Nikamma Kiya Is Dil Ne

I shall do this post in bullet-point format, for my soul is the wit of brevity:

1. My birthday just got over, although birthweek celebrations continue. I turned 24. I was telling a close friend yesterday afternoon that 24 is such a whorish number. It is divisible by 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, and 12. She reminded me of 48. But seriously, I suddenly feel like there's this loss of independence. When I was 23, it was just me and 1. Now, there's these million factors (OMG factors!) competing for mindspace etc.

2. Two VVS Laxman jokes (Please note: People didn't get my sorry sarcasm the last time around, but this time I'm making it amply clear. I am a HUGE Laxman fan, and I've always been. These jokes are just jokes and mustn't be held against him.)

a) Laxman gets caught in a hit-and-run case, and he says, "Dude, if I ran after I hit, I'd be in the one-day team!"

b) Laxman is playing as a defender in a football game, and the defence is playing for the offside trap. It doesn't work because Laxman keeps flicking the ball onto the onside.

3. Checked out two very nice places in Hyderabad yesterday and today. One, Extreme Sports Bar. The music isn't loud, brash and thumping. Its lazy and laidback (at least when I went - apparently, a cousin DJs at the Bangalore branch). There will always, obviously, be sports on the big screen. (I hope WWF isn't classified as sport). Two, Punjabi by Nature. Pat warned us that it'd be highly expensive. And it was slightly on the wrong side of expensiveness. But when you look back at those extra extra large rotis, delectable dishes, an out-of-the-world dahi ka kabab (who would've thought the homely thair could be this exciting!), and the signature vodka golgappas, and then examine the bill again, you realise it was worth it. The best Punjabi food I've had in a while.

4. This morning, the first song I heard on TV was Nikamma Kiya starring the incomparable Tushar Kapoor as a part of the advertisement for the movie. There was also a dialogue, "Uske saath, saath phere kya, me saath inch bhi nahin chaloonga!" Wah, wah.

This year will be good. I can feel it.

(He smiles to himself, puts his laptop down, and as he walks towards the water filter, sings, 'Oooh, Nikamma Kiya...')

Old-fashioned Tag

Tagged by Shankari.

My oldest memory:
Weird Memory - I distincly remember, and I know I remember nothing before in such vividness - I'm sitting in my LKG class. Lalitha Somayaji Teacher (who used to live in the street behind ours - thin, fair lady with glasses) is making us write alphabets. I've forgotten to take my slate to school that day, so I have to use some crummy school slate. But the advantage with the school slate is that there are these dots (basically, spots of rust). I love connecting dots. And so I connect. Lalitha teacher sitting at least twenty feet away somehow realises that I'm not writing alphabets and tells me off.

What shocks me is the detailing - it was a slate with an orange border. Lalitha teacher was wearing a green sari. There used to be this girl in my class (whom I got teased with by the entire family for years) called Avantika whose birthday it was on that day.

Ten years ago:
I was in the ninth standard. I wore black-rimmed glasses. I used to sing Kalyani at every given opportunity (nothing's change on that front!).

I built a time capsule, what would it contain:
WTF is a time capsule?

This year:
Isn't over yet. ('Pickchar abhi baaki hai mere dost')

14 years from now:
I'll be 38. Aargh. Its not even a prime number. Digressing, that's what worries me these days. From next Wednesday, for six years, I wont encounter a prime number.

Therefore, I tag anyone reading this, whose age is a prime number.

Bowl, Jumbo!

Kumble's retirement, though in the pipeline for a while, came a little suddenly - in the middle of a crucial series, when he was captain. It was like one of his iconic jumbos - tossed up slightly, coming straight towards your bat, and you expect to hear a tonk as you defend it silly point, but hear a thud instead, as it takes off from nowhere and hits the 'keeper's glove shoulder-high. Kumble hardly did anything sudden or unexpected off the field - he was never involved in any disputes or controversies, he didn't shoot his mouth off against his opponents, he never had anything bad to say about the selectors and the administration (even when he was unceremoniously dropped from the one-day team, or was made to sit out while Harbhajan played). And this, to me, made his retirement, even more surprising - in the middle of a Test Match, announced on commentary!

Expectedly, articles have been written on blogs (like this one), on cricket websites, in newspapers, and they all give us the same catchphrases - 'grinding the opposition', 'large heart', 'tireless', 'brave' - and they speak of the same things - that match in Antigua, that match in Sydney, that match in Delhi, the fact that he wasn't 'pretty to watch', his superior record at home, all kinds of other statistics to show that he was just as good as the best of his time, his comeback after shoulder injury, and that the loss of his retirement will be felt now. Amidst all this, they forget the most important aspect of his persona - his bowling.

Kumble's bowling has never been just about wearing the opposition down into submission. It isn't about bowling ball after ball, over after over of the same stuff until the batsman plays a loose shot. Kumble's genius, and I use that word knowing fully well that it isn't to be used lightly, lies in little things he isn't often credited for. Kumble was always more misunderstood than underrated. True, he was a hard worker, but he was also a master craftsman. 'Grind' is a cruel, cruel word to describe his bowling. Granted, his bowling was never about the ball that pitches in the adjacent town and hits your off-stump, but it hinged on far subtler variations. He had a traditional legspinner, a googly, a topspinner, a flipper, a shooter, a yorker and the straighter one. To a casual eye, they all seemed like glorified titles for the same thing - the ball that just goes on straight. But batsmen, for years, have tried playing him as a one-trick pony, and they've failed, because they weren't good enough to perceive those small variations. They defend one ball confidently, and the next one looks fairly similar. But by the time their bat comes down on it, its shattered their stumps.

These small variations in flight, turn, bounce made Kumble so much fun to watch. When Kumble is at his best, not a single ball is played comfortably - there is this sense that a wicket might fall at any time. The close-in fielders chirp along, the keeper oohs too often, and before you know it, the batsman has misread one. The ball has turned maybe an inch or two - just enough to take the edge and land in one of the fielders hands or miss the bat completely. That was Kumble's magic. That made for many afternoons of exciting Test Cricket.

I was at a quiz when I overheard two people talking of Anil Kumble's sudden retirement. The news spread almost suddenly as one quiz ended and the other was about to start. Then, I heard from someone that India had declared and Kumble would come out to bowl for the last time. I really wished I'd stayed home to watch that last spell. I know it wouldn't have been his best spell, and I highly doubted whether he'd even pick up a wicket, but that rhythmic three-jump run-up, those flapping arms, that googly you can recognise from a mile, and that shout of "Bowl, Jumbo!" deserved one last look.

In this decade, I've begun to lose some of my favourite sights in cricket - Ambrose retired, and I never saw frightening West Indian pace bowling again, Lara retired and took the Nataraja pull shot with him, Mark Waugh's silkiness disappeared as quietly as his cover drive, Azhar's turned-up collar could only hide his face in shame. This series will see the passing of two more - surgical cover drives that defined off-side play for a generation, and a variety of bowling that I like to call Right Arm Guile. While the latter has found an able practitioner in a young Sri Lankan upstart, its granddaddy will be missed dearly.

One-liners

This idea came to me when I watched the concluding moments of one of my favourite movies. If you can guess what movie I'm talking about, you get a prize. Please note, that while I've joked about this issue in the past, I'm very very serious when I say that this story is completely fictional.

Update: I received the correct answer to the movie by email. The prize has been given. And, the scene, for all of you, is this.
***

White fluorescent lamps lit the airport cafe fairly unimaginatively. Their coffees were nearly finished, and their conversation was on its last legs. There was much to be said, but neither of them was in a mood to say anything. An announcement through the PA told them that she should be leaving soon.

"Writer's block, eh?" she asked him, grinning.
Sullenly, he said, "Its only going to get worse now."
"Right," came a sarcastic reply.

He picked the spoon out of his coffee mug and twirled it in his hands. She watched the spoon slip and slide all over his left hand, like a performing gymnast.
"You inspired most of what I've written so far," he said.
"Rubbish."
"I'm serious."
Now the spoon weaved in and out of his palm.
"For instance, I'm not older than you," she said.
"You are."
"By two months, not five years."
"But you remember that line about fish and the oceans? You said that to me once."

As a climax, the spoon jumped up in the air, spurred on by a flick of his thumb, and landed on the back of his hand. He turned his hand around, held it, and put it back in the mug.

"When?"
"You remember that time when I dropped you at the old Bangalore airport?"
"You've dropped me many times."
"The first time. The morning after that night..."
"Oh, the refugee night!"
"When you missed your train."
"Because I thought 20:10 was bloody ten-ten!"
"Yeah."
"I said something about fish and oceans?"
"You did. Out of the blue."
"Dude, you were meeting me for the second time in your life, but you seemed like you were majorly line-maroing. Throughout the bike ride to the airport, I thought you'd ask me out. And you didn't."

He picked up the spoon again. She pulled it out of his hand, and said, "Its fucking distracting!" She paused, and recollected where her narrative was before the distraction, "Yeah, and then you bought that over-expensive ticket to get into the airport, and walk those fifty metres with me."
"Di, there was no love. But you must understand, when a guy interacts with you for the first few times, you have this tendency to make quite an impact. So, one is always keeping options open."
"Rubbish. You were in 'lowe'!"
"You said that line just before you walked through the departure gate. Fish, oceans, hug, and you were away."
He remembered that scene clearly - the bewilderment, the love.
"I thought I said something about your sense of humour?"
"You told me that if I was slightly funnier, I'd've had a chance."

"But the rest of her character isn't me!"
"Come on. All the three women are. They're all beautiful. They're all sarcastic. They're all impulsive. And they all treat the guy like shit."

"Excuse me, but if I remember my life correctly, you left me!"
"Circumstances. You'd've left me anyway."

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. And then he said, "You even once gave me that speech about one party loving the other too much, and hence some guilt ensuing. That was Lila's speech, if you remember!"
"I recognised that."
"See, again. Its all you."

"By the way, I don't play the violin."
"But you are Ni. In every other way. I watch you type messages all the time. Your hands are exquisite."
"Thanks. That's the most flattering thing I've heard in a while."
"And, a crucial line is something you said... Oh wait, two crucial lines."
She once said, "Three times in three months! If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were in love with me!" And on another occasion, she said, "I like you. I'd like you better if you shaved more often."

An announcement came for Security Check. She had to leave. "So," she said, "I provide one-liners. That's all. I can still send you some by email when I think of them."
"Don't go?" he asked.
"You left me, dude. Its too late now."
"But I'm back now. I travelled across the breadth of the country, and then from the railway station to this bloody airport in the wilderness. All because I realised I was an ass."
"Dude, this ticket costs quite a bit. And I don't think I'm going to cancel it just because you took a train and a bus."
"See, that's the kind of line I was looking for. I can weave a story around it now."

She half-smiled, and unsurely hugged him. "When will you come back?" he asked.
"Two years, at least. Unless I find a job after that."
"Economic slowdown. You'll come back. But I'm sure you'll bring some white guy with you. I can see it."
She laughed. "I've given you many lines now. Go."
But neither of them left. And then she said again, "I think we need this time. Apart. For you to grow up a little, and for me to think."
It was clear that he wasn't feeling too good. She kissed him on the cheek and said, "Chill da. There are other fish in the ocean. You might never find them, but they are there."

She wheeled her suitcase through the departure gate. He stood till he saw her move out of sight. Maybe, they did need some time apart.

Rangarajan Invests in the Markets

This is inspired by a true story I heard about someone I know. If you ever read this, thank you for all the jokes!
***

The front page of the newspaper was as drab as ever. One politician made allegations against another, the other took offence and threatened to take this one to court. The Prime Minister assured the nation that the borders were safe, the Finance Minister rubbished statements linking the price of onions to an economic slowdown, while the opposition played watchdog, barking at everything in sight. The pages inside didn't make for pleasant reading either. A man killed his neighbours for the flimsiest reason. Three bus accidents on the highway caused deaths. Old men wrote letters to the editor about the dog menace in their neighbourhood. Someone wrote a lengthy opinion on the changed law of pesticide control.

Rangarajan skimmed through all these pages out of habit before settling into his favourite part of the newspaper - the sports page. He read the cricket match report in great detail, even though he watched the replay of the entire match the previous evening. His tea steamed away on the little side table next to his chair, and his wife scurried around the house finishing all the small things she had to do before they left for work. He scrutinised all the irrelevant sports news - about Canara Bank having defeated Union Bank in a twenty-over game by nine runs. He imagined a bunch of unfit, middle-aged, balding bank employees like himself running around a little red ball. He then glanced at the crossword, and nothing had changed - for years, he hadn't solved a single clue, and that morning was no different.

He left for work first, at exactly eight thirty-five. His bank was fifteen minutes away on his scooter, if the traffic wasn't too bad. He needed a five minute buffer for his conversation with his Malayali neighbour, who asked him the same question each morning, "So, have you thought about investing in the stock market?" This was followed by a report on how much money he had made in the last week, and how he was thinking of buying a new car with his earnings. Then, he'd point to his fridge, visible from the corridor through the half-open door and say, "That was from the stock market."

For Achyutan, the stock market was not only a money making enterprise. It was more. "It is such a complicated set of numbers - a summary of the actions of so many people, all acting in their own interest. Yet, there is a logic to the thing. It is more calculated than a gamble, but not yet a science." He followed this up by applying his latest pop-science theory to the stock market, either, "Oh, of course God plays dice - but even the dice follow the laws of physics!" or, "The Butterfly effect, I tell you - a workers' strike in a steel plant in Khazakhstan can cause a dip in the markets in India."

This morning, Rangarajan had had enough of all this talk. He declared, "Yeah! I bought Tata Steel yesterday. A 100 shares." The confidence with which Rangarajan made this statement got his neighbour thinking. Tata Steel was, perhaps, a good buy. He replied, "At yesterday's prices, I should have bought too. What price did you buy at yesterday?" Rangarajan was trapped. He hadn't the foggiest idea of what range the Tata Steel share operated in. He wasn't even sure when he said it if Tata Steel was an existing tradeable commodity in the stock market. But confidence was the key. "It was just off the day's low," he said.

Achyutan didn't want to seem unaware of what the day's low was. He didn't probe further.

The next morning, Rangarajan said again, "ABB is a good buy. I bought 150 shares." He'd heard this from some colleagues at the bank. Achyutan wondered if Rangarajan had some advisors, "Who is your broker?"

Rangarajan said, "Oh, you mustn't put all your eggs in one basket. Better to have more than one broker, no?" It was rubbish philosophy, and both men knew it. But again, confidence was the key. Achyutan bought ABB that evening, and over the next few days, the stock shot up. Achyutan asked Rangarajan for advice each morning. Rangarajan's portfolio also grew each day, as he cited purchases and sales with gay abandon.

But a new problem came up. Rangarajan soon lost track of his portfolio, but Achyutan didn't. "But I thought you had only sixty shares of Infosys? How did you sell a hundred?" Rangarajan escaped with the shady, "I bought more during the day - day trading, you know." The bigger problem was questions like, "Oh, so you booked losses on Ranbaxy? You bought it at a much higher price!" Rangarajan realised he had no idea of where his investments were going. He needed to be more scientific about this.

He subscribed to the Economic Times.

Each morning, after reading about the Prime Minister's repeated statements, the Chief Minister's support for violent revolutions, and the detailed scores of the football games between the local schools, he looked up stock prices in the Economic Times. He picked any stock that took his fancy, and announced to his neighbour, "Chennai Petro was a good buy yesterday in the early 200s. I think I'll sell it off in the first hour of trading today." Achyutan agreed, "Yeah. I noticed last evening that its price was abnormally high." Both men nodded intelligently.

Rangarajan had a small windfall. His ailing bachelor uncle, who was gifting away his properties to his nephews and neices, left him a large beach house on the outskirts of Madras. Rangarajan sold it, and bought a swanky car. He told Achyutan, "You see that car? Its from the stock market." Achyutan had made some money too, but he realised his neighbour had somehow been one step ahead. "You're a natural," he kept telling him, "In just about a year, you've mastered the stock market!"

However, the pressure was mounting on Rangarajan to keep track of his fictional investments. They were so large and diversified that his stories had too many holes and inconsistencies. He either used his standard weapons of day-trade, short sell, I-forgot-to-tell-you, or blamed Achyutan's bad memory to get himself out of sticky situations. But he'd had enough fun. Achyutan had already begun to suspect Rangarajan's source of funds for the investments.

One morning, Rangarajan announced, "I took all money out of the stock market. I've made enough." That very day, the Sensex fell by a record number. There were rumours of a global economic slowdown. Bad mortgages and the dubious 'sub-prime crisis' were blamed. Next morning, Rangarajan woke up early, opened the door for the newspaper guy and said, "Please stop my subscription to the Economic Times!"

Frauds

Its been acknowledged for years that Frei De Fisch is one of Modern Poetry's greatest exponents. When he writes stuff like this, its hard to disagree.
***

Artistic Fraud

Pen. Paper. Sheet. Music.
Ohmygodi'minlove.
Artsy lighting, drunken cameraman.
Monologues, Nomogolues. Curtain, shurtain.
Faked it, as usual.

There are, in the world:
Two kinds of frauds.
Mist thickened and settled
On my drying underwear.

The first sort thrive on
Ununderstandability.
Like the mist that
setted
on my underwear.
Why my underwear?
Why the mist?
Does mist ever
settle? Or does it remain mist until the
Mystery of its mistiness wears off. And then just disappear?
Rohinton, are you listening?

And then there's the second sort.
Oh, the second sort.
The sort that doesn't wear underwear.
Or experience mist.
Oh, the second sort.

Its the funner sort.
The funner sort.
The sort that tells the world they're frauds,
They tell the world they're frauds!
Because the world then thinks,
"Man, this guy might not be one!"
And then another guy says,
"Holy. He's referring to John Traicos' obscure book, Jude!"
"Mother of God. My life's changed! I'm now a right-winger!" says the midfielder.

There it is.
Overworn or underworn underwear -
depending on whether you have

great power (and hence, great responsibility) or not.

***

Also, my laptop's back. Not the data, only a new hard disk.
Further, I must thank She Who Doesn't Want To Be Named for uploading lots of music for me.
Lastly, Happy Deepavali in advance - some travels might keep me busy!

Crash

My hard disk crashed. I didn't know Macs did these things. I'm devastated. The Dude at the Service Center said, "Sir, we'll do our best to recover anything we can." But it was written on his face clearly, "Loser, you've lost your music. Now deal with it."

See, if it was just music, I would have dealt with it. Tons of work related stuff was also lost. But, I can find them on office computers and move on with life. But, there were movies also. Lots of them. Diligently downloaded over the years. Lots of stuff off archive.org, and lots of other stuff off torrents.

But again, if it was just music and movies, I'd deal with it. There was photographs also. Trips to Andamans were made last year. Many many pictures were clicked. Hostel was left. Many pictures were taken again. Kerala was paid a visit to. New camera was bought. Many arty pictures were taken. See, this is getting repetitive. That's how many photographs I've lost.

Again, music, movies and photographs one can come to terms with. But I wrote a lot of stuff on random rtf files. Lots of stuff. One-third of two shelved novels - and one was planning to be unshelved.

But again, I was unlikely to have finished any of those novels. There were various recordings of practice sessions, of cousins screeching to background music from GarageBand, and some failed attempts at composing a Love Theme in Ritigowla. Then, there were my playlists - my Kapi playlist, my chai playlist (I'm not kidding - I did have a playlist called 'chai' consisting of old-world Hindi songs to listen to while drinking chai. It is a different matter that I never listened to it while drinking chai), my sad songs playlist, my arbit jazz playlist, my non-arbit jazz playlist, my GNB playlist. Aargh.

Then, there was this most beautiful series of letters I wrote between December and February last year, that was saved only on my mail client. That hurts the most.