are mine - my family, my friends, and all those who touch me in some way or the other. And I damn well resolve to have stacks of fun doing it."

I mean, sure, weight, and skills, and whatnot is important but at the end of the day, doing your best. AND grinning right through it - heck, that is a winning combo, right?

And what do I wish all my friends and acquaintances? Well, "Happy new year" sounds kind of lame and predictable although it does do a very good job of summing up things. But I am going to borrow some lines from one of my favourite films, Jerry Maguire:

"Hey, I don’t have all the answers.
In life, to be honest, I failed as much as I have succeeded.
But I love my wife.
I love my life.
And I wish you my kind of success."

Wish you all a very happy 2012.

Mind you, I am going to be trying to do some of the things on that list. That weight thing, especially...

The Wall's gutless, Anna has limited intellectual capacity...

2011-12-19T10:23:00.000-08:00

"Sticks and stones may hurt my bones, but words will never hurt me."

It is an old saying. And like many old sayings, it does have more than a grain of truth in it. However, there are times when one wonders why words are used to assault people. And today was verily a day for verbal abuse.

It started with former Indian skipper Sourav Ganguly calling Greg Chappell mad, and not being content with that much, going on to day that Rahul Dravid had lacked the "guts" to stop Greg Chappell and his "wrongdoings" when he was captain (check the video please). By the evening, Anil Dharker had added to it by calling Anna Hazare a person of limited intellectual ability.

Both speakers might have thought that their statements were true. But so is one more thing - both were in appalling taste. And said more about the speaker than the subjects of their criticism.

Let us take the case of Dravid being gutless. This is the man who has stood up to some of the fiercest bowling in the most adverse conditions. This is the man who declared an Indian innings with Sachin Tendulkar batting at 194. This is the man who was dropped from the team in all formats of the game at different times and quietly, efficiently made his way back. And while everyone points to Chappell's regime resulting in India's early exit from the 2007 World Cup, the fact is that it did win India series in England and West Indies - something that Ganguly, for all his claims of being India's greatest ever captain, never could do. Was this the wrongdoing that he did not have the guts to stop?

Is this evidence of being gutless? Hmm...perhaps we should all be.

Let's now take the example of Anna Hazare and his limited intellectual ability. It has managed to change a few laws, knock a few ministers off their pedestals, and whether one agrees with him, his team or his methods or not, has brought corruption into the public spotlight. The man has been felicitated by a number of organisations and for all his faults, has a following - a following which evidently was significant enough for the Indian Government to consider his proposals.

If this is limited intellectual ability, I guess it does not hurt.

Know something? When I go to bed, perhaps I will pray to the Lord to make me as gutless as Dravid, and have as limited intellectual ability as Anna Hazare.

Oh, and I will REALLY pray to Him to make me choose my words carefully. A word of advice to both Sourav Ganguly and Anil Dharker - try sticks and stones the next time around, gentlemen. That way, you will at least do SOME damage.

It's who you love that counts, not what!

2011-12-14T09:55:00.000-08:00

She likes to travel and explore new places. I like to stick to the ones I know I like (why do you think I keep scuttling off to Bangalore?)
She likes to talk and has a dazzling smile. I am the silent type, who grins sparingly
She is not that into books. I am crazy about them.
She loves to dance and shake a leg. I prefer listening to my music quietly.
She is not that much into sport. I am perfectly crazy about cricket, football and tennis.
She has many virtues, but patience is not one of them. I like to think I am the one who does not mind waiting.
She likes eating something different every day. I love eating the same thing day in, day out.
She drinks two cups of tea a day. I drink about a dozen.
She loves to talk about cars and drive them. I think a car is a box on wheels and do not know how to drive (for shame!).
She takes hours picking out her clothes. I generally take a few seconds.

Mention all that on one of those darned compatibility tests that are the rage these days and you would think that I am the lady mentioned are hardly intended for each other. The fact on the ground, however, is that we are perfectly batty about each other. Yep, the lady out there is Anupama Sushil (or as she refers to herself, doing me immense honour, Anupama Nimish Dubey), my wife of more than two years and dearest friend of almost five.

On paper, it is a relationship that should have had no chance in hell of succeeding. And yet, here we are, still fairly dotty about each other. And, touch wood, showing no signs of exactly getting bored of each other's company - when you see us yawning, it is because we are REALLY sleepy, you know. And no, neither of us has changed much. Anu still likes to dance and I still cannot drive a car. And the rest of the stuff mentioned.

Most importantly, neither of us has tried to change themselves or the other. Or even felt the need to - well, to an extent, Anu HAS tried to teach me how to drive.

All of which makes me wonder whether we do not shoot ourselves in the foot with all this nonsense about "compatibility"? Isn't being friends a tad more about being sensitive, understanding the other person and most importantly, being there for them that matters a whole lot more than just "sharing the same interests." No, I am not getting into "opposites attract" mode but heck, just because two people like different things does not mean they cannot like each other.

And yet whenever I see someone getting "interested" (I think that's the term used) in someone else, the first thing they tend to do is sit down and analyse "common interests." As if that were not enough, I often see people trying to change to make themselves more "suitable" to the subject of interest - there was this girl who was trying to memorise the rules of cricket because a lad she was keen on was mad about the game. No, it did not work out eventually.

Which is why I think that it is who you love that matters, not what you like or hate. Common interest is great for starting a conversation and discussion, but I am deuced I can see a relationship or friendship that works just because the parties involved like doing the same things. Nope, scratch beneath that surface and you will see something more - a lot of affection, love and time for each other.

So I would just like to add one item to that list I gave at the beginning, the one common thing that totally overrules all those incompatibilities.

She rather likes me. I am nuts about her.

Is this the world's greatest cricketer?

2011-12-10T09:57:00.000-08:00

Daniel Vettori (pic courtesy: Wikipedia)

Talk about the best cricket player in the world and it is a fair chance that the first names that will pop up will be those of leading batsmen - the likes of Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid, Virender Sehwag, Kevin Pietersen, Ricky Ponting, Jacques Kallis, Graeme Smith, Hashim Amla and the like.

There is a fanatical fringe who will consider no one beyond Tendulkar to the ridiculous extent of making him the representative of the country's population (a huge chunk of which still does not have access to food or education, leave alone television and cricket) - the "Sachin walks out to bat with the expectations of a billion behind him" has carved a niche for itself in the history of cricket hyperbole. There will be those who will argue just as fanatically, albeit with lesser population stats to back them up about Jacques Kallis, throwing in the fact that he bowls. And of course, Smith will be propped up for his fourth innings excellence and the fact that he has succeeded in the one area where Sachin failed - captaincy.

And yet, for me, the best cricketer in the world is none of these worthies, but a much-lower profile player. No, he does not have overwhelming statistics or figures to back him up, but he

has something that none of the others have - he simply is the best batsman and bowler in his team. And until a few months ago, also did a decent job of captaining his team.

The man is Daniel Luca Vettori.

I know there are people who are going to laugh at the very notion, but my only defence is that I am not sure that I have ever seen a player who has been considered his country's best batsman, bowler and even a decent captain. Even the great Imran Khan had the likes of Javed Miandad to fall back in the batting department and was backed up by some fantastic bowlers. But ever since Stephen Fleming called it a day in 2008, Vettori has by most standards, been his country's go-to bowler and batsman. And he captained his side with good grace too.

If that sounds hard to believe, just check his statistics in the period following Stephen Fleming's retirement, which left him in the position of being his country's main batsman and bowler.

(Source: Cricinfo StatsGuru)

The statistics are nothing short of staggering. The man has averaged close to 38 with the bat and slightly over thirty with the ball in this period. But to get a real idea of his contribution, let us just cast a look at New Zealand's key batsmen in this period:

(Source: Cricinfo StatsGuru)

As you can see, only two batsmen have scored more runs than Vettori in the period since Fleming called it quits, and only three have higher averages. Not too bad, eh? Now combine that with the bowling performance of the team in the same period:

(Source: Cricinfo StatsGuru)

There is clear daylight between Vettori and his teammates on this front - not just in terms of wickets but also economy rate - he is the only bowler averaging above four wickets a match and the only one to concede runs at less than three runs an over. He has also bowled the most overs for his country in this period - more than five hundred overs more than his nearest competitor in this department.

Now, when was the last time that you saw a bowler topping his side's bowling performance so comprehensively? Muralitharan for Sri Lanka comes to mind but then he hardly troubled the scorers while batting. Truth be told, in the more than twenty years since I have been following cricket, I have never seen a single player carry his team in batting, bowling and captaincy to the extent that Vettori has. There have been great all-rounders but they often have had other class players around them in both bowling and batting - Hadlee had Martin Crowe and John Wright to share his batting load, Botham had Gooch and Gower in batting and Willis in the bowling department, Kapil Dev had Gavaskar and Vengsarkar to get the runs. Vettori seems to need to get runs every time he walks out to bat. And get wickets every time the ball is thrown to him.

The fact that he has delivered more often not in both roles speaks volumes of the role he has played for his team during a tough time for New Zealand cricket.

And the man has done so with grace and humility. So, there you are, ladies and gentlemen, my choice for the best cricketer in the world today. Simply because no one does more for his team than this bespectacled quiet man from New Zealand.

Forget the Score, India Took A Beating

2011-11-26T11:10:00.000-08:00

The recently concluded India vs West Indies series reminded me ever so much of Rocky. For those who have not seen the film (hoo boy – must see, must see!), it is all about how an utterly washed out boxer, Rocky Balboa, gets a shot at the world heavyweight boxing title. While everyone expects the highly skilled champion, Apollo Creed, to make mincemeat of Rocky, the underdog actually surprises people by putting up a great battle. Yes, he loses (there, I told you the plot) on the judge's scorecards, but to the public, he is a winner.

Well, the India-West Indies series was supposed to be a similar affair. India, who were the world champs in Test cricket not too long ago, were expected to make mincemeat of the West Indies, who have struggling to get wins even against the likes of Bangladesh. This was a Windies side that had won only one major series over the past three years – against England, courtesy of one crazy bowling spell by Jerome Taylor – and whose sole role seems to have been to serve as a punching bag for all other opposition. India on the other hand, barring one very poor series against England, had by and large been playing well, and had been formidable on home turf, beating Australia and holding South Africa to a draw.

On paper, India was packed with world-class batsmen, four of whom – Sachin Tendulkar, Virender Sehwag, Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman – could walk into most sides, and in Mahendra Singh Dhoni had arguably the best wicket-keeper batsman in the world, and one of the canniest skippers. Yes, the bowling was not the greatest but it had to cope with a batting line-up with just one proven world class batsman, Shivnaraine Chandepaul. And of course, the less said of the West Indies bowling attack, the better.

So, it should have been a massacre, right? Well, at the end of the three Test series, history will show that India won 2-0, winning both Tests with comfortable margins, and was just a run away from winning the draw Test.

Lies, damned lies and statistics.

The stark fact is that India were on the defensive for most of two of the three Tests. The former world champs conceded significant leads in the first and third Tests, and but for second innings collapses from the West Indies, would have found themselves in a very tight spot in both matches. The much vaunted Indian batting line-up fired in the real sense just once – in the second Test. Yes, it topped 400 in the final Test too but it had to depend on a century from Ashwin to do so. For the most part, this was a team of champions being pushed around by an underdog. Yes, quality did tell (as did opposition nerves) and India came out on top twice, but the fact is that the celebrity-studded team spent a good deal of time playing catch up against a squad that should not have been able to stand up to it for four playing days, leave alone five.

The most shocking performance of all came in the final Test, when the West Indies, minus their sole world-class performer, Shivnaraine Chanderpaul, amassed a total in excess of five hundred in the first innings, and even though they came up with the expected second innings collapse, their bowlers and fielders did well enough to stop the champions of one day cricket from chasing a target that was less than 250 runs at less than four runs an over.

Yes, the stats will say that India scored more runs and took more wickets than the West Indies and with a bit of luck, could have won the series 3-0. What they will not tell you is that India found themselves on the ropes frequently and at times even struggled against the slow medium of Darren Sammy and the less than extravagant spin of Bishoo. Hardly the performance of recent world champions, leave alone those looking for a historic series win against Australia in the coming weeks. And yet, most analysts seemed more worried about Sachin Tendulkar's inability to score his hundredth hundred rather than a team whose batsmen and bowlers kept underperforming.

Perhaps the team will pick itself up against Australia. Perhaps the presence of better opposition - on paper, at least - will spur Dhoni and Co. to greater heights. But if what we have seen against West Indies is an instance of their prowess, I think we might be in for a thrashing Down Under.

For, forget the score, just like Apollo Creed in Rocky, India took a beating from the Windies.

Mr Spielberg, you just killed my Tintin!

2011-11-21T10:35:00.001-08:00

If you think Dickens' Pip had Great Expectations, they were nothing on par with mine when I heard that Steven Spielberg would be making the Tintin film a year ago. I mean, the guy who gave us the likes of ET and Jurassic Park tackling a film around one of the world's most famous comic characters - you would need to be daft not to have Great-er Expectations.

Well, a week after seeing The Adventures of Tintin, I must confess that I feel a lot like Dickens hero did when he found out who his secret benefactor was - deflated, annoyed and bloody dejected. So dejected that it has taken me a week to get my temper on level enough footing to write about this two hour fiasco that pretends to be a film based on Herge's immortal character.

First off, credit where credit is due. If you are looking for life-like animation, this is THE film to watch. Some supremely good motion capturing technology ensures that the animations look almost life-like and the quality of some of the sequences is nothing short of amazing - there is this bit of a crazy motorcycle chase in Morocco, and the first appearance of the pirate Red Rackham that had me almost rise to my feet and applaud in the cinema hall. Sound quality is flawless too and the music is super. The credits sequence with Tintin leaping from one title to another is wonderful, and then comes one of those magical moments that one expects from Spielberg - Tintin is being sketched by a pavement artist. The artist is actually Herge and he shows the modern Tintin a sketch of the classical one. Sublime!

The problem is however, that this is an animation film and Tintin is a comic character - so excuse me, but I want the fella to look the way he did in comics. No, I do not want to know the colour of his eyes. No, I do not want multiple expression variations and his tuft of hair to wriggle in the wind. No, I do not want Snowy's fur to move realistically. Darn it, would I have liked The Lion King if Simba looked like a REAL lion or Space Jam if Bugs Bunny had looked like a REAL rabbit? If one wanted real-life like animation and spent so much money capturing the expressions and movements of actors, why not just make this a real film and use the cast as it is. Daniel Craig would surely have looked a whole lot better in real reel than in animated avatar!

But even that would have been forgiveable if Spielberg had not meddled with the essential soul of the Tintin stories. Unfortunately, he has not just meddled with it, but attempted to recast it in a mold that bears very little semblance to the Tintin I knew. Comic followers will find dozens of errors in the Tintin and Captain Haddock combo in the film - Tintin keeps a gun at home, Tintin has a cat (he does not - Captain Haddock has one), Red Rackham has surviving descendants (he does not - Haddock kicks out all those pretending to be his descendants), Haddock has forgotten about his great ancestor Sir Francis Haddock (he did not - he narrated the story to Tintin without needing any prodding), Nestor seems to know all about the history of the Haddocks (he does not - he was just an employee at Marlinspike Hall, not some generation-to-generation caretaker!)...and so on and so forth.

But nothing - nothing! - is as shocking as the scene in which Tintin says he has given up and Haddock gives him a pep talk! Now, ANYONE who has seen the series will tell you that the opposite tended to happen all the time - Haddock had a penchant for getting all excited and disappointed at the drop of a hat. Tintin was the fellow picking him up. Not the other way around. These are a Tintin and Captain Haddock I utterly know not.

To top it off, the plot gets utterly massacred and is a frightful cocktail of The Secret of the Unicorn, The Crab With the Golden Claws, and Red Rackham's Treasure. The silver lining to this is that you do not really know what is going to happen next - the dark cloud is that you know that what you are watching is an utter dismembering of the books you read as a child, with some really daft interpretations thrown in for good measure.

All of which makes Tintin a terrible experience for any one who grew up reading the books. I did. I lived, breathed and walked with the character. I laughed at Haddock. I went "aawww" at Snowy. I saved pocket money, giving up on the relatively less sublime pleasures of Archie, Richie Rich and Batman and Superman, to be able to get a Tintin every three months. I love the characters in the series - they are a part of my life.

And are nothing like what are seen in the film. Mr Spielberg, you are a great director. But you just went and killed the Tintin I know so well.

Masters of the fourth innings in Test Cricket

2011-11-10T11:18:00.000-08:00

One of the biggest and most popular debates in cricket is about who is the best batsman of all time. And while statistics do help us make some comparisons, not everyone is convinced by them - after all, did not a British Premier once say that there were only three kinds of lies: "Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics?" So the debate ranges on - was Hobbs better than Bradman? Is Ponting even comparable to Sachin? Is Kallis actually the best batsman out there? Or was WG Grace perhaps the ultimate crease maester?

The fourth innings challenge

Well, I have been following cricket for about three decades now, and while I am not a confirmed expert in the subject, I really think that one of the parameters on which you can judge the skill of a batsman is by his batting in the fourth and final innings of a Test match. This is because this is the time when the pitch is at its worst - the very fact that the match HAS a fourth innings would indicate that the pitch has something in it for the bowlers. The pitch generally has endured a bit of wear and tear (sometimes a lot of wear and tear) by then and the ball does behave unpredictably and jump around a fair bit. And of course, the fact that the batsman in the fourth innings is more often than not batting to win or save a Test only adds to the weight of this parameter.

A pitch often at its worst, a match often in the balance...what better parameter to judge the quality of a batsman? So, if we were to set 1000 runs in the fourth innings of a Test as a benchmark, who would the top performers be?

A few years ago, it would have taken days to come out with stats for these. But today, Cricinfo's excellent Statsguru tool gives us the result within seconds. I entered the parameters in the search option and the results were shown, sorted by batting average. So, here you go - the best performers in the tightest Test Match situations. Only twenty players have scored more than a thousand runs in the fourth innings of Test Matches in their careers. And all of them are from the modern era - a testimony to perhaps how much cricket is played these days. Yes, there are some surprises here:

(Image from: http://stats.espncricinfo.com/ci/engine/stats/index.html?class=1;filter=advanced;innings_number=4;orderby=batting_average;qualmin1=1000;qualval1=runs;template=results;type=batting)

The mastery of Sunny and Geoffrey...

It is amazing to note that the first two places have gone to the two batsman considered by most pundits to be the most technically accomplished batsmen of the modern age - Geoff Boycott and Sunil Gavaskar. Both incidentally have significantly higher fourth innings averages than their career averages. What a statistic. The same goes for Gordon Greenidge who averaged under fifty in his career but average 53 in the fourth innings of a Test Match - who can forget that double hundred at Lord's in 1984? Speaking of double hundreds, Gavaskar played one of the greatest innings of his life in the fourth innings when he scored 221 against England in 1979 and even signed off with another fourth innings masterpiece - 96 against Pakistan in 1987 on a Bangalore wicket on which only one other batsman crossed fifty. greater testament to class and temperament is difficult to find.

In terms of consistency, Ricky Ponting, Mahela Jayawardene and Graeme Smith are pretty awesome - averaging over fifty in the fourth innings of matches and even in their careers (well, Smith is just a bit off 50, but is close enough!). Basically, these players lived up to their figures when it really matters.

...and some very famous feet of clay

However, the most shocking statistic is perhaps the fact that the batsmen considered by many to be the greatest of recent times - Brian Lara, Sachin Tendulkar, Jacques Kallis and Rahul Dravid - average much lower than their career averages when they came out to bat in the fourth innings of the match. Tendulkar who averages around 56 in Tests and is in fact the holder of the record for the most runs ever scored in the fourth innings of a match averages just under 40, and comes sixteenth in the list, below even the likes of Chanderpaul, Dravid, Laxman, Langer and Gooch. No, this is not an indictment of his greatness - scoring runs in the first innings is important as well and the man is unmatched in terms of sheer run scoring - but the stats do tell a story.

Interestingly, the figures also show that in the fourth innings, VVS Laxman is the most likely of all Indian batsmen to live up to his career average - he averages 46 overall and close to 43 in the fourth innings. Dravid averages well below his career average, and although they do not make this list because they did not aggregate a thousand runs in their career, so did Ganguly (37.56), Sehwag (31.04), although Gautam Gambhir's average of 44 in the fourth innings is close to his career figure of 47. Even legends of the recent past seem to have very bad fourth innings records - GR Vishwanath averages 33.40, Dilip Vengsarkar a very lowly 29.19, Mohinder Amarnath a mediocre 34, Mohammad Azharuddin 32.10, and Navjot Singh Sidhu a tad over 22.

All of which might go a long way towards explaining why India have often underperformed in crunch situations, even though they have made some of the most dramatic run chases in Test history. Mind you, this is not a uniquely Indian phenomenon - even batsmen who had a reputation for batting well when the going got tough have very modest records: Steve Waugh and Allan Border both average well below forty on this parameter.

Better than the Don

In fact, even the legendary Sir Don Bradman performed well below his best in the fourth innings. He averaged ONLY 73.40 - which is well above the career averages of anyone having scored more than a thousand runs in Tests. But even he was eclipsed in this department by two relatively lesser-known players - neither South Africa's Bruce Mitchell nor West Indian Jeffrey Stollmeyer averaged close to fifty in their Test careers. But in the fourth innings of matches, Mitchell averaged a Bradmans-que 89, while Stollmeyer averaged 86. Of course, none of these players scored a thousand runs in all in the fourth innings, so did not make the initial list of twenty, but they all topped five hundred runs, so were not exactly one-innings wonders.

All of which just shows how tough batting in the fourth innings can be. Wonder why it is not given more attention - after all, more often than not, it decides the result of a match. And as you can see, it does show up some masters in less than flattering light. It is one thing to pile up runs on a fresh track. Quite another to do so when it is worn and the ball is doing things.

Ask me to choose a cricket team and it is a fair chance that Sachin Tendulkar and Rahul Dravid will be the first names I will put down on the list. But give me a stiff target to chase and I will ask for Graeme Smith and Jayawardene.

An open letter to SRK: Why I won't be seeing Ra.One

2011-11-01T06:59:00.001-07:00

Dear Shah Rukh,

I have been watching you entertain us for decades now, right from the time you did a cameo in "Circus." While I confess I was not too impressed by you as an actor initially, my father, who had a better idea of these matters, told me, "Keep an eye on him. He plays with his voice. He can convey frustration and rage beautifully and gosh, he has a great stutter!"

A stutter! At the time, I laughed at the notion of judging an actor by such a parameter. I mean, to admire clarity of delivery was one thing, but to admire a stutter seemed...loony. Of course, I was wrong, as your "K-K-Kiran.." line in Darr showed. And in film after film, you showed us you could do a lot more than the routine song and dance and bash-up routine that we had stated expecting from our Hindi film heroes. I loved you in films like Yes Boss, Raju Ban Gaya Gentleman, DDLJ and of course, in that classic, Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa. In fact, I think I have watched all your films, even the relatively unsuccessful ones like English Babu Desi Mem, Guddu, and Trimurti.

However, I have not seen your so-called magnum opus, Ra.One, yet. And I will not be doing so.

And no, it is not just because of the film's promotion. While I do understand the need to generate awareness about it, it is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and in this case, that step has been taken. We have been fed a steady diet of Ra.One for the past month, be it in newspapers, on television, on hoardings, on magazines - I half expected you to pop out of an ATM machine and count my cash or narrate my balance! Even this could have been dismissed as over zealous promotion by the marketing side, but what has really got on my nerves is the way in which you yourself have been hurling yourself left, right and centre, singing psalms in praise of the film. I do not mind being asked to see a film, but being TOLD to see it is a different matter. And this is what seemed to be happening.

In spite of all this, I still would have gone to see Ra.One after the initial rush had subsided, but for your remark about some of the reviews of the film having been "silly." As if that were not enough, you went on to point out that LA Times had carried a great review of the film, and that you had shown the film to a number of people from Fox Studios and spoke to the foreign press about the technical aspects of the film.

Call me hyper-sensitive but for me the sub-text of this statement seemed to accuse some sections of the media - or at least those not capable of appreciating Ra.One the way YOU do- of not really knowing what they were seeing or writing about. Yes, you are a superstar and have the right to have your own opinion and express it through a variety of media, all of whom are dying to get your quotes. But reviewers for all their lack of knowledge, have a right to theirs as well. To dismiss them as "silly" and mention others to support your case is unfortunately, not a very honourable thing to do. Better films than Ra.One have suffered at the hands of critics and done well. Do leave the final judgement in the hands of your viewers. If film reviewers know not about the art and nuances of film making, I am sure they know more about film reviewing than most superstars do. And I would back a Rediff film reviewer against one from LA Times any day.

Yes, Ra.One might be a great film. Yes, it might redefine technical expertise in cinema. But I am not going to be seeing it. Seeing it would seem to validate not just your crazed promotion of the film, but might even signify acceptance of your statements about the "silly" reviews and the delight of sections of the media and western studios that you seem to rank so highly.

And THAT I am deuced if I will do. Hope to see you on the silver screen again in the future, though. And more as a damn fine actor - the best of his generation - than a superstar who gets ruffled easily. I have not given up on that stutter yet, you k-k-know.

Apologies and regards,
Nimish

Ka Mate, Ka Mate: Why the Haka is special for me

2011-10-18T11:35:00.000-07:00

It is one of my most prized possessions. An All Blacks jersey. I bought it a couple of years ago at a price that made my mum blanch. And have worn it regularly ever since.

However, it is only now that it has grabbing people's attention ("eyeballs," the media experts would say). I guess it is because the Rugby World Cup is on. It is assumed that I am a huge rugby fan and follow the sport ardently.

Well, that is not exactly true. The fact is: I am an All Blacks fan. Yep, I love the New Zealand rugby team (that's what the All Blacks are, for those who know not). And it is not just for the way they play the sport. But for what they do BEFORE they play it.

Before every rugby match, the All Blacks go through a ritual. They dance the Haka before the opposing team. The Haka is an old Maori war dance and the version that the All Blacks dance is called Ka Mate, Ka Mate. It is a vigorous dance with much slapping of arms and thighs and ends with a jump.

I first saw it when I was less than ten years old. And was surprised to see grown (and hefty) men grimacing, shouting and jumping before a match. When I asked my father what was wrong with them, Papa laughed (he did that, sometimes - too few times, alas), and said, "When they do that, they scare the hell out of whoever is in front of them. It is a declaration of war."

There was no Internet or YouTube at that time and Doordarshan did not often show rugby clips, but I always kept an eye out for the Haka when it did. And watched it carefully. For a very young child, it was oddly inspiring. I could never make out the lyrics, but I knew that at some stage they shouted "Ka Mate, Ka Mate, Ka Ora Ka Ora" (loosely translated as "I live, I live; I die, I die.")

One night a few years later, as I walking home from the library at about eight in the night, the lights went out. Suddenly, it was pitch dark. It was drizzling, there was a touch of lightning in the air, and I was terrified as the short cut I had taken home was dark and empty. I was sure I could hear strange rustlings in the grass. And I was confident (the effect of far too much Bram Stoker and horror films) that a ghost would jump out at me from the dark.

Fear can make one do strange things. It makes people run. Walk faster. Stumble. Tremble. It made this kid do what was perhaps the worst rendition of the Haka EVER. The lyrics were garbled, the movements clumsy, even hilarious, but a minute later, he was walking through the dark, with considerably less fear. He got home, and was given a thorough scolding by his mum for getting wet.

He grinned.

Ever since, the Haka has stayed with me. I did dance it once, reasonably, with some of my friends, to considerable applause and laughter from very bemused spectators. But for the most part, it lurks in the back of my mind. When the going gets tough, I often find myself muttering the words (dancing to them would get me in a loony bin, I reckon), and feeling a whole lot better afterwards - it is almost as if I have declared war on my worries, and put them on the backfoot.

No, things do not always get better. Just like the All Blacks do not always win. But surely banishing fear and worry counts for something?

Which is why that jersey is special for me. The All Blacks have a great history in rugby. They have won the World Cup.

But for me, they are the team that danced the Haka - and helped a young boy banish fear for a while.

The lights still often go out when it rains. And I swear that sometimes I can see this stocky little kid stumbling around in the dark, trying to leap in the air, slapping his legs, and muttering "Ka Mate, Ka Mate; Ka Ora, Ka Ora," trying to defy demons that existed only in his mind. I also think of his grown up version who mutters the same words and then squares his shoulders and gets back to work a little braver than before.

And I still grin.

Achieving a lifetime's goal...and not being too happy

2011-10-09T09:50:00.000-07:00

We all have some special goals in our lives. They generally revolve around doing something that we think is special - you know, scoring a century, representing one's country, discovering something, making a particular journey, and a whole lot else. Well, I have a few in that list.

Writing an article in a mainline publication about Steve Jobs was one of them. You see, the man was one of my heroes. I idolised him the same way I idolised Lawrence of Arabia or Anita Roddick - he was a person who went against the mainstream, was unorthodox and yet succeeded. Yes, writing about him would be an honour.

Today, that goal was achieved, when Page 19 of the Delhi edition of The Sunday Times carried my story on the man "Good Jobs, bad Jobs" detailing his hits and misses in a glittering career. The editors did a very good job with my humble prose, and the designers laid it out very well. Most people who have read it seem to have liked it, especially because it was not a one-sided eulogy but also showed that Jobs made mistakes too.

It is a story about Steve Jobs. It is in a mainline newspaper. It has been appreciated by my readers. That should make it "goal accomplished," should it not? It should make me want to scream in triumph and run around painting the town red, should it not?

Well, while the article itself has given me immense satisfaction, the goal achievement feeling has not really come into it. And I think it never will. Arthur Mailey perhaps felt something similar when he dismissed his boyhood idol, Victor Trumper in a cricket match. "There was no triumph in me," he wrote so memorably. "I felt like a boy who had killed a dove."

Almost twenty five years ago, Scotland had needed a draw to qualify for the 1986 World Cup in Mexico. They achieved it but the stress was too much for their manager, the legendary Jock Stein, who collapsed on the touchline and never rose. Even though they had qualified for the World Cup, no Scot celebrated. "Take your bloody World Cup. Give us back the Fat Man," screamed a distraught fan. "It is naethin' without him!"

I think I know how that fan felt. If writing about Jobs was my goal, I certainly achieved it. I had written my article on one of my idols. But my idol is dead.

That does not make the article less important. It will always have a very special place in my heart. But it certainly does put a lifetime's goal in perspective. I have gained a byline. I have lost a person I admired immensely. I wish it had been the other way around.

Perhaps I need to build some clauses and conditions in those goals of a lifetime that I have. Like: "writing about Steve Jobs when he could have read it." Because goals in themselves are nothing unless you can share the joy you feel in achieving with certain people. Satisfaction can be individual, happiness is almost always a shared sentiment.

Rest in Peace, Steve. It has been an honour writing about you.

And if they have given you wireless access Up There, do check out my story at http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/tech/news/hardware/Good-Jobs-bad-Jobs/articleshow/10284862.cms

Stop all the iPods, switch off the iPhones

2011-10-06T11:48:00.000-07:00

Stop all the iPods, switch off the iPhones,
Turn off the Macs, lay iPads on their faces prone,
Silence the fan boys, shut out the Droid knaves,
Be silent! A legend goes to his grave.

On social networks and websites let it be said,
Through tweet, through status update, through mail: He Is Dead,
Make black turtlenecks and faded jeans the uniform of the day,
Who cares for fashion? HE dressed this way.

He was our North, our South, our East, our West
He gave us products that worked, and made us forget about specs
He defied convention and cancer, and He seemed so strong,
That we felt He would defy death - we now know we were wrong.

The keynotes are meaningless now, let's cancel every one
For no product presentation will be quite as much fun.
So clear off the stage, and down the curtains bring,
For He will no longer be there to say “And one more thing.”

(Inspired by WH Auden's memorable "Stop all the clocks, Cut off the telephone.")

I have committed "professional suicide"...and I feel fine!

2011-09-30T01:11:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I did something that I have been told was one of the most foolish I have ever done since I started working way back in 1996.

I decided to walk away from a massive brand that I had been associated with for a while. It had been a lengthy relationship but things had got pretty bad of late - as inevitably happens in any relationship when one of the parties starts acting as God and expects worship rather than friendship. And as words like "baby-sitter" and "proxy war" began to be uttered, and I was told to compromise on issues I felt strongly about, I felt I had had enough and stepped away.

It was a sad day for me. It always is, when you break an association that has been dear to you.

But it evidently was even a sadder day for many of my friends and acquaintances.

As news got around that I would no longer be associated with that particular brand, I began to get calls, messages and mails galore. Some supported me. Some wanted to know what happened.

Most told me that I was an ass and had committed "professional suicide."

Some of these even offered to negotiate on my behalf as "all is not lost yet. Just grovel a bit and you will be fine."

While I was moved by their concern, I honestly did not know what the fuss was about. I had stepped away from a place when I disagreed on matters that mattered to me. It was not as if the world had ended. I still had, the Lord be praised, plenty to do. But to many people, I had literally ended my career. "You cannot be sentimental in these things," "Your principles and values don't sign your cheque," and "You must learn to compromise," were just some of the pearls of wisdom that came my way. I was also told that people would stop paying attention to me now that I was no longer associated with that particular brand. "Koi poochega bhi nahin," as one worthy told me.

I am sure that they did not mean to do so, but everything they said only further assured me about my decision. After all, if everything I did in my career was to depend on a single brand or name, it would be a sad career. And if people stopped paying attention to me now, it would not really matter - after all, even in the past they would have been paying attention to the brand they associated me with, rather than me as a person.

No my principles and values do not sign my cheques. But they do something far more important - they let me look at myself in the mirror and not feel ashamed (well, apart from the need to lose some weight, really). They have won me friends who like me for who I am, and not what or whom I represent. And those are far more important than any cheque of any value.
So, for those who think I have committed "professional suicide" by my decision to move away from a particular brand, well, here's a simple message:

Perhaps, as per your definition, I have committed professional suicide. But thanks to it, I no longer have to interact with a set of people who think that the world would be a better place without Yours Truly. I do not have to check my back and see if someone is trying to stick an ever-so-professional dagger into it. I do not have to be associated with people who put their personal agendas above their concern for the readers' right to know, thus discrediting the very institution they claim to represent.

More importantly, the sun is still shining outside. The world is still turning. There are still people who trust and respect me as a professional. My friends - the ones who matter - still smile when they see me and are always ready for a chat and a cup of coffee. My cat still purrs when I gently stroke her neck. My mum still thinks I am the most amazing person in the world. My wife loves me more than ever.

And last but not least, I still am whom I am. What I represent and believe in is intact - and that is much more than any brand or institution. I would prefer people saying "That is Nimish Dubey," than "That is Nimish Dubey, who writes for /works for --- (brandname)."

If all this happens after professional suicide, I recommend it thoroughly.

Really appreciate your concern, fellas, but please don't worry about me, fellas. To quote Mr Spock in Stark Trek:

I feel fine.

The Kindle Fire is here, but I would rather go for a Reliance Tab

2011-09-29T01:04:00.000-07:00

The tech wires have been buzzing about the Kindle Fire tablet ever since Amazon revealed it last night. Yes, I love the $199 price tag, but nah, am not going to try to get one. Simply because a better alternative already exists in the country - the Reliance 3G Tab. Nope, have not flipped my lid, really - you can read my rationale at OnlyGizmos.com in my story "Bluntly speaking: for India, the Reliance 3G Tab is better than the Kindle Fire…as of now!"

Yep, I mean it. Incidentally, I love the Kindle Touch 3G a whole lot more than the Fire. E-ink with multi-touch, lifetime free 3G, and battery life that's around a month - waiting to be able to order it from India.

Film review: Johnny English Reborn

2011-09-24T14:48:00.000-07:00

Sequels are tricky things. Especially when the first film has got a fair bit of attention. A benchmark has been set. The audience expects more of the same, only better, from the second film.

So I entered the theatre to watch Johnny English Reborn with a fair bit of trepidation. The first film had not done too badly at the box office, but had been ripped apart by the critics, who called it nothing more than a couple of hours of buffoonery and cheap jokes. Truth be told, I rather liked the film - in such depressing times, it is a pleasure to be able to laugh out loud in a theatre. And Johnny English certainly did that. The gags might not have been the most sophisticated in the world, but they did make one laugh. I ask nothing more from most films.

I certainly did not expect more from Johnny English's sequel, Johnny English Reborn. As the lights dimmed in an empty cinema hall, a few laughs was all I hoped for. What I feared was seeing Mr Bean as a caricature of Mr Bond. Spoofing is an art. It is all too easy to go overboard when you have a person with the rubbery countenance and comic ability of Rowan Atkinson.

Two hours later, as the credits rolled on the screen, I found myself smiling warmly. Johnny English Reborn had achieved what most sequels start out to achieve - it had improved on the first film. What's more, it had added a veneer of class to the buffoon that was English in the first film. He is not the routine bumbler here, but a discredited agent who has been given a chance to regain his lost glory. Yes, he is not the most efficient person around. Yes, he blunders about. But he is not the arrogant, pompous buffoon of the first film. He is just a man making mistakes. But trying his best. And seems oddly, likeably vulnerable.

A dramatic chase in the beginning of the film encapsulates its essence. A criminal is attempting a spectacular getaway by climbing down a building. The English of the first film would have followed him down the same path and tumbled comically, emitting hideous groans and producing facial distortions galore. Johnny English Reborn takes a look at the man, walks away. And takes a lift to the ground floor. This is a different Johnny English. His face still twitches strangely, especially when reminded of the mission that discredited him in Mozambique. And he does manage to get things terribly wrong. But somehow, this time he seems less like an idiot. And you almost feel sad for him when he remarks about a lady "Out of my league."

The plot is decent enough. Johnny English who had been kicked out of the British Secret Service is recalled from a monastery in Tibet (where he has been learning martial arts in a manner most amusing), to save the Chinese Premier from an assassination plot. He comes back to a changed country, a nation in which Toshiba sponsors the Secret Service, and where his new boss (Gillian Anderson in a very underplayed role) makes it clear that he is not her favorite person. He has a new sidekick, new gadgets (there is a welcome appearance from Tim McInnerny, who was part of Black Adder, the TV series that made Atkinson famous, as the gadget specialist), and a new love interest. No, we do not have a villain of the class of the inimitable John Walkovich in the first film, but he is not really needed. For the plot twists and turns around, and there are moments of genuine tension in the film, not least when English finds himself in the dark with a killer. But right through the film, one keeps getting gentle doses of humour - there are outrageous stunts, and yes, some of the gags are not exactly high class, but the film keeps moving and you will find yourself getting entertained more often than not. Right down to the climax.

Johnny English Reborn will not crack you up with laughter all the time. But it will make you smile right through its one hour forty minute duration. And often do so gently.

Johnny English Reborn is not Mr Bean as Bond. It is not even the original Agent English we saw in the first film.

It is Nigel Small-Fawcett of Never Say Never Again. It is Father Gerald of Four Weddings and a Funeral. It is Walter Goodfellow of Keeping Mum.

It is a good man. With the best intentions in the world. Who makes mistakes. You laugh at the mistakes. But not at the man. For his intentions are good.

Forget what the critics say, watch Johnny English Reborn if you love Rowan Atkinson. And seek nothing more from a film than a stack of smiles and the odd burst of laughter.

Johnny English has indeed been Reborn. And he is all the better for it.

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright...

2011-09-22T20:28:00.000-07:00

Lies, damned lies, and statistics.

A former British Prime Minister put all those three in the same category. And when it comes to Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi (Jr.), I am inclined to be of the same view. I remember first seeing "Tiger", as he was affectionately called, when I was a child and saw his picture in an editorial in Sportsworld magazine. I asked my father, who was quite a cricket follower, about who he was. His answer was simple, "He was the greatest captain India ever had. And an amazing batsman too." Thoroughly impressed, I rushed to my Wisden Cricketers' Almanack and rummaged through his career figures. Only to be thoroughly disheartened - the man had won just nine of the forty Tests in which he captained India, and averaged below 35 with the bat in both Test and first-class cricket. Greatest captain? Amazing batsman? I must admit that my reaction was one of cynicism - typical of papa to rate the cricketers of his time above those of mine (Gavaskar who averaged above fifty with the bat was my favourite at that time!)

Oh how little I knew.

It was not until I read Mihir Bose's History of Indian Cricket that the importance of the man they called Tiger hit me. Considered one of the most promising batsmen of his time, he had partially lost vision in one eye after a car accident when he was just twenty. It would have made lesser men give up the game, especially at a time when there were no helmets and protective gear was primitive rather than professional. Not this man. He carried on playing and if his batting did lose some of its consistency, it lost nothing of its flair. At a time when Indian batsmen were considered steady rather than spectacular performers, this one-eyed danced down the track to pace bowlers and square cut them through cover.

"The people in this country have not seen the ball being hit over the boundary," he is said to have remarked to another batsman during an innings. "Let us show them how it is done." And then he proceeded to do just that - clouting the ball into the stands almost at will. Indian crowds had indeed seen nothing like it. And adversity seemed to bring the best out of him. There was a match against England at Headingley in 1967 where he was virtually left on one foot, so badly injured was he, but he conjured a pair of such mighty innings (67 and 148) that people were left breathless. "This was the day the one-eyed man was king," wrote a British journalist. "Nawab of Headingley" read the front page of a newspaper.

He brought the same flair to his captaincy, transforming India from a defensive team to an attacking one. No, it did not work all the time, but it did change the mindset of the world about a country that had the same standing in world cricket at that time as Bangladesh has today - a team with some competitive players which was more likely to lose than draw a match. Forget about winning it. Tiger changed all that. He attacked with three spinners, sometimes even four. And the batting suddenly had people who took the attack to the opposition instead of grinding it down, as in the past. We had cavaliers like Farokh Engineer and Bishen Singh Bedi, who knew just one way to play cricket - attack, attack, attack. It did not always result in victory - but it produced spectacular cricket and brought the spectators to the ground in droves. Yes, he did lead India to its first overseas Test series victory, but it was the way teams under him played that mattered.

He was perhaps India's first captain who was not the best player in his team, but made a difference by his sense of strategy. Even when he was past his best as a player, he made a dramatic return to the Indian captaincy against Clive Lloyd's mighty West Indian side in the mid seventies. His batting was nothing much to talk about, and he batted way down the order, behind the likes of Gavaskar and Vishwanath, but he still managed to do what no Indian team had - win two Test Matches in a series against the West Indies. India lost the series 3-2, but there was no dishonour in defeat.

For me, that will always be Tiger's greatest contribution of all. Yes, there were the great innings and fantastic Test wins. But most importantly, he made sure the opposition respected India. Under him, India went from a team that turned up to play Test Matches to a team that tried to win. And all this was achieved in a manner that was utterly dignified - there was none of the abusive aggression that marked the Aussie rise in the seventies, or the defence-first mentality of English cricket. Or even the bare chested, shirt waving abuse from a later Indian captain from the Lord's balcony. No, if there was anything, it was the flair and charm of the West Indies under Garfield Sobers and Frank Worrell.

The game was there to be played and enjoyed. Not just to be won.

Tiger was perhaps India's first cricket superstar. He was at ease in any gathering, witty in press conferences, and most importantly, never intimidated. You was just as comfortable chattering to a Prime Minister as he was with Bollywood celebrities (he married one and sired two). And even in his declining years, he was impeccably mannered - he once held open a door to let a lady pass at the British Council Library in 2005, even as her son unashamedly gawked at him. The lady was my mum.

Figures cannot even come close to giving you an idea of such a person. You cannot always judge a player by his averages. Or a captain by the number of matches he wins.

Lies, damned lies and statistics. Tiger rose above them all.

Which is why he will always shine brightly for me. Rest in peace, sir. And thank you for the cricket.

Dear PR Professional...

2011-09-19T13:03:00.000-07:00

Dear PR Professional,

Whether you are part of an agency representing a company or part of the corporate communications department of an organisation, I always find it a pleasure talking to you, provided I am not tied up in something that merits more attention at that time. This puzzles some people who often end up asking why I do not simply ask you to send me a briefing note via mail or text. Why do I always end up taking calls that sometimes last several minutes, even when there is very little chance of my using the information provided?

You see, I have been where you are.

I have taken briefs from clients who wanted nothing but front page coverage in every publication on earth (fortunately, websites were not that popular then). I have gone to meetings carrying clippings of coverage of an event with happiness in my heart, only to be told about which publications and channels had not covered the event. I have been screamed at by managers, by clients, who seemed convinced I had not tried my best.

I have also had a number of interactions with mediapersons. Some were kind and understanding and heard me through. Some asked me to "dump the release, get out." But worst of all, most were indifferent, treating me as if I was a pesky mosquito whose buzzing meant nothing but could not be got rid of. Of all the things I had to endure in my job this was the worst of all. Simply because it reduced meto something worse than nothingness - something that could not be cured and had to be endured.

I cannot control the folks you report to. Or your clients. What I can ensure is that when you speak to me, you will never - NEVER - feel negligible. I will tell you honestly if what you are pitching is of any use to me or not.

What I will never do is cut you in mid-sentence, hang up on you, make you wait for hours in a corridor, or simply tell you to dump a release and get out.

Yes, some of your pitches may annoy me by their persistence. But heck, I know you are doing your job and not trying to be a pain to me personally. I reckon there's someone out there pushing you. Even if someone is not and you are just the pushy and aggressive type (and I know a lot of you are), I am going to try to hear you out. And then perhaps ask you to relax and turn down the hype. Come on, I have that right, don't I?

Because it is not just having been in your shoes. It is not just about having worked in PR.

It is about being human.

It is about ensuring that you know that you matter to me. Your pitch might not make it to my story or to any publication I write for. You might irritate me endlessly with your chit-chat.

But you are doing a job. And as a professional, I respect that. I might not agree with you, but the least I can do is hear it out. If I do not have time, I will tell you so. And try to get back. It is the least I can do. I will not demand exclusive attention - that is your call. All I ask of you is to understand and respect my limitations in terms of time and ability.

As a human being, I acknowledge you have as much right to being on this planet as I have. That someone up there made you with a lot of care. That you are trying your best. No one can ask for more.

To me, you will always matter.

Keep calling. If I can, I will answer.

Test cricket gets its knight back!

2011-09-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

Rahul Dravid called it a day yesterday. Well, in international one day cricket at least. And what we have seen subsequently is an outpouring of grief that would do justice to the permanent popping-off of some very notable people. A number of people told us what they were doing at different times during different innings by Dravid, and the word "the Wall" has hurled around so many times that you would have been forgiven for believing that the Internet finally had got a bricks and mortar element to it.

But I was actually happy to see the last of him in India's ODI jersey.

For, truth be told, I have never really been a big fan of the shorter version of the game. It seems designed to reward pinch hitters and improvisers whose occasional flashes of brilliance seem to matter more than a consistent performance by less flashy customers. How can you respect a format in which the likes of Laxman and Dravid are considered surplus to requirements? A format in which a 20 off 10 deliveries is considered better than a 50 off 60?

Which is why I am not too sad at Dravid retiring from ODIs. Even in his final innings, a very-well compiled 69, one could hear commentators grumbling about his rate of scoring, one even going as far as to say that century maker Virat Kohli's brisk rate of scoring had "taken the pressure off Dravid." As someone who has seen Dravid for his entire career, it was mortifying.

Just as mortifying as it was to see him being called unsuitable for a format of a game for which he had done everything his team asked of him - from batting in weird batting positions to keeping wicket. A format in which he averaged more than most of those who were considered better than him. Yuvraj Singh averages 37.62 in 274 matches, Suresh Raina averages 35.21 in 125 matches, and even the mighty Sehwag averages 35.21 in 236 matches.

Dravid averaged 39.16 in 344 matches.

Yes, it was often at a much slower rate than these gentlemen. But ask any neutral observer who would they rather have in an ODI team, and I have a feeling that the Wall would win out eight times out of ten. Simply on sheer weight of runs, the ability to play any kind of attack in any conditions, and for being so bloody consistent.

And yet, he was dropped time and again from the Indian ODI Team, with rationale that ranged from being too old to being too rigid in terms of technique. It was laughable and a sham at best. Even when he played, he always seemed to be on test, with people harrumphing about how he was not scoring fast enough. He played his heart out in the 1999, 2003 and 2007 World Cups, and was not considered good enough to make the team in the 2011 edition of the tournament.

Of course, he never complained. That is not his way. At the cost of sounding like an ESPN-STAR commentator on a BCCI payroll, he let his bat do the talking. The problem was that when it came to ODIs, none of the selectors listened. You would have thought ten thousand ODI runs at an average of nearly forty at a strike rate a touch over seventy would have been enough to convince most people that he could bat in ODIs. Sadly, it often was not.

Which is I why celebrated much more at his decision to quit ODI cricket than on the news of his recall to the Indian ODI team.

For, with his patience, elegance and impeccable temperament, he personifies Test cricket like few cricketers have. He does not need to keep proving his worth in a format of the game that does not respect his ilk. He is like a classic work that you can read again and again, each time discovering new meanings, not a thriller that you read once for the sake of getting a few tingles up your spine and then forget. He is a vintage wine to be savoured, not a can of Coke to be swigged and discarded.

Yes, he will never be a Sehwag or a Yuveraj.

He does not need to be.

In his own quiet, imperceptible way, he is every bit as good, if not better.

One day cricket has a lost a man in blue.

But Test cricket has got its white knight back.

Which is why I am not mourning.

The "Big Brand, Great Job" Myth

2011-09-14T12:20:00.000-07:00

This morning, I placed a statement on my Facebook page, stating that, in my opinion most humble, those who were in a job just because they wanted to be associated with a "big brand" should resign, as they themselves were more important than any brand they worked with. I have received a fair number of calls and messages asking me if working for a "big brand" indeed did not matter.

Well, my stance is that in matters of jobs, it often does not.

I know this will shock and outrage a lot of people, but my rationale is simple - most big brands get famous not because they are great places to work in, but because of what they serve up to their consumers. A company which is very good at making computers might actually not be that great a place to work in. A company or an institution might be great at developing and handling products and services, but when you join it, you need to wonder how well it treats its own people.

More often than not, the bigger the brand, the more likely are you likely to come across a place full of people who think that they have made it big simply by being where they are. Where the corporate culture is likely to be entwined in a bureaucracy that refuses to change and where process seems to matter more than people. You can't blame them for being like that - it has worked for them and their consumers, if not really for all their staff. And well, to be brutal, unless you are some kind of uber wizkid (which most of us, including Yours Truly, are certainly not), they are not going to miss you if you leave - there are so many people wanting to get in, lured by the "big brand" aura.

Do not get me wrong - there are a number of brands that are great at serving their consumers as well as caring for their own flock (Google and Apple spring to mind). But alas, there is no rule that says that a company that is high-profile will be a good place to work in. It is the job-seeker that makes these brands big in the job market by trying his or her best to get into them - to be a part, not of a happy team, but a team that is great at making something that many people like. In short, many people apply not for a happy job but a place in what they think is a successful (and not necessarily happy) team. What they forget is that most brands do not get big because of the way they treat their staff but because of what they produce.

But that is not the worst part. What is REALLY bad is that when people do manage to get into these places and find out that they are not exactly heavenly to work in, they stick on instead of leaving. Because they do not want to lose out on a "big brand." They lead stressed lives, are often paid poorly and made to feel awful about themselves but well, the magnetism of the "big brand" holds them back from moving to another job. When they DO decide to move, it is often to another "big brand." And equally as often, to more of the same problems.

Big brands might have resume value, but in real human terms, are often nothing more than mirages. At the end of the day, what makes a job special is the people in it, not the products they make. My advice if you are looking for a job is simple - trust the people, forget the brand.

You are a person, after all. Not a product or service. And if you want to see a really great brand, one which is the only one of its type and impossible to replicate, go and stare at the mirror.

Why I love Owen Wilson

2011-09-13T13:01:00.000-07:00

He ain't the greatest actor around. In fact compared to the other actors I love - Brando, O'Toole, de Niro, Al Pacino, Depp - he is hardly an actor at all. But for some reason, I love Owen Wilson. I have seen him use the same expressions, the same toothy grin and virtually the same tone in dozens of films now. From the happy go lucky cowboy in Shanghai Noon and Shanghai Noon to the heroic fighter pilot in Behind Enemy Lines to the skirt chaser in The Wedding Crashers to the dog-loving writer in Marley And Me. The critics say that if you have seen Owen Wilson in one film, you have seen him in all. The mannerisms are the same. They do not change.

Which is why we are told he is not a great actor. No versatility. Just the same thing again and again.

And yet I like him. Strange, eh?

Tonight while I watched him in The Wedding Crashers. Watched the same expressions, the same tones, the same mannerisms for the nth time . And I wondered again why I liked him. And I think I figured it out.

No, he is not a great actor. And while he does look pleasant, he is not exactly a stunner by most standards. He is not a stunt wizkid by any standard either.

What he is, is like this big puppy - pleasant and seemingly full of goodwill.

Puppies can't act either. That's why we love them - they don't act. They are sincere. And so I feel is Owen Wilson. He does not seem to act. May be he does not know how to. Maybe those mannerisms and expressions are all he knows. Which is why he does them again and again. He is just being himself. He is standing on that big screen, giving all he has. It ain't much, but it is his all. And that is a sort of silver screen sincerity that is rare to see.

But I know exactly what I will get in an Owen Wilson film. And I know that for once I will not be admiring a character rendered by an actor but the actor himself. Because he cannot be anything else. That is enduring. And endearing.

And THAT is why I love Owen Wilson.

Film review: Bodyguard

2011-08-31T09:53:00.000-07:00

Not too many people realise it, but the fact is that Salman Khan CAN act.

Well, I confess that for a while I thought he could not. He seemed so monotonous in his earlier films (Maine Pyar Kiya, Sanam Bewafa, etc.) that I had for a while dismissed him as someone whose fresh looks were getting the teenybopper crowd excited. But you see, the guy can act, as I have discovered in films like Andaaz Apna Apna, Wanted, and my personal favourite, Dabangg. Yes, he is no Nasiruddin Shah in terms of versatility and delivery, but give him the right role and the right lines, and he can do it as well and sometimes better than anyone else in tinsel town. Even in the relatively daft Ready, he was a breath of fresh air, holding the film together single-handedly with his mix of humour and action.

Which is why I am so annoyed with Bodyguard.

No, I did not expect a spell-binding film. The trailers showed up the plot well enough - a bodyguard who falls in love with the person whose body he is guarding! Fair enough, I expected routine masala fare, with Salman getting to do his normal comedy-action routine with the odd touch of drama thrown in. And of course the special dance steps.

As for the plot, well, the "bodyguard falls in love with the body (well, actually voice) of the one he's guarding" line is pretty much it. Yes, Salman does get to beat up lots of baddies (including Aditya Panscholi and Mahesh Manjarekar, of both of whom I wish we had seen more). Yes, he does do a few fancy steps.

...and that is about it.

In terms of acting, Bodyguard is actually Kareena Kapoor's movie. She gets most of the emoting and although I did not count, I suspect actually got more lines than Salman. And she does a darned good job, credit to her, switching between a petulant college student who does not want a fussy bodyguard around her, and a mysterious voice on the phone (her sister's actually) that breaks down Lovely Singh (aye, that be Salman's screen name) emotional walls. The problem is that Salman is reduced, for most of the film, to being a puppet who meekly talks to "madam" and keeps saying "Bodyguard, ji." It is robotic, it is irritating. It is a waste of an actor who could do so much more and who is actually the central part of the film. Heck, even Raj Babbar (who is the high profile fella whose daughter be Kareena) gets to do more in terms of expression and delivery.

Salman does his bit in fisticuffs and action (there is an amazing sequence in an ancient monument where he really takes on all comers with some great stunts), but to those who had seen Ready and Dabangg, this is like getting two courses of a meal, neither of which is the main one. It is only late in the second half that he pulls a rabbit out of his hat, waiting with nervous skittishness for the girl he loves, and trying to explain what he feels for her. It is ten minutes of sheer effortless brilliance, showing us just what we had missed. Otherwise for comedy, we have a ghastly twosome, an obese person and a midget, both of whom make tasteless jokes all the time that actually have little to do with the plot. Come to think of it, the two characters have nothing to do with the plot either. The crowd laughed at their gags (including Mr Overweight being dressed as a girl and then getting stripped!), so I guess they liked it. But I was wincing every time I heard one.

The director tries to add an element of suspense by throwing a twist towards the end of the film that defies logic, but in spite of that, Bodyguard rarely rises above the ordinary. Kareena does very well. All the BlackBerry handsets on the sets seem to work. Salman looks handsome as hell in a black suit and shades. And yes, the crowd erupts when his shirt gets blown off by a jet of water...

But he hardly gets to do any real acting. And that is what lets Bodyguard down. It reduces one of Bollywood's most charismatic heroes to little more than a stunt and dance act for most of its duration. Yes, it does entertain occasionally and I am still smiling at the innocence with which Salman sometimes says, "Bodyguard, ma'm." But it is not enough. Salman fans and followers will love the film nevertheless. But I honestly felt just a bit cheated. Lovely Singh alas, is not Chulbul Pandey, be it in terms of accent, mannerisms or just plain attitude.

As I said, the fact is that Salman Khan CAN act.

In Bodyguard, he does not. Not enough, anyway.

'Nuff said.

My idol just died!

2011-08-08T09:28:00.000-07:00

Every person has a childhood idol. Someone they think are capable of doing anything. Someone he or she will defend against all odds, friends and logic. For me, it was Sunil Manohar Gavaskar. It would be easy for me to say that I mainly admired his batting. The truth is that I liked EVERYTHING about him - the immaculate whites in which he turned out, his manner of speaking his mind and taking on authority, his refusal to bow down to convention, and of course, that amazingly flawless technique at the crease. Even when he did things I myself did not agree with, such as cocking a snook at Lord's and the MCC, I still felt obliged to defend his point of view.

I defended him when they labelled him selfish after a ghastly innings of 90-odd in a WSC match in 1985-86 in Australia, when he batted about apparent urgency even when India were chasing a stiff target. I defended him when abuse was hurled at him from a number of quarters for the sacking of Kapil Dev for the Calcutta Test against England in 1984-85 for allegedly playing a reckless shot. I defended him when everyone screamed at him for being unpatriotic and refusing to play at Calcutta against Pakistan in 1986-87 because the crowd had been less than pleasant to him. I stubbornly believe to this day that I was one of the few people who did not burst out laughing when Gavaskar was portrayed as a superhero (Sunny the Supersleuth, no less) in a comic strip. Heck, I even defended him when some of his utterances in the media seemed to go against the very spirit of the game he played with so much distinction.

You see, he was my hero. Sunil Manohar Gavaskar. He could do no wrong. I could tell you all his records verbatim, mimic the way he walked out to bat and marked his guard...he was my Superman and Role Model rolled into one.

At least he was. Until a couple of days ago.

My first reaction when I heard that Gavaskar and Ravi Shastri were on the BCCI's payroll was one of disbelief. I had suspected Shastri of being a bit of an establishment person (heck, anyone who calls Lalit Modi the Moses of cricket will have a suspect credibility in my opinion ever so humble), but Gavaskar...the thought had not even entered my head. The man had always been known to be outspoken. One might not have agreed with him, but one did not suspect he was being paid to say (or as it seems, not say) something. I would have still defended him. I would have said that just because he was being paid by the BCCI did not mean he was dishonest. That he was a legend in the game and would not be pushed around by an organisation.

I would have defended him had I not read HIS own defence of what he had done, pointing a finger at his questioners in the media. "There’s a conflict of interest in everything in life. If your editor doesn’t agree with a story you want, what do you do? You drop it, right?" he said in a interview in Outlook magazine. But the killer statement was his request to people to remember that "that achievers, like them, also have two eyes, two hands—and a stomach (to feed)!"

Coming from a man who is being paid close to Rs 1 lakh a day for commentary and is on a 3.6 crore rupee annual contract with the BCCI, this was rich. Pun intended. We need to remember that Sunil Gavaskar is a great player and a role model, but hey, he has a stomach to feed. And you know how much it takes to fill that stomach - Rs 3.6 crores a year. Whatever Gavaskar has been known to lack, it certainly was not money. In fact, for most of his career, the one accusation that was never too far away from him was the fact that he was playing mainly for himself and the money he would get. I had never believed it. This was a man who talked about the dignity of wearing an Indian cap and how his uncle had told him to earn an Indian pullover when he asked him for it.

And now he was telling me that he needed Rs 3.6 crore rupees every year (a sum most people struggle to earn in their professional careers to earn in India - a country in which most people struggle to make a living) because he too had a stomach to feed. Role models with such mighty appetites are difficult to follow. And unaffordable.

I have been betrayed by friends and relatives, but to be let down by a person one has idolised and looked up to for almost three decades is as bad as any of those experiences. Even worse in some ways. I can make new friends. Relatives inevitably come around or go away. But one cannot get new role models. Or Supermen.

As I keep saying, we make idols of snow. And weep to see them melt.

How true. Mine just melted.

And there is something liquid and salty in mine eyes.

Three thousand of the happiest words of my life

2011-07-15T12:34:00.000-07:00

Words. My life has been full of them. I read them when I was really young. I still do, although I wish I did more. And know I make a living writing them. I am often asked to submit my bill for my work based on the word - a certain amount per word is more often than not the rate.

Well, July 14 was a special day for me. It was my birthday. And it was also the day when I wrote three thousand of the happiest words in my life. And no, I did not get paid for a single one of them - not in monetary terms anyway.

It all started at midnight on July 14. I logged into Facebook for one last time before turning in and was surprised to see people wishing me a very happy birthday already. I sat down and typed in a few responses, thanking them for remembering me. Mum and Anupama gave me blessings and hugs and I turned in for the night, feeling delighted. My birthday had begun already.

I woke up at around 3:20 AM, feeling a bit thirsty. I poured myself a glass of water, and out of pure habit, checked my phone. And found myself staring at still more greetings. I stole into bed as quietly as possible, and once again typed in my thanks to those who had been kind enough to remember me at that hour.

Morning tea came at seven, and sure enough, there were still more greetings on Facebook. Close friends, relatives, and even people I had not heard from for days and months, were wishing me a happy birthday. It was amazing and the least I could do was to thank them all. So I started typing out responses to each of the senders, thanking them. By now, I was trying hard not to repeat myself - yes, one had to say "thanks" but just saying that would not be enough - what a shameful way to thank someone who remembered your date of birth and wished you well. So I kept trying to remember what the sender had liked or something they would be interested in, and adding that.

The greetings kept flowing in throughout the day - right through my annual books/CD/Games shopping session. Whether I was at a shop poring over books, checking out CDs at MusicLand, waiting for lunch, or just plain strolling around - there inevitably came a moment when I checked my Facebook account. Hoping for more greetings. Getting them. And writing out responses. By now, Anu was resigned to smiling helplessly at the sight of me typing away responses irrespective of where I was. Yes, I could have simply said a "thank you, all" at the end of the day, but somehow that did not seem RIGHT. A person had taken time out to send me good wishes and wish me a happy birthday. It seemed only fair that I respond to them individually.

And so it continued right throughout the day, right till midnight. And then even the day after - as some people had either got my date of birth wrong by a day or were simply apologising for being late. And again, I wrote back to each of them, thanking them for their goodwill and wishes. Anu was by my side throughout(as ever) and I am sure she must have felt more than a bit ignored sometimes as I pounded away at the keys of my handsets, posting replies to greetings. But when I did look up at her guiltily from time to time, she just smiled, patted my arm and told me to keep going. Her logic, as always, was flawless: "They have made you feel special. It is only fair you thank them for it."

It was crazy. It was hectic. And I enjoyed every minute of it. I got more than a hundred and fifty birthday greetings on Facebook and tried to respond to each one of them. By the afternoon of the 15th, I had written almost three thousand words. And had not got paid for a single one of them. It was not the best writing I had done - the term "thanks," "Thanks a megatonne," "Really appreciate this" and a few others were repeated so many times that editors would have sprained facial muscles wincing.

But writing them had given me as much, if not more, pleasure than all the shopping and gifts that I got. They represented my often inadequate attempt to tell each person who wished me a happy birthday: "Hey, you made my day. You matter to me." It was my attempt at draping a verbal arm around everyone who reached out to me. I do not know if I succeeded but I do know that I have seldom been happier writing.

Words. I make my living off them. And on this birthday, they made my day. So it is kind of ironical that I am going to be signing off by doing just what I avoided on my birthday - thanking every one in a single message. And using the one word that I used most often among the more than three thousand I wrote over the past couple of days. It is inadequate, I know, but there it is:

"Thanks."

If you cannot inspire, do NOT lead!

2011-06-06T08:19:00.000-07:00

What is it that makes leaders special? There are dozens of management and self-improvement tomes out there attempting to distill the magic potion of leadership for people. Leaders are supposed to be different because they have special qualities, which range from vision and determination to motivation and the ability to hold a team together (hey, what is the point of being a leader if ye have no followers?).

Well, all that is fine, but I discovered pretty much by accident what makes a leader today. At least as per yours truly.

It is the ability to inspire.

I discovered this when I was sitting with someone I have known for a while now. He is a gem of a person. With no end of talent and natural gifts at his disposal, not least the ability to lend a shoulder and ear to anyone who needs it. And yet, he has a fatal flaw - that of often getting depressed and then pulling people down with him. The result is unfortunate - I really wish to do a whole lot for him but often end up feeling so depressed that I do very little either for him or myself. I do wish he would back himself a bit more instead of moaning non-stop.

For, really, what makes a leader different is simply the fact that he or she can make you rise above the ordinary. Make you believe not that they are better than you and fit to lead, but simply that you are better than you actually are. Leaders inspire, are endlessly optimistic, and keep making you believe not in them, but in yourself.

I care not if you are determined as hell, have a great vision or can pull on well with a dozen people. If you think you can make me do something that will make a difference, I will follow you. I will bloody believe that we can bake bread in the fires of hell. But if all you are going to do is complain about how bad things are, I am going to drape an arm around your shoulder and walk by your side.

But I am deuced if I will follow you!

My story about Twitter tools in today's Times of India

2011-03-05T20:05:00.000-08:00

My story

Rest in peace, Uncle Pai

2011-02-24T12:07:00.000-08:00

We keep hearing of the term "media explosion" and how children of today are exposed to much more information than their predecessors. Well, that may be true but one edge that children of my generation enjoyed over the current ones was the quality of reading material at our disposal - yes, there were fewer books to go around, the young adult reading category (for which I have written two books) did not even officially exist, and we certainly did not have the kind of "disposable income" that some schoolgoing children have today.

But I will go out on a limb to defend the quality of the books we DID manage to get. If we had been really good, we could get Asterix and Tintin. If we had been normal, we could content with Indrajaal comics with Mandrake, the Phantom and Co. If we had our way, we could try and convince our parents to get us the "decadent" and/or "violent" Batman, Superman and Archie collections.

What we however, ALWAYS got, whether we wanted to or not, were the Amar Chitra Katha comics.

It would be a lie to claim that these were my first choice. Sometimes they were, especially when the themes were heroic - Tipu Sultan, the Battle for Srinagar - or when there were lots of battles and Rajputs - Rana Kumbha, Rana Pratap, Rana Sanga - or still yet when there was humour to be found in them - the Tenali Ram and Birbal series. And of course, ANYTHING that had Hanuman ji in it HAD to be purchased. However, these comics covered much more than these - there were issues about Indian saints, freedom fighters, social reformers, musicians, local folk tales, mythology and the like. and while I confess I was not much impressed by them when I was younger, I began to appreciate what they contained as I grew older and came up against the same characters in my text books.

For, the greatest charm of the Amar Chitra Katha series was the fact that they made India's history and culture interesting, full of life and colour. My history text book told me that "Akbar defeated Rajput chieftain Rana Pratap at the battle of Haldighati" and left matters at that. The Amar Chitra Katha on Rana Pratap told me the tale of not just the battle but what preceded and succeeded it, with well-crafted dialogue and very good illustrations. My history books hardly mention Raj Singh (a novel by Bankim Chandra), the Amar Chitra Katha bearing his name contained one of the most memorable lines I have ever read: when Raj Singh meets a man who has been robbed by dacoits, he sets off in pursuit. The victim of the robbery warns him: "But there are many of them." Raj Singh's reply was one that still thrills my nerves: "So what? I am a Rajput." My history book told me that Tipu Sultan died in the battle of Sriragnapatnam. It did not even come within a mile of the stirring image in the Amar Chitra Katha, where Tipu storms towards his fort on his horse, screaming "A British flag on my fort! I will not have that!"

Amar Chitra Katha told us about an India that was a far cry from the dull and lifeless image drawn by our history books. We had handsome heroes, stunning heroines, dastardly villains...and most important of all, we had more than facts - we had a story.

People memorise facts and dates. They remember stories. I do not remember my history books as well as I remember my Amar Chitra Katha collection, which I refuse to part with, battered and dusty though it has grown. Yes, the newer books in the series were frankly disappointing but the legacy remained golden as ever.

And the man who made all this possible was Anant Pai, or as we all knew him, Uncle Pai. He died of a heart attack earlier today, triggering off massive mourning. Every Amar Chitra Katha reader of the eighties and nineties had reason to feel orphaned. And yet, are we not being unfair to the man by saying he is dead?

For, as long as that dusty and battered collection of Amar Chitra Katha comics lies in my possession, Pai Uncle cannot die. He is just resting. And will smile at me every time I feel my nerves jangle as Raj Singh says, "So what? I am a Rajput," or when I burst out laughing at how Raman of Tenali fooled the King's guards into thrashing the King's own guru!

Rest in peace, Uncle Pai.

Why the Nokia-MS deal does not inspire the author in me

2011-02-18T23:16:00.000-08:00

"The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled..."

Well, call me a sentimental and over-literary idiot, but those were the words that came to my mind when news leaked out that Nokia's chief executive Stephen Elop had said that the company was standing on a "burning platform." However, it was what followed that was so deflating - he challenged the company to swim or perish.

Inspiring words? Honestly, I am not too sure. For the platform that was burning, darn it, was the one that had made Nokia the leading smartphone company in the world. Yes, the company had not found a product to rival the iPhone. Yes, Symbian had been overtaken by Android (even though it was still a very strong number two). Is the solution simply moving to a new platform and largely abandoning the old one?

Call me a hopeless idiot, but to me, Elop's words sounded like a general who tells his once all-conquering army - "Well, let us just run away because heck, we do not look like we are going to win." I can understand a smaller player making an alliance with a bigger one for the sake of survival, but here, we had a large corporation, with the biggest share in the phone market, howling about its possible extinction. It all stank of "oooh, I am no longer number one. I am only number two. Oooh, save me. Halp!" A bit like Bjorn Borg giving up playing tennis because he was no longer number one. It is a decision that seems made more for oneself than for one's supporters or followers.

I have no problem with the alliance with Microsoft, a company I admire. What I hate is the "if we do not do this, we will die" rationale - a laughable argument from a company that still sells more phones than anyone else does. What I detest is the fact that no effort was made to fight. One lays down one's arms when one has no choice, not at the first chance. Did Nokia, with all the resources at its disposal, simply ever consider throwing everything and the kitchen sink at the opposition? If it did, it certainly hid it very well, for we never really felt that the company had tried its best to take on the Apple-Android combo.

And lest we forget, Nokia's best could be formidable - the N95 and E90 showed the world just what phones could do. Microsoft showed that it could reinvent a platform when it moved from the rather disappointing Windows Mobile 6 to the much more spectacular Windows Phone 7, and even BlackBerry rejigged its OS to meet a changing market. Could not Nokia have done the same? Meego had looked so promising, the N8 had terrific hardware, millions of users still swore by the E series. If Symbian was dying, it was remarkable just how many people were still using it!

The company had the resources, the people, the followers to make a stand against the opposition. Instead, it chose to - please forgive the term - just turn away from the very roots that had made it big. And do not give me spiel about Symbian still being important to the company - it has just been moved from the category of price regent to that of unwanted offspring.

Yes, the Nokia-Microsoft deal might represent a new chapter in tech history. And the tech journalist in me is intrigued by its possibilities. But the author in me, the one who seeks inspiration, the twit who gets moved by 300 Spartans holding the Hot Gates against thousands of Persians, honestly finds it very uninspiring. It makes very good commercial sense, perhaps. It might be a marketing masterstroke. But it is also at some level a betrayal of many who believed in the company in the past.

Keep swimming, Stephen. I hope you make it to the shore. Me, I am still going to be standing on that burning platform.

You see, I am not giving up my E72.

For thee too are human, Steve?

2011-02-17T11:27:00.001-08:00

The problem with life is that one takes a lot of things for granted. One thinks mum and dad will always make things all right. That one's dog will always rush out barking, tail whirring like a helicopter's rotor gone crazy and lick one to within an inch of death. That Liverpool will surely win the next match.

That Steve Jobs will step on to the Cupertino centrestage and launch yet another product that we will shake our heads at and discount sagely - hey, no camera; hey, Bluetooth don't work - and then go right ahead and buy it.

And then life reminds us that nothing lasts forever. Pets pass away. Parents do too. The club one supports does not always win.

Even Steve Jobs might never be seen on stage again. In fact, he might just have six weeks left to live. We might never see him with iPad 2 or iPhone 5. We might never get a chance to curse him again for daring to tell us that we were holding phones the wrong way.

How does one react to this? One feels human. One realises one's idols are human too. One realises that at the end of the day, we all have to take that long walk which leads the Lord alone knows where. Who would have thought the man who came back from one setback after another would be laid low by a disease, however fatal? It does not seem fair and yet, in some celestial balance, it could well be.

Yes, I am hoping that the rumour is false. But even if it is, it has reminded us of the fact that no person can live forever. At the end of the day, we are all just human.

So is Steve Jobs.

Know something? That makes me feel so good to be human.

Get well soon, Steve. I have not given you my last bouquet. Or brickbat.

When friends compete...

2010-06-27T20:50:00.000-07:00

It seems right out of Jerry Maguire. The part when Tom Cruise says: "We live in a cynical world. A cynical world. And we work in a business of tough competitors."

All right, I know I am going to be accused by many of complaining incessantly, but well, people do have strange ways of letting one down. One of the people I used to consider a friend recently gave me the shock of my life by behaviour which I can only consider extremely unwarranted. Yes, I know we live in competitive times, but it is EXTREMELY sad when someone you know rather well goes behind your back and tries to grab your work. Well, a lady or gent (or should I say, jerk) has been doing that of late, with vigour that is commendable and values that are barely that.

It is annoying, sad...and to be honest, very disappointing.
I have no problems with anyone offering to take on any assignment I am working on - heck, good luck to them, there's no embargo or barrier of any sort - but when someone I know (and know fairly well) tries to do so by sneaking behind my back, let's put it this way, I am not an appreciative audience. Especially when it is clear that he/she would know that I would ultimately come to know of their shenanigans.

Is this globalisation? Fair competition? Or a cavalier regard to basic human decency? I wonder. But there is good in all this - I have just realised how much more special all my other friends are. Silver linings. What would dark clouds be without them, eh? So I will just say to all my other friends, just as Tom Cruise said in Jerry Maguire: "I love you. You...complete me."

Thanks, fellas.

Meeting after a long while...do you have to be rude?

2010-06-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

I wish I had a penny for every time that I have heard something horrible whenever I have met a person after a long while. You would have thought that the first sentiment that would emerge from a person's heart on seeing an old acquaintance would be happiness. Well, it might be that, but it inevitably gets overtaken by utter and crass rudeness after a while. For, within seconds of clapping eyes on the person, you are sure to hear something horribly negative about yourself: "Arre, yaar tu to mota ho gaya," "Baal kahan chale gaye," "kaala ho gaya hai - are you working in the sun?", "Suit-shoot pehanna shuru kar diya hai kya?," "kya haal bana rakha hai" and so on and so forth. The general effect of which is something very much on the lines of "how low have you fallen, Lucifer, son of god," since we last knew each other.

All of which makes you wonder if it was worth meeting the hounds again. I have nothing against expressions of concern, but surely they can be better expressed and perhaps a tad more tactfully. Or is it just an attempt by people to show that they are better off than you are after such a long time? I wonder...

The power of guest appearances...

2010-06-26T06:54:00.000-07:00

What is it about visitors that changes us so radically? Well, that is the thought that flits through my mind when I look at the shambles to which Delhi has reduced itself for the Commonwealth Games. We are told that all the construction is necessary because after all, all the world's (all right, dash it, all the former Commonwealth's), eyes will be on Delhi and we have to put our best foot forward. The country's capital has got to look its best for the international community. Security will be boosted, the city will be cleaned up...after all, we have got visitors.

I do not know if you get the irony here - the country's capital has to look good because people from other countries are going to visit it, not because that is the way it should be. I mean, do not the residents of Delhi deserve a better-looking city or more security or buses that run on time, or clean roads, or auto-rickshaw drivers who behave politely, ...do not get me started here.

The hidden message is simple: there would be no need to "beautify" or "modernise" Delhi if no international event was taking place. Who cares about those who are living in the city?
They have been living here for years anyway. Is that not horribly unfair? And yet, no one seems to notice. Guests deserve special treatment, it would seem. Nothing wrong with that, but does it have to come at the cost of the original inhabitants of a place. Mr Chidambaram was concerned about the behaviour of people in Delhi - did it take a Commonwealth Games to remind him of the fact? Sheila Dixit suddenly realised that Delhi needed more flyovers, thanks once again to the Commonwealth Games.

"Atithi Devo Bhava," or "a guest is god" is a very ancient Indian saying, but I am sure it does not mean that one needs a guest to put one's own house in order. Guests are important - aye, even divine, if you so think - but surely the original residents of a house are more so. It is important to put your best foot forward always. Not just in front of your guests, but in front of those who live with you all the time. They do not come for a casual call but come to stay. Surely they deserve a better deal. Surely there should be as much outrage at a Delhi citizen getting assaulted as at that of a tourist? But does that happen?

I would even welcome the changes being made to the capital for the Commonwealth Games if I was sure they reflected a change in attitude that would last beyond the event. Sadly, I have a feeling that when our guests have stuffed themselves with our hospitality and departed, it will be up to the common person in Delhi to clean up and get back to life as it was prior to the event.

Wanna become a hypocrite for a while? Invite someone home for a formal visit.

Not Out reviewed in The Times of India

2010-04-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

Well, do days get off to better starts? I opened the Times of India and saw my book, Not Out, reviewed in the What's Hot supplement. Short and sweet and ah, so very satisfying.

IPL: The Lost Leaders

2010-04-19T09:12:00.000-07:00

As the controversy around the IPL continues to escalate, the talk is all about whether the IPL bubble has finally burst and whether Lalit Modi's wings will be clipped. However, for me, the biggest casualty of the entire affair has been the credibility that a number of people attached to the tournament enjoyed, at least in my eyes.

At the very outset, I would like to state that I am no fan of the IPL. I found it crassly commercial, loud and making a mockery of whatever was good about cricket. However, I felt that there would surely be some good in a tournament that was being backed by so many people, many of whom were former cricketers and commentators whom I had idolised. These gentlemen went overboard praising the tournament and most particularly, its commissioner and supremo, Lalit Modi, whom they routinely hailed as some kind of cricket administrator God. They were ecstatic over the very bidding process that is now being shown up as a tad less than clean and transparent. Anyone who has heard the commentary or pre-match programmes around the IPL will attest to the fact that they sound more like advertisements for the tournament rather than match analyses.

I really do not know what the future has in store for Lalit Modi or the IPL. What I do know is that the next time I see one of these "stars/legends/icons" making a comment about anything, I am going to reach out for a sack of salt. Everything, it seems, has its price, and it pains me to say this, but it does seem a number of people whom I had believed to be beyond corruption, listened to the jingle of coins in the purse rather than the cries of their conscience.

Robert Browning had written beautifully about William Wordsworth when he felt that the latter had moved away from his ideals for commercial considerations:

Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat--
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!

I, and I am sure several other cricket fans, feel the same way about all these gentlemen who kept parroting the virtues of a tournament and a person that they surely knew was flawed. I am sure they have no regrets - their bank balances will be healthy enough, and who cares anyway for the sentiments of some supporters.

It therefore makes sense to end with lines of Browning's immortal poem once again:

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod,
One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!

Thanks a lot, gentlemen, for all the pleasure you gave us. Alas, if only it could wash away the pain of having our faith in you betrayed so brutally. The fact that you are unlikely to give a damn does not make things better.

They say we make our idols of snow and weep when they melt.

I can see certainly see the water where my idols once stood.

And there is something curiously liquid and salty in my eyes.

Yes, that is my book there...next to Bob Wilson's

2010-04-14T11:08:00.000-07:00

Ask any author what fills him or her most with pride and it is a fair chance that the answer will be the sight of their book in a bookstore. And a few days ago, I got that feeling when I saw Not Out standing in the sports books section of Midlands Bookstore in South Extension, New Delhi. Right next to it was a book by Bob Wilson, an author I first read almost twenty five years ago when my father was posted in Bangalore. Wilson had written a book called Football Focus which I got for a discount from Gangaram's Book store for Rs 60.

If someone had told me at that time that one day I would find my own book next to his one day, I would have laughed off the notion and suspected the person of being intoxicated.

And yet there was Not Out, right next to Bob Wilson's Ultimate Collection of Peculiar Sporting Lingo. It felt like a dream. It felt surreal.

And the lord forgive me, I felt just a little proud.

I might not ever become as good an author as Bob Wilson. I might not ever be fit to lace his football boots.

But for just a few days, my book was next to his.

Surely that counts for something. As James Henry Leigh Hunt said so memorably in his poem "Jenny Kissed Me":

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

Just substitute "My book lay next to Bob Wilson's for a week" in place of the first two lines and you will get an idea of how I feel.

Time, you thief, who love to get sweets into your list, put that in!

Why the IPL does not inspire me

2010-03-15T12:37:00.000-07:00

At least two people have asked me to follow the Indian Premier League cricket tournament closely. "You might find something inspiring for your next book," each of them said.

I know they have my best interests at heart. But honestly, I think they are wrong.

Inspiration for me comes from instances where people defy odds. It comes from circumstances in which people literally dig their way out of coffins. Where people fight for something that cannot be measured in terms of money - call it pride, call it patriotism or sheer bloody mindedness.

I call it real courage.

Real courage comes when someone walks out to bat in a match with his team on the verge of defeat, but still tries to turn matters around. Real courage is when a ten year Palestinian boy throws a stone against an Israeli tank. It is when Jhala Mana dons the armour of the fallen Rana Pratap and takes on the enemy. It is when James Scott Connors refuses to lose a match and rest on one of the greatest records in men's tennis history and comes back from the verge of defeat not for money, but for pride.

Courage is seldom found in the world of bidders, high-paying contracts, adjective-laden commentators or scantily dressed cheerleaders. It is not found in a tournament in which players play for money, rather than for their nation or even their regions.

The IPL might be a great commercial tournament. But for me it is not an inspiring one. I will watch it from time to time. But believe me, I am going to feel far more inspired when I see a barefoot boy running in to bowl in a dusty gully on the outskirts of a city. He has no sponsors, no audience, not even proper bowling equipment, but he still runs in. Again and again.

He does not do it for money. He just does it for the joy of the game. And he might not have shoes on his feet, but he will still bellow with joy when he gets a wicket and scowl in a worthy imitation of Brett Lee when he gets clobbered for six.

It is wonderfully innocent. Because it is done with a purity of purpose - there's no money or commercial motive involved.

For me, that is inspiring.

Expressions at the World Book Fair

2010-02-20T08:06:00.001-08:00

Book fairs might be a whole lot of fun for book lovers but spare a thought for all those publishers and book sellers who have stalls at the fair and whose hopes go up every time they see someone poring over their offerings. Well, I spent a fair deal of time at the stall of my publisher, Ponytale Books, and was witness to the entire plethora of emotions my publisher, Pranav Kumar Singh and his assistant Ajay Kumar Singh, went through.

Here you go:

"Do you think they are coming here?"

"Come on, come on, come on, pick a book!"

But at the end of it all, one does have something to laugh about. And I guess that is what really matters.

My book, my publisher and I at the World Book Fair

2010-02-10T06:37:00.000-08:00

That's me with Not Out, my latest book, at the stand of my publishers, Ponytale Books at the World Book Fair at Pragati Maidan

Pranav Kumar Singh, my publisher and the guy behind Ponytale Books and I at the Ponytale Books stall at the World Book Fair. Pranav wears many hats - publisher, friend, philosopher and occasional guide. In the background is Ajay Kumar Singh, Pranav's cousin, and the man who was instrumental in making the fair such a success for all of us.

Pranav tweaking the Ponytale Books stand. It was something he did quite often, believing that a dynamic stand catches more attention than a static one. Incidentally, the book he is touching, Paheli Boojho and Banao, was Ponytale's highest selling title of the fair.

My book, Not Out, on the stand. Incidentally, Pranav, my publisher, was one of the translators of the book on the right, Selected Stories from Premchand.

Blogging at the Book Fair

2010-02-08T17:36:00.000-08:00

Yes, that is my publisher, Pranav Kumar Singh, the guy behind Ponytale Books, and Yours Truly, hitting the floor at Pragati Maidan a few days ago as Pranav tries to update his website with the newest titles. There was no furniture around and the media centre was way too far away from our hall, Hall No.14, so one had to improvise - with a book carton serving as a table, my Tata Indicom data card for connectivity and Pranav's trusty laptop. Now, if that is not high-tech, what is?

And another book done and dusted

2010-01-27T07:25:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been a long time since I blogged and as an excuse, well, I was busy writing book two. I know that does sound a bit lame, especially when you consider that this was no massive tome but just a bit bigger than the previous title - make that quite a bit bigger, more than twice, in terms of word count.

I had loads of fun writing it, because it's about sport - something I always love writing about. It d is called "Not Out," and is about inspiring instances from the world of sport. There are twelve stories out there and the only clue I am willing to hand out is that not all stories are about cricket. It costs Rs 150 and has been published by Ponytale Books, the same folks who published my first title, Kesariya Bana two years ago.

It is going to be at the World Book Fair at Delhi from January 30 to February 7 at S 1-2, Hall No. 14, Pragati Maidan. And hopefully, at a lot of bookstalls after that.

Oh yes, and I am going to blog more often. So bookmark this blog, if you feel upto following it.

Why I am cheering for Stephanie Meyer!

2009-03-10T07:53:00.000-07:00

The shortlist for the British Book Awards, considered by many to the Oscars of the publishing industry, was announced earlier today. Among the authors listed were worthies like JK Rowling, Niall Ferguson, Barack Obama, Jesse Kellerman and Aravind Adiga, but the one person I am going to be rooting for is an Stephanie Meyer, the teen romance author who has not just been shortlisted for the Children's Book of the Year Award, but also for the Author of the Year.

For me, this marks a major milestone in the recognition of children's literature as being every bit as important as the so-called "real literature," which is generally equated with books for older audience. There will be those who point out that JK Rowling had won the award for her Harry Potter series not too long ago, but then Potter was a phenomenon that is unlikely to be repeated in stature and volumes. And few were critical of Rowling's skills, at least initially. Meyer's works, on the other hand, have been dismissed as teenage chick lit by many of the literary "experts." Her very presence on the shortlist, however, proves that children's literature might just be getting the recognition it deserves. Perhaps it is time the Booker Awards committee and maybe even those who decide the winners of the Nobel Prize for Literature took children's literature into consideration. I may not like her works, but I would not begrudge Enid Blyton a nobel and I think Rowling's Prisoner of Azkaban was infinitely better than some Booker-winning works.

So come April 3, when the Author of the Year award is announced, I will be cheering for Stephanie Meyer. It's time children's literature got the credit and attention it deserves.

Comics: moving out of kid territory?

2009-03-07T21:31:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago, comics were considered kids' territory. Sure, there were a few comic strips that were targeted at a slighter older audience (Asterix, Tintin and the like), but for the most part, comics were pretty action-packed material designed to give growing minds a buzz. Well, that seems to have changed now. Step into a bookstore and it is a fair chance that the comic section will have content that seems distinctly adult in nature, be it Frank Miller's works, multiple interpretations of Batman or Neil Gaiman's Sandman series, it suddenly seems that comics are seriously adult business. Prices have shot up astronomically too. A special edition of a Batman comic could put you back by as much as Rs 400. Frank Miller's 300 is in three-figure territory.
Of course, there is no rule that says that only children should read comics, but there are times when I do wonder if I would have had many comic reading options if I had been growing up today? The good old Amar Chitra Kathas, bless them, are still there but most of my superheroes are either out of print or are not talking to me any more. My memories of Spiderman are of a witty, wisecracking webslinger, not the brooding, romantically confused gent depicted in the films and recent comic strips. Similarly, Batman did not go around wearing Kevlar to save himself from bullets in my time and Superman did not have an identity crisis. They were just simple good guys trying to save the world and giving us something to smile about.
I don't know what you think but I feel children today are missing out on a lot just about a number of comic strip heroes seem to have grown up! It is not surprising that I see a number of parents in the old book market at Daryaganj in Delhi asking booksellers for old comics featuring the likes of the Phantom, Mandrake, and less serious versions of Batman, Superman and Co, for their kids. They remember just how much fun they were and would like their kids to get a glimpse of the simple, fun-filled, good vs bad world...at least until the next superhero movie comes along and reminds them that superheroes no longer are interested in entertaining the kids!

An afternoon to remember

2007-12-18T20:58:00.000-08:00

“Nimish Dubey, associate image executive.”

“Pranav Kumar Singh, associate image manager”

Those were the words Pranav and I exchanged when we first met on September 16, 1996. We were both working in Perfect Relations, a public relations firm – he was a client servicing executive and I was in charge of churning out text for our clients.

A few days ago, Pranav and I were sitting at a meeting of the Association of Writers and Illustrators for Children (AWIC) , having been invited to talk about Pranav’s publishing house (Ponytale Books) and the first book that had been published by it, “Kesariya Bana” (written by Yours Truly). We had stayed in pretty close touch and worked on a number of projects, before finally deciding to get into publishing. And today, our first product was being evaluated by some very noted children’s authors – authors we had read when we ourselves had been children.

Pranav talked about his publishing plans. I talked about my background and the book. And then the meeting settled into a predictable pattern, about AWIC’s plans and when the next meeting would be held. It all seemed to have gone well.

And then, as we were exchanging cards with the other authors and publishers who were at the meeting, I felt someone touch my sleeve gently and turned to see one of the authors with my book. She had it open on the first page and asked, “Could you, please?”

I must have appeared confused because Pranav whispered, “She wants you to sign it,” and handed me a pen, ignoring my look of surprised disbelief. And then there was another book to sign. And another. All of them purchased by people who had been writing and reading books for more years than I had been alive. I sat in a happy daze, signing the books, whispering to myself “Don’t make a spelling mistake, don’t make a spelling mistake.” When it was over, both Pranav and I sat grinning at each other. Had we finally arrived in the book industry?

We packed our bags and stepped out. And then just as we were going down the steps that lead to the road, Pranav paused, stuck out his hand and said:

“Pranav Kumar Singh, publisher.”

There could be only one answer to that. I shook his hand warmly and replied:

“Nimish Dubey, author.”

Perhaps we had arrived, after all.

The Hindu reviews Kesariya Bana

2007-11-23T02:57:00.000-08:00

The Hindu has reviewed Kesariya Bana in its Young World. Here is the clipping. You can read the complete review at http://www.hindu.com/yw/2007/11/23/stories/2007112350420600.htm Speaking purely as an author, I must admit to feeling mighty chuffed.

Having a book of your own!

2007-10-31T02:16:00.000-07:00

“How does it feel to have your book published?”

I must have been asked that question by a number of people ever since Kesariya Bana and other Tales of Valour got released last week. Well, there is no single answer to that question. There are quite a few emotions bustling inside. Prominent among them are:

Sheer terror: The “Oh my gawd! It’s out! People are going to read it!” feeling. I love the book, but will others?It’s a bit like introducing a close friend to other people – will they like him or her?
Pride: Well, you do feel proud. Nothing can beat the sensation of seeing your book in a bookstore. Mind you, I have to resist the temptation to grab passers-by and say, “Hey! I wrote this!”
Happiness: Pretty different from pride. The book in print signifies the end result of an effort. One does feel happy to see something come from the hard work that one has put in.
Surprise: You know, I come from the school of thought that tends to prepare for the worst. So you can well imagine my surprise when I saw the production quality of Kesariya Bana. It did look good, even though I say so myself.
Relief: The “finally, it’s out” feeling. There were so many issues that kept popping up that at one stage my publisher and I were wondering when the book would come out. Mind you, Pranav (my publisher) was doing most of the firefighting. I was just sitting around being nervous. Still, that is something!
Anticipation: Well, the book is out. But what next? Will people like it? What will I do if they do or don’t? All of which makes for some (so far) pleasant tension!

And of course, my publisher has just reminded me that I need to work on my next book. Ah, here we go again!

Me as the reader

2007-10-31T01:58:00.000-07:00

They say that you cannot be a decent writer if you don't read a lot. Well, I do manage to keep myself busy in that regard, although what effect it has on my writing only the Lord (and the reader) knows. So, here are a few things about me in reading mode:

What I am currently reading: David Eddings’ The Illenium, Lindsey Davis’ Falco on the Loose omnibus, the Complete Calvin and Hobbes, and Peter Roebuck’s Sometimes I Forgot to Laugh. I tend to read 3-4 books at a time.
What I generally like to read: Whodunits, humorous works, biographies and books on history and sport.
My favourite book: Difficult to say. I would put it as a close finish between Terry Pratchett’s Interesting Times and Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo. The former for its amazing mix of humour and satire, the latter for depth of plot and stunning narration.
Book I think is overrated: Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. Every publisher worth his or her salt is coming out with a version of the book and readers are lapping it up. Fortunately, there’s nothing to be alarmed about – the book makes dishwater look interesting! And a lot cleaner too! Second place would go to Bill Gates’ The Road Ahead - a tranquilizer in print, if there ever was one!
Favourite author: Terry Pratchett. I have yet to see anyone who mixes satire, philosophy and rip-roaring humour as well as he does! PG Wodehouse, Alexandre Dumas and Reginald Hill would be next.
Favourite book shop: Midland’s at South Extension in Delhi for the prices and range, Crosswords at Residency Road, Bangalore for the ambience.
Book I am most likely to give as a gift: Interesting Times, by Terry Pratchett.
Favourite fictional character: Andrew Dalzeil of Reginald Hill’s Dalziel and Pascoe series. He is outrageous, rude,politically incorrect and ill-mannered – but you cannot help but love him. Of course, the fact that he is a ruddy genius helps!
My favourite reading place: A bus or a train. There is very little chance of being disturbed and the slow, rocking motion is actually rather soothing. Unless of course, you happen to be stuck in a Delhi traffic jam.
Next on my reading list: Richard Harris’ Pompeii and Fatherland. I also intend to read through the entire Falco series by Lindsey Davis. When I get hooked on to an author, I try to read everything that he/she has written.
Favourite book-related website: http://books.guardian.co.uk/