Bens Blog

A ghost's life- a sad story

2012-03-04T11:06:00.001+05:30

You all think that it is very easy being a ghost. No problems, you would say. No need to worry about food, clothes, shelter, illness or injury! No wife trouble, no girlfriend hassles, not even any work related tensions! All one needs to do is sleep all day, give out a couple of mournful hoots at night or say boo to small kids. In short, a perfect state to be in. You couldn’t be further from the truth. It is tough being a ghost. Its worst than leading a dog’s life. I’d certainly like to meet the bright spark who coined the adage about a dog’s life, preferably on a dark moonless night. Tell me, what is so difficult about being a dog? The dogs have the best of everything in this world, mainly due to their approach to life. A dog’s philosophy is simple. If you can’t eat it or fuck it, piss on it and move on. But can a ghost do it? Whoever has heard of a ghost eating, or acquiring carnal knowledge, or even passing bodily fluids? No one.

Believe me, friend, a ghost’s life is the worst you can ever do for yourself. Look at me! I have been a ghost for some 500 years. No mean feat, this. And a pretty feared and respected apparition at that! No exaggeration, this. I have lived on a Banyan tree at this hillock on the edge of the jungle. And was I feared and respected. No villager even dared to tread within a mile of my domain after I had grabbed a couple of woodcutters who dared to disturb my daytime sleep and hung them upside down from my tree. (That is something I am sensitive about, I can’t stand being disturbed at daytime. I bury myself in the deepest crater in the Banyan tree, close my eyes tight and sleep through the day). And those yokels came around and started cutting trees in the vicinity. They made a fearful racket and disturbed my beauty sleep. Boy was I mad! I put on my most fearsome appearance, gave a blood curding yell and grabbed those two morons by their necks. Even in my weaken state, (now stop grinning like an oaf, all decent self respecting ghosts find their powers curtailed at daytime) I flew up carrying them along and hung them upside down from the Banyan tree. I had nothing personal against them but had to do it, bound as I was to the Ghostly Code of Conduct and Etiquettes, version 2.11.1632. The rest, as they say, was history. The morons fainted, who would not! They hung there for full one day, till the villagers rescued them the next day.

From that day on, no one ever disturbed me again. In fact, every Friday, the villagers would come and offer me a black chicken and country liquor. And they left me alone for the rest of the week. As time passed, my reputation become worse (and that is good, according to the code of us spirits) and even the bravest of humans trembled with fear when they passed through the vicinity. And I grew lazy and fat as there was nothing to do except accepting the weekly offering of the black rooster and country liquor. Gotcha, you may say. Here is this fella whining about how tough it is being a ghost and all he does for centuries is sleep and grow fat. That was yesterday. Today my life is life is literally in tatters. I have been hurt in the most sensitive part of a ghost’s anatomy; my self-respect is gone and now tell me, what is left? A ghost with a punctured ego is as good as a car with punctured tyres, of no practical use.

Now this happened at the stroke on noon on the day you guys were celebrating Holi. Now let me tell you a secret. Our powers wax and wane with the phase of the moon. It peaks on No moon nights and declines gradually as the moon grows in size. On the day of the full moon, that too at noon time, we are about as powerful as a wet towel and even Count Dracula, one of the most revered chaps of our fraternity, sleeps in his coffin in that castle in Transylvania, not even daring to peep out of it. So on the day of Holi, with our powers severely attenuated, all ghosts usually hide in their shelters and you humans have the right to dress up and behave like us. Well, almost.

So here I was, a self respecting and decent ghost, trying to get some rest in the deepest crevice the Banyan tree has to offer when I get jolted out of the dreamless by a fearful racket. There was this infernal sound coming from somewhere near and I was so spooked that it took some ten minutes for my poor heart to stop palpitating. Somehow, I gathered my wits and took a peek at the cause of this disturbance. I saw that three cars and a couple of large shiny SUVs were parked in the vicinity of the hillock and a large group of humans had descended on my peaceful abode. Someone had set up a sound system with huge speakers and fearful noises were emanating from it. I listened carefully and realised that they were playing Justin Beiber songs. Believe me, he sounds worse than a gaggle of witches singing a dirge at midnight. And to compound matters the huge group of young men and women were dancing to the tune of the noise and making a general nuisance of themselves. Now if there is anything a self respecting ghost hates, it is a huge mob of humans dancing to Justin Beiber’s music in his peaceful neighborhood. That too at the stroke of noon when he needs rest like a Bedouin needs his camel.

I wondered what I should do. Didn’t these infernal humans know that this area was haunted and they were supposed to give it a wide berth? Me, the most feared ghost of the area and they were disturbing me right below my liar. I was furious. I gave out a fearful roar and rushed out, planning to scare the crap out of these insolent idiots. I was so incensed that I did not even pause to think that if I succeeded, the area would stink to high heavens for the next few days. Guess what happened? Nothing! I am ashamed to tell you that nothing came out of my ferocious charge. The bellow was lost in the blaring music and no one seemed to even notice me. Then I remembered. It was noon at my powers were at their lowest. I was probably not even visible to these jokers. And if any of them saw a shimmery from, they would attribute it to the effect of the multiple bottles of beer they were consuming. I counted the empties. The group of thirty boys and girls had already consumed some seventy beers and my beautiful hillock was littered with empty bottles and cans. Now tell me, is it easy being a ghost?

I decided that a strategic retreat was in order. I sought shelter in a nearby cave and gave the matter deep thought. You may say that I introspected till my head hurt but could not find a solution. (Hey, stop that snickering. Ghosts do have heads thought we do have a headless variety in our ilk. In fact, we ghosts are just like humans but for the fact that you humans have feet which are positioned the wrong way). What could I do about those interfering, idiotic and moronic humans? I felt compelled to defend my position as I felt that if I did not take any action now, I would have to yield my residence to them permanently. Then I had a brilliant idea, almost a stroke of genius, or so I thought at that time. Individual attack! That was the key. I flew out of the cave and wavered for a second. I do hate the midday sun as I have sensitive eyes, you see! But I steeled myself and started looking for individual who had staggered away from the group. And what do I find? I find a couple in the bushes just behind my Banyan tree. And I find that they are embracing and kissing and the boy had his hands up the……Forget it; I am not going to tell you. Just because I am a ghost you think I have no sense of decency. Anyway, I decide to teach them a lesson and rustle up a storm and blow some leaves on them. Might cool their passion a bit, I thought. And what happens, nothing. I huff and puff and blow and the girl giggles. “Ah what a nice breeze. I love it.” Girl, watch it, you can’t love two things at the same moment, can you? I decide to unleash the next weapon in my armoury, a dense fog. Now, you can imagine how difficult it is to produce a fog with the sun beating down on you but I succeed. A dense fog enveloped them and what do they do? The boy says, “Oh lovely. We have privacy. Maybe we can go all the way.”

All the way, you bastard! I’ll show you, I thought and promptly made the fog disappear. There was nothing else left to do. I assumed my most fearsome form and charged them. That, on retrospect, was a mistake. But I was blinded with fury and did what I thought was best under the circumstances. Well it was Holi, and noon and I was weakened but still I assumed the appearance of a ghost with half the face chopped off and blood flowing and stood next to them and let out a few pitiable groans. This, of course, cooled their ardor a bit. They disengaged and gave me an interested look.

“Look!” Said the girl, “A Ramsey brothers’ ghost.”

“Tomato Ketchup.” Decided the boy. “It is one of the gang trying to spook us.”

And they turned back and resumed whatever they were doing. And as for me, I have never been so insulted in this world or the next. I shimmered a bit and decided to beat it. I flew back to my tree and cried my heart out. In fact, I am clinically depressed. I want to commit suicide but that, you know, is impossible. I need a counselor, a psycho-therapist, anyone. I need Bruce Willis from THE SIXTH SENSE. By the way, could you give me Manoj Night Shyamlan’s personal number, please?

POLICING THE WEB

2011-12-07T09:05:00.006+05:30

Kapil Sibal's recent threat to social networking sites is not only ill advised but it exposes the deep rooted fear the Indian politicians in general and the UPA government in particular has developed about the new media, i.e. internet and social websites. Now coming to practical considerations, is it possible to police the social websites. Improbable if not downright impossible. I don't think that Google, Facebook, Yahoo or the others are likely to be as compliant and meek as the electronic or print media operating in India. And besides, don't these sites already have an anti- hate, anti-spam policy in existence. Would not it be simpler for the government to depute some officers to peruse the contents of these sites and use the existing safeguards to remove the content ( if it is really THAT offensive).

Bluster will not solve the issue. If anything, it will draw attention to the content Mr. Sibal finds offensive. And Sibal sahib, please answer just one question. When it comes to the problems of the common man; ensuring food security for all; rooting out corruption or even talking about it; the government seems to be having a very thick skin and deaf ears; then why this public display of overt sensitivity when a few morphed picture or cartoons of Congress leaders appear on the net? Has the public finally found a chink in your armour ??

Why India Works - written by internationally acclaimed film director Shekhar Kapoor.

2011-11-05T08:44:00.001+05:30

This is again an email forward. But it is too good not to share with you all.

A greater ‘hole in the wall’ you cannot imagine. A small fading sign on the top saying 'Cellphoon reapars' barely visible through the street vendors crowding the Juhu Market in Mumbai. On my way to buy a new Blackberry, my innate sense of adventure made me stop my car and investigate. A shop not more than 6 feet by 6 feet. Grimy and uncleaned.
"Can you fix a Blackberry ?"
"Of course, show me”
"How old are you”

"Sixteen"
Bullshit. He was no more than 10. Not handing my precious blackberry to a 10 year old in unwashed and torn T shirt and pyjamas! At least if I buy a new one, they would extract the data for me. Something I have been meaning to do for a year now.
"What’s wrong with it?"
"Well, the roller track ball does not respond. It’s kind of stuck and I cannot operate it"
He grabs it from my hand and looks at it
"You should wash your hands. Many customers have same problem. Roller ball get greasy and dirty, then no working"
Look who was telling me to wash my hands. He probably has not bathed for 10days, I leaned out to snatch my useless blackberry back..
"You come back in one hour and I fix it".
I am not leaving all my precious data in this unwashed kid’s hands for an hour. No way.
“Who will fix it?”
"Big brother"
"How big is ‘big brother?"
"big …. Umm ..thirty"
Then suddenly big brother walks in. 30 ??? He is no more than 19.
"What problem?" He says grabbing the phone from my greasy hand into his greasier hand. Obviously not trained in etiquette by an upmarket retail store manager.
"Normal blackberry problem. I replace with original part now. You must wash your hand before you use this". What is this about me washing my hands suddenly??
19 year old big brother rummages through a dubious drawer full of junk and fishes out a spare roller ball packed in cheap cellophane wrapper. Originalpart? I doubt it. But by now I am in the lap of the real India and there is no escape as he fishes out a couple of screwdrivers and sets about opening my Blackberry.
“How long will this take?”
"Six minutes"
This I have to see. After spending the whole morning trying to find a Blackberry service centre and getting vague answers about sending the phone in for an assessment that might take a week, I settle down next to his grubby cramped work space. At least I am going to be able to watch all my stored data vanish into virtual space. People crowd around to see what’s happening. I am not breathing easy anyway. I tell myself this is an adventure and literallyhave to stop myself grabbing my precious Blackberry back and making a quickescape. But in exactly six minutes this kid handed my Blackberry back. He had changed the part and cleaned and serviced the whole phone. Taken it apart, and put it together. As I turned the phone on there was a horrific 2 minutes where the phone would not come on. I looked at him with such hostility that he stepped back.
"you have more than thousand phone numbers ?"
"yes".
"backed up?"
"no"
"Must back up. I do it for you. Never open phone before backing up!"
"You tell me that now?"
But then the phone came on and my data was still there. Everyone watching laughed and clapped. This was becoming a show. A six minute show. I asked him how much.
"500 rupees" He ventured uncertainly. People around watched in glee expecting a negotiation.
That’s $10 dollars as against the Rs 30,000 ($ 600) I was about to spend on a new Blackberry or a couple of weeks without my phone. I looked suitably shocked at his ‘high price’ but calmly paid him. Much to the disappointment of the expectant crowd
"Do you have an I-Phone ? Even the new ‘4D one ?"
"no, why"
"I break the code for you and load any ‘app’ or film you want. I give you 10 film on your memory stick on this one, and change every week for small fee’!" I went home having discovered the true entrepreneurship that lies at what we call the ‘bottom of the pyramid’. Some may call it piracy, which of course it is, but what can you say about two uneducated and untrained brothers aged 10 and 19 that set up a ‘hole in the wall’ shop and can fix any technology that the greatest technologists in the world can throw at them. I smiled at the future of our country. If only we could learn to harness this potential.
‘Please wash your hands before use’ were his last words to me. Now I am feeling seriously unclean.

Flash fiction- yet more 55 word stories

2011-10-23T12:55:00.002+05:30

Eye witness

The one room chawl accommodated the entire family of seven. The newly wedded couple could not stay away from each other for long and sneaked away for a tryst. As they made out on the terrace, oblivious to the discomfort and the cold, the lone cat blinked at them, a mute witness to their passion.

Murder

Murder, she thought. Sprayed almost the entire contents of the insecticide and went to sleep, confident that the vermin would be exterminated by the morning. But a nasty surprise awaited her. When she woke -up early next morning, her kitchen was overrun by cockroaches as usual. Spray had not worked. Time to phone pest-control, she decided.

Accident

It was their tenth marriage anniversary and he had forgotten about it. After waiting the whole day for some kind of acknowledgment, his wife gave him hell and they ended up fighting bitterly as usual. He could not sleep; and while tossing and turning, he wondered whether their marriage was an event or an accident.

Amnesia

The frail old lady stared blankly.

“Do you remember the day I got my medical degree! You were so happy.” Her daughter said with a cheer she did not feel in her heart. In fact the only thing she felt was a deep dread as she recognized the relentless progress of symptoms of Alziemer’s disease.

Hysteria

The mobiles started ringing at midnight as the rumors about the imminent flood spread throughout the city. By four in the morning, the entire city was awake and on the roofs, prepared for the sudden deluge. But the river waters never rose and Yamuna flowed serenely, as if laughing at the phenomena of mass hysteria.

Indian History by a Schoolboy!!!

2011-10-13T20:57:00.001+05:30

This is an email forward I received. Too funny not to share so here it is.......

The original inhabitants of ancient India were called Adidases, who lived intwo cities called Hariappa and Mujhe-na-Daro. These cities had the best drain system in the world and so there was no brain drain from them. Ancient India was full of myths which have been handed down from son to father. A myth is a female moth. A collection of myths is called mythology, which means stories with female caricatures.

One myth says that people in olden times worshipped monkeys because they were our incestors. In olden times, there were two big families in India. One was called the Pandava and the other was called the Karova. They fought amongst themselves in a battle called Mahabharat, after which India came to be known as Mera Bharat Mahan.

In midevil times, India was ruled by the Slave Dienasty. So named because they all died a nasty death. Then came the Tughlaqs who shifted their capital from Delhi because of its pollution. They were followed by the Mowglis. The greatest Mowgli was Akbar because he extinguished himself on the battlefield of Panipat which is in Hurryana. But his son Jehangir was peace loving; he married one Hindu wife and kept 300 porcupines.

Then came Shahajahan who had 14 sons. Family planning had not been invented at that time. He also built the Taj Mahal hotel for his wife who now sleeps there. The king sent all his sons away to distant parts of India because they started quarrelling. Dara Seiko was sent to UP, Shaikh Bhakhtiyar was sent to J & K, while Orangezip came to Bombay to fight Shivaji. However, after that they changed its name to Mumbai because Shivaji's sena did not like it. They also do not like New Delhi, so they are calling it Door Darshan.

After the Mowglis came Vasco the Gama. He was an exploder who was circumcising India with a 100 foot clipper. Then came the British. They brought with them many inventions such as cricket, tramtarts and steamed railways. They were followed by the French who brought in French fries, pizzazz and laundry. But Robert Clive drove them out when he deafened Duplex who was out-membered since the British had the queen on their side.

Eventually, the British came to overrule India because there was too much diversity in our unity. The British overruled India for a long period. They were great expotents and impotents. They started expoting salt from India and impoting cloth. This was not liked by Mahatma Gandhi who wanted to produce his own salt. This was called the Swedish moment. During this moment, many people burnt their lion cloths in the street and refused to wear anything else. The British became very angry at this and stopped the production of Indian testiles.

In 1920, Mahatma Gandhi was married to one wife. Soon after he became the father of the nation. In 1942, he started the Quiet India moment, so named because the British were quietly lootoing our country. In 1947, India became free and its people became freely loving. This increased our population. Its government became a limited mockery, which means people are allowed to take the law in their own hands with the help of the police.

Our constipation is the best in the world because it says that no man can be hanged twice for the same crime. It also says you cannot be put in prison if you have not paid your taxis. Another important thing about our constipation is that it can be changed. This is not possible with the British constipation because it is not written on paper.

The Indian parlemint consists of two houses which are called lower and higher. This is because one Mr. Honest Abe said that two houses divided against itself cannot withstand. So Pandit Nehru asked the British for freedom at midnight since the British were afraid of the dark. At midnight, on August 15, there was a tryst in parlemint in which many participated by wearing khaki and hosting the flag.

Recently in India, there have been a large number of scams and a plaque, it can be dangerous because many people died of this plaque in Surat. Scams are all over India. One of these was in Bihar where holy cows were not given anything to eat by their elected leader. The other scam was in Bofor which is a small town in Switzerland. In this, a lot of Indian money was given to buy a gun which can shoot a coot.

Presently, India has a coalishun government made up of many parties, left, right and centre. It has started to library the economy. This means that there is now no need for a licence as the economy will be driven by itself.

India is also trying to become an Asian tiger because its own tigers are being poached. Another important event this year was the Shark Meeting at Malas Dive. At this place, shark leaders agreed to share their poverty, pollution and population.

An ode to Jagjeet Singh

2011-10-10T15:37:00.000+05:30

Jagjeet Singh is no more! I and countless other fans all over the globe feel a sense of personal loss. It is like losing a very close relative or someone very near your heart. Jagjeet Singh was the voice of an entire generation. Many of us who did not have an Urdu background developed a taste for the language and its poetry solely because of the magical voice of Jagjeet Singh. Urdu ghazals came alive through his wonderful compositions. God had blessed him with a unique voice which was literally one in millions. His was the voice of poetry, the voice of romance, the voice of love, the voice of purity, the voice of devotion and much more to millions of us.

The same destiny, which had endowed him with a bounty of talent which endeared him to people all over the world; had deemed it fit to give an unhappy personal life. But mysterious are the ways of the Almighty and we, mere humans, cannot even begin to comprehend the vagaries of fate. But whatever Jagjeet Singh lost in the way of personal happiness; he poured it all out in his ghazals. His ghazals are an endless source of myriad emotions and generate a kaleidoscope of feelings.

Jagjeet Singh may have gone, but he will live in the hearts of his fans forever and his ghazals will continue to delight generations.

I am sure that music lovers all over the world will join me in praying for his soul.

Jagjeet Singh, may you find happiness, eternal peace and salvation at the feet of the Almighty.

All and nothing- Book review

2011-06-03T09:00:00.000+05:30

All and nothing by Raksha Bharadiya is a book that stands out in this crowd of new age Indian English Fiction! I picked it up form the Crossword store of Benguluru airport and finished it while waiting for my train at New Delhi railway station some four hours later. Now if a book can be finished in one continuous read, that does say something positive about its readability.

The central theme of the book is about life and relationships that define the existence of most of us. The story revolves round Tina, who falls in love with Aditya, a man yet to come to terms with his failed relationship with Antara. After years of matrimony, two kids and a bout of alcoholism, Tina sees Aditya going back to Antara. Emotionally shattered and alone, she tries to come to terms with her life as well as try to make sense of the lives of few of her friends. Then we have Manas, a kindred soul and his mercurial relationship with Gayatri. There is Kriya, born to a celebrity father and struggling to hide her mediocrity by covering it with a veneer of success. Poorvi, born with the proverbial silver spoon, has her own problems in life, mostly to do with her inability to produce a male heir for her family. Upasna is a victim of recurrent domestic violence. You will have to read the book to find out whether they are able to come to terms with the vexing questions that plague their lives or not?

Raksha weaves this story of urban angst, relationships and contemporary life with a lot of skill and maturity. Her language is simple, yet elegant. The characters are well etched, the situations real and plausible, and at the same time she manages to ask uncomfortable questions about the male dominance in our society without getting too preachy.

As for weaknesses, there aren’t too many, but I think the liberal use of vernacular (Bangla, in this case) could have been avoided. The cover could have been a brighter colour than the deep melancholy blue but these are minor issues.

Priced at a reasonable Rs.95.00 and published by Rupa, the book is strongly recommended for every booklover. I would rate it at 3.5/5.

Book review- Chanakya's Chant

2011-05-14T00:18:00.001+05:30

Chanakya’s Chant is a nice thick book. When you get so much of reading for the modest price 195.00, it is generally a god deal for the booklover. So did it come up to my expectations? I believe it did. Ashwin Sanghi manages to hold the readers interest throughout the 448 page novel and that is no mean feat.

Chanakya’s Chant is a book that tells us two stories simultaneously. It is the story of Vishnu Dutt, the original political thinker this country has produced, better known as Chanakya or Kautilya to the historians. The novel goes back to the distant past (around 300 BC) and tells us the story of Chanakya’s epic lifetime struggle to put his protégé Chandragupta Maurya on the throne of Magadha and unite the entire country under his rule.

At the same time a parallel track of the novel tells us the story of Gangasagar Mishra, a modern day Chanakya, who schemes and plots his way through the murky passages of Indian politics to install his nominee, Chandni Gupta (the resemblance to Chandragupta is no coincidence, I believe) on the highest seat the country has to offer.The pace is fast and the interest does not flag despite the fact that the end is a forgone conclusion. Ashwin must have undertaken extensive research to produce this tale of political intrigue, deception, maneuvering, doublespeak and downright trickery as seen through the ages. I enjoyed reading the book but it did leave me a bit dissatisfied. Reason? While the Chanakya story holds interest and offers us glimpse into the distant past, the story of Pandit Gangasagar Misra is a bit jaded and obvious. The situations and the twists are somewhat predictable and give you the feeling of having seen it all somewhere before. The liberal use of cuss words by the historical characters seems odd (to say the least) Now I wonder if the ancients (including the venerable Chanakya) were as free with profanities as the modern day Indians.

These little irritants apart, the book is indeed value for money and will be welcomed by fans of Indian English writing. I would rate the book as 3/5.

Interviews

2011-04-28T05:11:00.003+05:30

If you would care to read some boring interviews of a nobody,

click

here

and here

and here as well.

One more

Review of Down the Road- Gray Oak Publishers

2011-04-23T09:37:00.004+05:30

first thing I did after finishing ‘Urban shots’ by Gray Oak was to order their next anthology ‘Down the Road’. It is a collection of school/college centric stories designed to evoke déjà vu in the youngsters and nostalgia in the not so young. (I prefer calling myself young at heart, slightly older in other places, but that is beside the point)

The book is packaged cleverly and has been promoted smartly. But is it as good as Urban Shots. Not to me at least( but it is almost there). The stories vary in content and quality. Some of them are extremely good. Sorroricide by Paritosh Uttam ( I am fast turning into a fan, Paritosh) unleashes powerful and moving emotions; The music room by Tra Trivedi packs a punch; Dimples and cute smiles ( Ranjani Iyer), Well placed ( Ahmed Faiyaz) and the The worm that turned ( Malathi Jaikumar) invoke humor without even trying too hard; Just a moment (Nikhil Rajagopalan) ,Learning and unlearning ( Rohini Kejarival) and Strangers in strange places( Abhijit Bhaduri) succeed in unlocking a strong sense of nostalgia; while Loves me, loves me not ( Vibhi Batra) is plain chilling. The rest of the stories run the entire gamut from good to indifferent/juvenile, but there is enough punch to keep the reader occupied.The pick of the authors? Kunal Dhabalia for An accidental start. But I don't understand why was Between friends ( Paritosh Uttam) repeated. It was featured in Urban Shots just a few months back.

I think Gray Oak is doing a yeoman’s service to the cause of English writing in India by leading a revival of the short story and this book is recommended for all lovers of short stories. My rating 3/5.

Book review- Urban Shots

2011-04-13T23:35:00.003+05:30

I started the book with a lot of expectations because of two reasons. One, I am inordinately fond of short stories and two; this book came with high recommendations. I was disappointed initially as the first two stories failed to keep up to my expectations. But things picked up with Liberation ( Malathi Jaikumar), and from Notes of discord ( Paritosh Uttam) onwards the book proved to be a worthy read.

The book is a compelling read, touching different facets of urban existence. The anthology has five sections sub-titled love, friendship, relationships, angst and longing; each consisting of an eclectic collection of short stories and straddling a gamut of emotions and feelings. What I particularly liked about the collection is that stories talk of situations and characters which are very real life and easily identifiable, sometimes the very ordinariness of the situation making it an extra-ordinary tale.

This is not a book to be read in a hurry. I would describe it as a cup of my favorite Darjeeling tea rather than a cup of Instant coffee. So the best way would be to sip it slowly, savoring every moment. Some stories are worth reading and re-reading. While the best three stories according to me are Serendipity, Stick figures and The biggest problem; the pick of the authors is undoubtedly Paritosh Uttam.

I would rate the debut book of Grey Oak publications as 3.5/5.

If you want to order a copy of the book on-line, click here.

P.S. And if the editors of this book are reading this, please please please drop me an email asking for a contribution, next time you do another collection of short stories.

A battle won....

2011-04-09T00:02:00.002+05:30

I would like to congratulate each and every citizen of our country for the first victory in the present war against corruption. A word of caution here, the first battle has been won but the war is far from over. Still, the positives that have accrued from Anna’s ongoing fast against corruption have been numerous and the major ones need to be enumerated.

The first and foremost is a clear and unambiguous message to the political establishment that people cannot be taken for granted forever and they need to lose the power-drunkenness they are suffering from. That politics is the last refuge of the scoundrel is a well known adage but it may change yet. The bureaucrat –politician- criminal nexus that has held this country ransom for so many years may find their immunity snatched away rather rudely.

Secondly, it has shredded the cloak of helplessness, hopelessness and apathy that had enveloped most of the citizens of this country and given them HOPE. Most of us had simply accepted that corruption has seeped into the very fabric of our nation and nothing can be done about it. Now we know that anything is possible and the mantra of Satyamev Jayate has been resurrected.

Thirdly, it has given us all a true leader whose whole life till today has been a saga of selflessness.

Also, it has highlighted the role positive activism can play in shaping the destiny of a nation. In addition to Anna Hazare, people like Arvind Kejrival, Kiran Bedi and Swami Agnivesh will act as role models for our youth .

Moreover, it has shown the power of media. The principled and courageous coverage of the agitation by both print and electronic media was instrumental in the eventual victory of the people in this battle. I wish that our media keeps up the high standards of reporting demonstrated this time and serves the people of this nation without fear or favour.

Lastly, it has demonstrated the power of internet and social networks like blogs, facebook and twitter. The battle may have been fought at Jantar Mantar but it was won in the cyber-world and I am sure that this will act as a powerful weapon against corruption in future as well.

Once again, congratulations to all the soldiers of this mission and JAI HIND.

A wake up call

2011-04-08T08:35:00.001+05:30

The battle lines are drawn. And the stand-off continues. Anna does not seem to be a mood to relent. And the government continues to be magnificently unaware, reveling in an ostrich like attitude. Meanwhile, people from all walks of life continue to gravitate towards India Against Corruption, jolted out of the feeling of hopelessness, helplessness and stupor.

The media (both print and 24 hour news channels) have joined the battle, this time for a worthwhile cause. The question is- Where do we go from here? What is going to happen now? I am no clairvoyant but this time I can sense the future happenings. So can every sensible person with a modicum of common sense. The only persons to be completely out of synch with reality seem to be the power drunk, bloated with their own sense of importance, ministers of Central Government. They have gone to the extent of calling this Satyagraha coercive! So now the ideals of Gandhiji are coercive and against the tenants of democracy! Then please answer these questions!

If this is undemocratic and coercive what was the freedom struggle?

And what is the difference between an imperial power/ dictatorship and a democratically elected government if they function in similar fashion?

If our politician- bureaucrat nexus is as honest as it claims to be, why is it scared of Jan Lokpal?

The Central Government is asking for more time. Time for what? Are they hoping that the protests will die off with time?

Why can’t the Prime Minister and the Chair-person of UPA intervene in the matter directly? Are they too big? Or they are still unable to understand the angst of the common citizen?

The citizens have woken up. It is high time the central government did. And please do not under- estimate the power of the ballot. If the government does not act now, the public will teach them a lesson in the next general election which is not all that far!

India against corruption- a common man's perspective

2011-04-07T08:51:00.003+05:30

The present fast to death for the implementation of Jan Lokpal Bill By Anna Hazare and the gradual flocking of enlightened citizens around him under the banner of India Against Corruption has triggered these thoughts, rather , a train of thoughts in my mind.

It is very good that at last someone is protesting against corruption. But is it a matter of too late, too less? Will the institution of another watchdog, albeit with more teeth, solve the disease of corruption which has assumed epidemic proportions in our country? I rarely see honest Indians around nowadays. We travel in trains and buy half tickets for our above 12 children (asking them to tell TT uncle that they are eleven and a half when he comes.) We pay bribes for as mundane things as getting a birth certificate, ration card or a passport. We don’t mind paying a little extra even for the smallest of our requirements (Suvidha shulk, it is called in Hindi). The so called noble professions like Teaching and Medicine have succumbed to the lure of the lucre. There is nothing called an honest or an upright politician in our country. The previously incorruptible branches of the system like the defence forces and the judiciary have become tainted. (The instance are too numerous to enumerate). Nothing and I mean nothing is sacrosanct, including conduct of entrance exams to premier institutions of the country. All the regulatory authorities need to be regulated. Now, will simplistic measures like institution of Jan Lokpal solve the problems facing our country? And what about the huge economy of Black money that flourishes in our country, primarily sourced from corruption?

Vexing questions indeed and the answers prove to be elusive as usual. But then how do we explain the huge and spontaneous outpouring of support for the venerable Anna Hazare? Simple! However corrupt this nation has become, people have started to chafe under the yoke of this unending, blatant, all prevalent and unashamed corruption. They see the beginning of the end of hydra headed monster of corruption in Anna’s courageous fight. Maybe, one Jan Lokpal Bill will not solve all problems and like CVC and CEC, it will bend itself to the system. But at last, someone is protesting! Come on, my friends, let us wake up. Let us take inspiration from the clarion call-

ARISE, AWAKE, AND STOP NOT TILL THE GOAL IS ACHIEVED.

Let us dream of a better India, a corruption free India, and a new India. There are so many of us. And if all put our hands together and push, I am sure that something will give. So join the protest, blog, tweet, use social netwoks but do something.

SPEAK OUT AGAINST CORRUPTION.

Jai Hind

Book review- Battle for Bittora.

2011-04-04T16:42:00.003+05:30

I have been a reader for most of my life. The recent boom in Indian English writing has made me very happy and I am one of the biggest fans of Indian English writing. It is indeed remarkable that India has produced so many writers who choose English as a medium of expression. But I have always felt, however good Indian writers are, a front where they have lagged behind is humour. Barring an occasional Jug Suraya, no one has really explored this particular genre well enough. When I started reading Battle for Bittora , I was expecting a nice breezy read with maybe a few startling insights into the rough and tumble world of electoral politics, but what took me by surprise was the inherent thread of subtle ( and at times, wicked) humour running throughout the book. Maybe the title should have alerted me to the author’s irrepressible sense of humour (Bittora in Hindi means a heap of cow dung). And that is the USP of this wonderful story of childhood friends who find themselves on opposite sides of an election.

Sarojini Pandey (Jinni) a twenty-five year old animator suddenly finds herself the candidate for parliamentary elections, thrust on the center stage by her grandmother, an aging but seasoned politician. Then we find out her opponent in the election is none other than Zain Altaf Khan (Zak), a close friend from her growing up days. The two meet after a long time and sparks fly when they discover that they are still hugely attracted to each other. The story moves forward in the dust and grime of Pavit Pradesh where the two engage in a no holds barred electoral battle as the candidates for Pragati Party (PP) and Indian Janta Party (IJP). (There are no prizes for seeing through the thinly disguised allusions to real political parties in present day India.) The curiosity about the eventual outcome eggs the reader on. Who will win? Jinni or Zak? And will they eventually succumb to the mutual attraction they feel despite being on different side of the great political divide? No, I am not going to spill the beans. You will have to read the book to find out.

And the book is good; in fact, very good. The characters are well etched and the pace nice. Sustaining the reader’s interest through-out in a 423 page narrative is no mean feat. Yes, it has a few weaknesses, the main one being that the author looks at the political process through rose tinted glasses. The truth on the ground is far more crude and cruel. But then, the book it has its strengths as well. I have already told you that I loved the inherent sense of fun and the wicked humour. I also liked the fact that the book is unabashedly and unapologetically Indian. It has been written for the Indian reader with no footnotes to explain the Hindi words / Indian perspectives that creep in to (prospective?) foreign readers. (How many of them read our books anyway?)

I will rate this book as 3.5 /5. If you want to order a copy on line please click here .

The best of Satyajit Ray- published by Penguin

2011-04-03T18:39:00.001+05:30

I am writing this review with the express motive of highlighting a relative unknown facet of the versatile genius, Satyajit Ray. Well known as a brilliant movie maker, he was honoured by an Oscar for lifetime achievement and a Bharat Ratna in 1992. But apart from this, he was a brilliant writer who excelled in writing for children. His stories (written originally in Bangla), though primarily written for children, have a huge following in adults, who discovered subtle shades and hidden messages in them. In addition to many short stories about super sleuth Feluda (thirty five) and super scientist Professor Shonku (forty), he wrote some seventy five short stories, mostly about the super-natural and the unexpected.

And this book contains twenty one of those, some translated from original Bangla by the master himself and the rest by Gopa Majumdar. The short stories are a rare blend of humour, intrigue, supernatural, science fiction and the unexpected. In fact, when I hark back to my childhood, when I grew up reading these stories in Bangla, I realize that it was my first taste of the exotic. And some thirty years later, when I read the translated version, I found that their charm has only increased over time. The stories will take you to a world that has an undying appeal and the twists in each and every story will leave you breathless. Ray’s world has ghosts (both friendly and malignant), aliens in unexpected shapes, carnivorous plants and extinct animals making an appearance in everyday life. There are brilliant descriptions, vivid passages blending with a rare economy of words. The first twenty stories are those which are popularly classified as Ray’s children stories and the last one Pikoo’s Diary was specifically written by Ray for adults. It is perhaps a very fitting end to this extraordinary book. (Incidentally, it was made into a tele-film by Ray in 1981)

The book has been published by Penguin and I will recommend it to each and every booklover.

The unfulfilled promise...........

2011-04-03T14:38:00.003+05:30

Now there was this kingfisher girl

Who had the country all in a whirl.

By promising to strut her stuff

And running around in the buff

If on the field our team did swirl.

Hey Poonam, this ain't fair,

Your assets you did not bare

We all think it is pretty mean

That you were nowhere to be seen.

And vanished after losing the dare.

The kingfisher gal is pretty cool

First, she make the nation drool.

In anticipation, we moan and sigh

She vanishes without even a bye

While gleefully shouting APRIL FOOL

Cocktail - short stories by Vikram Karve

2011-03-29T01:04:00.002+05:30

First and foremost, three cheers for APK Publishers for publishing a book of short stories. Almost everybody in the publishing industry (from publishers to agents to writers) assure me that short stories do not sell unless from a celebrity pen and are therefore unpublishable. It is heartening to see that Prashant Karhade of APK does not subscribe to this philosophy.

Now coming to Vikram Karve, a familiar name to those who have been following his blogs on Sulekha.com, this is his first collection of short stories. He writes about today’s urban lifestyle, about love (and lack of it), life, relationships, desires (both fulfilled and unfulfilled), yearning and boredom. His characters are real life and well etched. The twenty seven stories traverse familiar ground, invoking in the reader feelings as diverse as joy, pathos and at times amusement. But there is a problem. After a while, the emotions get repetitive. Most of the heroes are bearded, he-man, master mariner types; the women are sexy and attractive (usually dressed in tight fitting pink t-shirts tucked into hip hugging jeans) and certain phrases(Drying a divorcee’s tears is one of the most dangerous pastimes known to a man) and situations appear multiple times. That does not mean that the book is not an enjoyable read. I loved some of the stories.Lovedale touched my heart, Parting Gift is both sad and funny, Rendezvous at sunrise is different, A lazy hot afternoon in Mumbai is exquisite, Deccan Queen ingenious, Freedom is honest and Chilled beer is well, chilling. Some stories do not work that well (Every dog has his day is corny,Electrophoresis is plain silly) but none of them can be called bad.

Karve writes well and did surprise me with a few words I had not heard /read before (must get myself a good dictionary, the one in Microsoft Word has serious limitations). Overall, a good attempt and a must read for short story buffs. (My rating 3/5)

To buy the book online, please click here.

BOREDOM

2011-03-22T23:04:00.002+05:30

Boredom is a feeling / emotion/ expression/ impression/ sentiment/ mood peculiar to humans. We have phrases like midlife crisis/ quarter life crisis/ bored housewife/ its lonely at the top/ existentialist dilemma, all related to this peculiar emotion. And only humans get bored. Plants, animals, spirits and even the Gods never get bored. Just imagine a tree getting bored (it well might if it was human, after all it remains rooted to the same spot year after year.) Or an amoeba getting bored of binary fission or a dog or a horse or a tiger saying, “Dude, it’s so boring! Nothing is happening in my life!”

Ever heard of a bored ghost?? Or the creator getting bored with this predictably crazy world?? No! The exclusive lease on the word boredom has been taken by humans. Not only that, we humans coined many words to describe the same feeling. Bored with boredom? Take your pick from tedium, monotony, dullness, ennui, worldly weariness and tediousness.

We are bored with success and failure, work and studies, love and hate, play and toil, penury and wealth, sobriety and intoxication; in fact, we get bored of every conceivable situation. While this hunger for variety/ change in humans is responsible for every scientific and technological advance; this is also responsible for a major chunk of problems in an individual’s life.

And is there a solution to the vexing problem of monotony? I would say the answer lies with us. The solution is to have a positive attitude. The scepter of boredom can be taken head-on only if individuals try to live life being as creative and as productive as possible. This can be done if we work hard, play harder, develop hobbies, make good friends and treasure our family. What do you say?

Super moon

2011-03-20T08:13:00.005+05:30

Yesterday was supposed to be a Super moon day, when the moon would appear to be bigger, brighter and clearer. The romantics flooded the social network sites with moonlit night songs from you tube, the 24 hour news channels had a great time with doomsday predictions, the photographers waited with bated breaths, telephoto lenses and digital cameras while most of the world was, well, indifferent. It was just another night, wasn't it!

The weather gods decided to play spoilsport and there were scattered clouds since afternoon. And when night came, the clouds persisted making it look more like a no moon night. The moon did appear for a few minutes in its full splendour but it appeared like any other full moon day. Looked the same like last month and the month before that. Now this is not to deride the beauty of a full moon night or its charm but the hype about Super moon turned out be be just hype.

I observed that almost everyone on the street was taking photos of the moon with mobile cameras which is a bit like trying to slay a tiger by shooting at it with a pea shooter. I am sure the images that eventually emerge from them would resemble those of a scooter headlight.

Anyway, here are two photograph of yesterday's full moon for you ( and they have not been taken by a mobile camera).

Being on the other side- a true happening...

2011-03-03T08:12:00.009+05:30

My contribution to Chicken Soup for the Indian Doctor's soul - (published by Westland.) Link to the book

I was a robust young man of thirty two years and doing well in life. My practice as a pediatrician was well established, I had just brought my first car and life was good. I had worked pretty hard to achieve my standing as one of the better doctors of my town. I worked on Sundays and holidays, never turned down an emergency and worked unearthly hours. I did not even slow down when fatigued or sick. I simply popped a painkiller and carried on.

I still remember that fateful morning very clearly. I woke up at 4.00 AM with severe pain in my neck. I was slightly disoriented with sleep and the pain was unbearable. I called up a fellow physician and asked for advice.

“If the pain is unbearable, take an analgesic. I’ll send over a nurse to give you the injection and we’ll get you investigated in the morning.” He advised.

The nurse came and gave me the jab. After a few minutes I felt a sudden weakness of my right hand. I was half asleep by then as the pain had subsided just a bit. I just decided to go back to sleep with the hope that I would be fine when I woke up.

When I woke up some two hours later, I realised that my right hand and leg were completelyparalysed and I could not move them. Now that triggered off a major alarm and a lot of doctor friends descended, examined me and tried to reach a diagnosis. On failing to reach a consensus, they decided that I would be better off in an institution. So I was bundled in a wheelchair and we caught the next train to New Delhi.

We reached in the evening and made our way to G B Pant Hospital. As we reached late, none of the consultants were available. However, the resident on duty admitted me and assigned me a bed in the general ward as there was a month long waiting list for private rooms. (Those were the days before the five star private healthcare establishments and health insurance had flooded the country)

I had virtually grown up in those surroundings as most of my life had been spent working in government hospitals; first as a student, then a trainee and later a consultant but for the first time in my life, I found myself on the other side of the divide. The ward was dirty, the toilets stinky, and all the beds were occupied by patients in even worse condition than me. That was the longest night of my life. I could not sleep as the pain in my neck had returned with a vengeance. I did not know whether I would ever be able to stand or walk again in my life. Frightening visions of dreadful diseases like cancer, nerve degeneration and other unknown entities kept playing in my minds eye. I realised that the uncertainty of the diagnosis was playing on my mind.

The night of misery passed (they always do) and the morning brought hope in form of Dr. A. K. Singh, the professor of Neurosurgery. The whole day was taken up by extensive investigations he ordered, and evening found me in his office on a wheelchair.

“Vivek, I have studied your case in detail, and frankly, it is confusing. Your paralysis is due to a lesion in the neck. The MRI has revealed a fluid collection in the cervical spine which is pressing on the spinal cord. The radiologist suggests a possibility of tuberculosis but I am not convinced. We have two options; we either put you on anti-tubercular drugs empirically or open up your spine to see what the problem is. If required, we may even take a biopsy during the surgery. If you wish, you may even go in for a second opinion.” Dr. Singh said.

“Sir! What would you suggest?” I asked.

“Given a free hand I would do a laminectomy and take a look. The fluid collection at that place is definitely odd and something tells me it is not TB. But opening the cervical spine is tricky business and there is always the possibility of complications. You are a doctor and that is making me hesitate. Why don’t you take a second opinion?”

It was then I made the most important decision of my life. “Sir! I have full faith in you. Go ahead with the Surgery.”

The good doctor was still hesitant, “Vivek, are you sure? Why don’t you discuss the matter with your family before reaching a decision?”

I simply reiterated my faith in him and God and asked him to go ahead.

Next afternoon I was wheeled into the operation theater. As the anesthetist started the pre-operative drugs, I had a sudden panic attack. “I am not getting out of here alive,” the thought which was at the back of my mind came to the fore with a blinding flash and frightening certainty. However, I managed to hold on my faith in God and the Surgeon. The drugs took hold and I slipped into oblivion. I woke up after a few hours. I realized two things. First, I was still in the realm of the living; second, I had not been shifted out of the operation theater. I saw an unknown face peering at me and asked him, “May I talk to Dr. Singh please?”

“He left around half an hour back after completing the surgery. I am the anesthetist and was waiting for you to come around.”

“Could you please tell me what was the per-operative diagnosis?”

“Nothing! There was no significant disease. We found just a small blood clot that was pressing on the spinal cord and causing the paralysis. I will be shifting you to the recovery room and you should be able to move in a couple of days.

Dr. Singh visited me in the evening and clarified that all the symptoms were caused by a simple clot of blood and there was no evidence of any other pathology. I walked out the hospital a week later and have been absolutely normal for last fifteen years.

Later, I realised that all the analgesics I had been taking off and on had precipitated the bleed. I have forgotten the sufferings, the mental and physical anguish and the feeling of helplessness and hopelessness of those days but not the lessons learnt from the episode.

The suffering has made me a better human being and a better doctor. Now I know how it feels to be on the other side. I realise that however bad things may seem at a particular point of time; tomorrow is always better. Now the motto of my life is, this too, shall pass. I understand that one must always keep faith in the treating doctor and in God. And instead of offering sympathy to my little patients and their parents, I give them empathy. Lastly, since that day I have never abused analgesics or overprescribed them to my patients.

To order the book online click here

It can't be you- Prem Rao ( Book review)

2011-02-18T16:30:00.001+05:30

The man was dead….So begins Prem Rao’s debut novel, It can’t be you. And to the writer’s credit, he weaves a tale of murder, intrigue, deceit, bravery, love, lust and other myriad emotions with a lot of skill. The protagonist is murdered in the first line of the book but by no means is his role in the book over. A series of flashbacks tell us the story of Colonel Belliappa, war hero and psychopath rolled into one. We are introduced to his equally complex family which consists of his second wife, the beautiful and seductive Elena; his hot blooded and promiscuous daughter Shefali; his son Preetam, an apparently affable young man who has darker shades to his character and his long deceased first wife Dinaz, who casts a long shadow on his present. The story moves forward and we discover that every surviving family member had a motive and opportunity to kill Colonel Belliappa. Prem has developed this part skillfully and pointed the finger of suspicion at all members of the family, one by one. And this suspense is well maintained till the end. The end is unexpected, as befits a thriller and leaves the reader satisfied.

Talking of other pluses, the cover is intriguing; the language good, the pace nice and the characters well etched. The portions describing Coorg are vividly done. The description of Belliappa’s life in the army and the action sequences are the highlights of the book. Prem Rao shows flashes of brilliance and a lot of promise as a debutant.

Of the negatives, the portions about sex seem to be added as an afterthought, maybe as a concession to market forces. I would have been happier with crisper editing and a font size at least two points larger. Hopefully, these shortcomings will be taken care of in the next edition.

Overall, a good first book by Prem Rao, who has turned to writing after almost 36 years of professional work as a Talent Management Specialist and an executive coach and I am sure there will be many more from his pen/ laptop/desktop/ whatever.

If you want to buy a copy of the book online please click here.

Book Review- Benaami

2011-02-14T14:59:00.002+05:30

Benaami, the debut novel of Anish Sarkar is a significant step forward in many respects. First, the excellent production quality makes the discerning reader happy. (True, the printers devil has struck in a place or two but then I have yet to see a completely error free novel printed in India.) Amaryllis, a relatively new entrant in the field of English language publishing, deserves kudos for the high standards of editing and production.

Secondly, and perhaps more significantly, it stands head and shoulders above the present lot of offerings in the market. A taut and pacy thriller, it moves effortlessly between the past and present as it tells us the compelling story of the past incarnation of Arjun, a software developer, as Kartik, the founder of a secret society named Benaami dedicated to uprooting British rule in India. Arjun is on a quest to solve the conundrum of his recurrent nightmares. Enter the charismatic Prof. Sheila Guha, who provides the support as well as the romantic angle. The story draws its strength from a secret from the past which poses a threat to the present of both Sheila and Arjun. The technique of moving alternately between the past (printed in italics) and the present is used well. Despite the complex storyline, the two stories intermingle well. The link between the past and present is brought out beautifully as the story hurtles along at a breakneck speed towards the explosive climax. The suspense about Brahmasrta, the secret weapon of Benaami is preserved till the end. The characters have been etched well, the pace never slackens and the suspense and intrigue is maintained till the last page. The story, though far fetched is plausible. I do see the plot of a major block buster movie in this novel.

I am sure Anish Sarkar will be a significant name in Indian English fiction in coming years. If you are fond of fast paced thrillers, you will like this one.

Order your copy of the book here.

My first interview.

2011-02-07T15:48:00.000+05:30

Click here to read my first interview about my début novel The Long Road.

Growing up in the seventies!

2011-01-29T08:48:00.000+05:30

Someone emailed me the following article. I liked it and thought of sharing it with my friends on rediff. All the youngsters on Rediff may find it a bit difficult to conceive that such a world existed. Yes, it did, and most of its inhabitants were reasonably happy….

For those who grew up during the 70s in middle class India, here are some things that you can identify with – at least I do!

1. Though you may not publicly own to this, at the age of 12-17 years, you were very proud of your first ‘Bell bottom’, your first ‘Maxi’ or your first Apache jeans.

2. Phantom Mandrake were your only true heroes. The brainy ones read ‘Competition Success Review’.

3. Your ‘Camlin’ geometry box Natraj/Flora pencil was your prized possession.

4. The only ‘holidays’ you took were to go to your grandparents’ or your cousins’ houses.

5. Ice-cream meant only - either an orange stick, a vanilla stick, or a Choco Bar if you were better off than most.

6. You gave your neighbour’s phone number to others with a ‘c/o’ written against it because you had booked yours only 7 years ago and were still waiting for your number to come.

7. Your first family car (and the only one) was a Fiat or an Ambassador. This often had to be pushed by the entire family to get going.

8. The glass windows in the back seats used to get stuck at the two-thirds down level and used to irk the shit out of you! The window went down only if your puny arm could manage the tacky rotary handle to pull it down. Locking the door was easy. You just whacked the other tacky, non-rotary handle downwards.

9. Your mom had stitched the weirdest lace curtains for all the windows of the car. They were tied in the middle and if your dad was the comfort-oriented kinds, you had a magnificent small fan upfront.

10. Your parents were proud owners of HMT watches. You ‘earned’ yours after SSC exams.

11. You have been to ‘Jumbo Circus’; have held your breath while the pretty young thing in the glittery skirt did acrobatics, quite enjoyed the elephants hitting football, the motorcyclist vrooming in the ‘Maut ka Gola’ and it was politically okay to laugh your guts out at dwarfs hitting each others bottoms!

12. You have at least once heard ‘Hawa Mahal’ on the radio.

13. If you had a TV, it was normal to expect the neighborhood to gather around to watch the Chitrahaar or the Sunday movie. If you didn’t have a TV, you just went to a house that did. It mattered little if you knew the owners or not.

14. Sometimes the owners of these TVs got very creative and got a bi or even a tri-coloured anti-glare screen which they attached with two side clips onto their Weston TVs. That confused the hell out of you!

15. Black White TVs weren’t so bad after all because cricket was played in whites.

16. You thought your Dad rocked because you got your own (the family’s; not your own own!) colour TV when the Asian Games started. Everyone else got the same idea as well and ever since, no one came over to your house and you didn’t go to anyone else’s.

17. You dreaded the death of any political leader because of the mourning they would announce on the TV. After all how much ‘Shashtriya Sangeet’ can a kid take? Salma Sultana also didn’t smile during the mourning.

18. You knew that ‘Indira Gandhi’ was somebody really powerful and terribly important. And that’s all you needed to know.

19. The only ‘gadgets’ in the house were the TV, the Fridge and possibly a mixer.

20. All the gadgets had to be duly covered with a crochet covers and sometimes even with ingenious, custom-fit plastic covers.

21. Movies meant Rajesh Khanna or Amitabh Bachchan. Before the start of the movie you always had to suffer the obligatory ‘Newsreel’.

22. You thought you were so rocking because you knew almost all the songs of Abba and Boney M.

23. Your hormones went crazy when you heard ‘Disco Deewane’ by Naziya Hassan - Zoheb Hassan.

24. School teachers, your parents and even your neighbours could whack you and it was all okay.

25. Photograph taking was a big thing. You were lucky if your family owned a camera. A reel of 36 exposures was valuable hence it justified the half hour preparation ‘setting’ the ‘posing’ for each picture. Therefore, you have at least one family picture where everyone is holding their breath and standing at attention!

And we were really happy then….

First Love

2011-01-29T08:45:00.006+05:30

With everyone writing about love, I too thought of joining the brigade. Although officially middle aged and certified jaded, I was young once and as a reed thin and gawky (read ugly) young man, I too yearned to find the love of my life. Now it was a different matter that all the beautiful girls in my college never even looked at me. (On honest retrospection, I really don’t blame them) But hormones being hormones, they were doing their job and I was pining away for the princess of my dreams.

And one day, I got it. A small crumpled note, thrown into my hostel room. (Those days there were no mobiles, no internet, no social websites. Cards were too expensive and the only acceptable way of conveying your sentiments were anonymous notes written on pages torn off our notebooks). I like you, it said in large feminine hand writing. I nearly swooned with excitement. I rushed to the bathroom, the only place where we got a modicum of privacy and gazed at it lovingly. I even smelled it, expecting it to be perfumed, but it smelled of formalin from the dissection hall of the anatomy department. I tried to imagine the girl behind the note, but my imagination boggled. I went around grinning like an idiot for a few days till my room mate got alarmed and offered to accompany me to the psychiatry department for a checkup. I politely declined and smiled inward. What does this retard know? I thought, a girl actually likes me.

After a fortnight, there was another one. A note, I mean and not a room mate. Did you get my previous note, it asked and went on to declare, I want to talk to you. Talk to me, wow, great, unbelievable. All I need to do is find the girl behind the note. And that was easier said than done. I spent the better part of the week sneaking looks at all my female classmates and trying to find the girl behind the note. But it was of no avail. There was not even a hint of interest in any of the kohl lined eyes. The stupid tutor caught me staring at the girls and kicked me out of the class for the day.

Another note came after a week. Why are you ignoring me, it asked plaintively, Why don’t you reply. Ignoring who???? And I want to reply! In fact I want to throw myself at your beautiful feet and kiss them till kingdom comes but how do I find you????? By now the testosterone and other sundry relations in my puny frame were at boiling point. Do you know what these are? The same hormones which make the she donkey appear beautiful to the he donkey and the female owl the most desirable to the male owl and all that. Got the drift? Good!

It was time to get some help. I confided in my close friends over a bottle of shared beer (as one bottle was all we could afford in those days of penury.) You are bullshitting; no girl will send you a note; someone is pulling your leg etc. were the universal verdict. At last my room mate (the same who had diagnosed me a loony) took the responsibility of hunting up the lady in question. He went about the job with a calm assurance (which even bordered on indifference to my palpitating heart) A day passed, two days, three and then a week and there was no progress. Relax, these things take time was his standard rejoinder to my constant pestering. The week turned to a month and there was no answer. Yes, he started staying away from the room for inordinately long periods of time.

Then I found out that he had been spending most of the time with a girl from my class in the canteen. I was aghast at this perceived act of betrayal. When I accused him of stealing my girl, he was unrepentant. Actually dude, the notes were meant for me. You simply picked them up by mistake, was his explanation.

Flash fiction- 55 word stories

2011-01-29T08:05:00.003+05:30

I have just one thing to say in defence of these stories. All of them are exactly 55 words.

The beer bar was shrouded in shadows. The dancers gyrated to raunchy bollywood numbers on the makeshift stage while the patrons gaped at them.
A group of young friends in a corner chatted animatedly. “Shit!” said one of them, pointing to a couple of middle aged men who had just entered. “My dad is here!”

***

The private detective listened as the lady said, “I am sure my husband is cheating on me. I want you to get me the proof so that I can divorce the insect.”
After she had left, the man sighed as he remembered that her husband had been in the previous day with a similar demand.
***

As the sunlight faded in the cold and foggy December evening, most of the working girls hurried home. Some had families to go back to while others went back to their respective working women hostels or PG accommodations.

However, for the girl with sad eyes, excessive make-up and cheap perfume, the day was just beginning.

***

Her husband was away to Bangkok.

It’s a very important academic event and I simply can’t miss it, he had told her before going.She had smiled in acquiescence while feigning ignorance about his real motive.

She picked up the phone and dialed. “Hi sweetheart, today you can stay the whole night if you wish…. “

***

The midwife had been struggling with the delivery the whole night.

It was a difficult case and they should have taken her to the city hospital, she grumbled.

But the family was poor and could ill afford the transport and the costs involved.

At last, the baby arrived and cried lustily. She smiled in relief.

***

It had been raining the whole night.

The overflowing river waters were threatening to enter the little hut where she lived with her three children.

They had all spent the night huddled in the middle.

It stopped raining in the morning and the sun peeped through the clouds bringing with it a message of hope.

***

He stopped his car on seeing the roadside lunatic.

Some Good Samaritan had left cooked rice and water on the sidewalk for the birds.

The mynahs and crows were having a feast and he was happily sharing their meal.

He snapped a photograph on his mobile camera for his face book update and drove on.

***

He scoffed at the concept of ghosts.

Was willing to spend a night in a haunted house to win a bet ; he took a flask of coffee and his ipod, made himself comfortable and waited for the night to end so that he could collect the money.

The night never ended, at least for him.

***

Room number 206, Sunrise Hotel.

Bored housewife ….afternoon trysts.
Fun as well as some cash.

Waiting for her next client.

The bell chimes! She puts on her most seductive smile to usher him in.
Both stare at each other in utter shock.

Wasn’t her husband supposed to be working in his office at that time?

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2010-11-30T09:14:00.003+05:30

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Howzzat PART-IV ( Concluding Part)

2010-05-09T05:37:00.001+05:30

The Boeing 707 touched down and taxied on the tarmac while Tarun looked out of the window. It was his first look at a foreign country. No, not exactly the first look as they had stopped over at Singapore for 12 hours a day back. Tarun had chalked up many firsts in the past 48 hours, first look at an airport, first plane ride, first journey abroad and he was thrilled to bits. The fatigue of the 38 hour journey could not dampen his enthusiasm and spirit. They were whisked through immigration and customs and put on a beautiful air-conditioned bus with huge glass windows.

“This bus is even more comfortable than the plane!” Was the unspoken thought in everyone’s mind. The bus took them to their destination, the Auckland Hilton. None of the boys except Rohan had been in such opulent surroundings and they were suitably impressed. They were given rooms in pairs and his roommate was Arvind Swamy from Chennai, the amiable wicket keeper of their team. After a sumptuous dinner, everyone retired for the night to sleep off the fatigue of the journey.

The next day was free and they were taken on a brief tour of the city. The evening was spent in the huge indoor swimming pool of the hotel. Praveen Amre called a brief team meeting and addressed the boys.

“We start our practice sincerely from tomorrow. We have exactly two days to get in shape for the four day test match against the New Zealand colts. The playing eleven will be decided on the morning of the match. The tour selection committee which comprises of me, our manager Mr. Sharma and the Captain Rohan Joshi will decide the final eleven. Remember that you guys are ambassadors of our country and please do not do anything that embarrasses the team or our country.”

They went to the ground the next day and started practicing in earnest. June was peak summers in India and off season for cricket but it was the height of winters in New Zealand. And it was very cold. A chill wind blew across the field numbing their Indian bodies. Even the high altitude camp at Chail had not prepared them for such harsh conditions. Praveen Amre made them warm up and put them to work immediately. Tarum was asked to bowl at the nets but he gat tired just after four overs.

“Get used to the conditions if you want to do anything worthwhile.” Praveen Amre was merciless as he put them through the grind and tried his best to get the boys to battle fitness.

The day of the match dawned and a team meeting was called at eight am. The boys gathered in the Conference room, nervous and fidgety.

“Here is the playing eleven,” announced Amre and proceeded to name them. Tarun was in and he felt a huge wave of relief wash over him. The team proceeded to the stadium which was a beautiful lush green ground with a picturesque pavilion and few spectator stands. There was a sparse crowd in attendance and most of it comprised of tricolor waving NRIs . Rohan went out for the toss which was won by David Ringer, the captain of the New Zealand colts who expectedly elected to bat first. Rohan was disappointed but Tarun was elated. He was going to have a go at the New Zealanders at last.

“I am playing for India at last.” He thought. “Under 19 today, tomorrow, who knows!” There were three pacers in the team and Rohan decided to start with Hapreet Singh, the lanky Sardar from Punjab.

Harpreet bowled steadily if unspectacularly and conceded just two runs in the first over. Rohan then threw the ball to Tarun and Tarun felt the palpitations as he walked up to his run up. The first ball was a wide. So were balls two and three. Rohan looked irritated as Swami ran up to Tarun from behind the stumps and asked him to reduce speed and concentrate on direction. The fourth ball was not bad but the opening batsman proved to be more than equal to it and drove it beautifully through the covers for four runs. And that opened the floodgates. Tarun’s spell of first six overs resulted in 35 runs without any wickets. Rohan changed the bowlers but to no avail. At lunch, New Zealand were 102/0. The day went their way and they ended the day at 320/2 with the two successes going to Harpreet. Tarun’s figures read as 22-0-109-0.

A weary and dispirited Indian side made it back to the hotel. No one felt like talking much. Amre did call a team meeting and gave a pep talk but it was not of much use.

New Zealand continued their domination on the next day as well and eventually declared at tea with the score-line at 555-4. Tarun bowled steadily on day two but went wicket-less. Rohan and Swami opened the batting for India and played resolutely to reach a score of 30/ 0 at the end of first hour. Then disaster struck and Swami was bowled by a scorcher. As Pradeep Patil, the one down batsman made his way to the ground, Amre asked Tarun to pad up.

“Just twenty more minutes to go. I want a night watchman to stand by.”

Pradeep and Rohan continued to play carefully but Pradeep was caught behind with just five balls left in the days play. While the Kiwis jumped and hollered and celebrated boisterously, Tarun walked to the middle. The pads seemed to drag him down and the bat felt extraordinarily heavy. Tarun tried to concentrate on the job in hand that was to survive five balls and deny the Kiwis another wicket before the end of the days play.

The tall New Zealander walked to the end of his run up and charged in. He banged it in short and it whizzed past Tarun’s ears before he could react. The next was straight and accurate and Tarun carefully patted it back to the bowler. “Two gone, three to go.” He counted as he concentrated furiously. The next two were outside the line of the off stump and Tarun let them go. The last ball pitched at a similar spot but swung inwards. Tarun was watchful and fended it off before it could crash into the off stump.

Next morning found Tarun more confident. He started middling the ball and notched up a partnership of 30 runs with Rohan. That is when Rohan got careless. He steered a ball towards fine leg and started running. The fielder at deep fine leg had started running towards the ball and Tarun signaled no. Rohan had nearly reached the other end and Tarun was rooted to the crease. The ball thudded into the keepers gloves and he took the bails off in a flash. Rohan was furious. He mouthed a few choice Hindi invectives at Tarun and stomped off the field. Tarun’s concentration was shattered. He missed the next few balls, got frustrated and took a mighty swap at the next delivery. The ball flew high and went straight down to the long off fielder who caught it smartly.

As Tarun reached the pavilion, Rohan launched a diatribe at him.

“You stupid fool. You got me out deliberately. I will see to it that you pay for this.”

“But it was your fault. There was no run. You just steered the ball and ran without waiting for my call or looking at the fielder!”

“Even if it was so you should have sacrificed your wicket for me. After all I am the captain and could have done something to save the situation. What did you do? You got out the very next over. Bloody middle class asshole!”

Tarun was shocked at the verbal assault and looked around for help. But nobody came to his rescue. The Kiwis never let go of the strangle-hold they had over the opponents and India had to follow on. The Indian team had been completely demoralized by then and went on to lose the match by an innings and twenty five runs.

The tour proved to be a disaster with India losing all three matches. As for Tarun, he never got a chance after the forgettable debut and was made to carry drinks for the next two matches. Maybe the Captains ire had something to do with it. Maybe Tarun did not belong to that level of Cricket. The team returned to India and an enquiry was set up to probe the poor performance of the team. Few heads rolled, notable among which were Amre and Rohan Joshi. Tarun too was dropped and not selected again. He gradually slipped out of the public eye and was soon forgotten.

Now Tarun is the Cricket coach of Christ Church College, Kanpur. His wife is a teacher in St. Aloysius School. He has two offspring and wants them to study hard and join a professional course like MBBS, B Tech. or MBA. He does not want his children to be sportsmen.

CONCLUDED….

HOWZZAT PART-III

2010-05-07T15:33:00.010+05:30

The camp was slated to start after a month, exactly a week after Tarun’s Seventeenth birthday. Tarun had become a minor celebrity in Kanpur after being selected in the probables. A couple of Newspapers being published from Kanpur had run his interview and profile. Tarun liked the one that went ‘Kanpur lad en route to Indian Test team’. But the feeling of euphoria faded and was replaced by mounting anxiety as the date of the camp approached. Mr.Mishra applied for a few days leave and decided to take the entire family to Bangalore to see Tarun off to the camp. Tarun did not want to go with an entourage and another argument ensued.

“We will go four days before the camp starts. I have applied for LTC and we’ll stay at the Bank Holiday Home. Everyone can have a holiday. You go to your camp and we’ll come back home after visiting Mysore and Ooty.” Mr. Mishra suggested and Tarun agreed.

“But when I report to the camp only you go with me. I don’t want anyone to think that I am a small baby.”

Tarun reported for the camp in time. In fact, he reached the venue the moment the office of Bangalore Cricket Academy opened but was surprised to see that 22 out of the 30 probables had already turned up. The manager of the camp received him and allotted him a room in the Academy hostel.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Mishra, we’ll take good care of the lad. After all, he is a potential star.” He assured Tarun’s father as he took leave.

By evening all 30 probables had turned up and they were introduced to the coach of India under nineteen team. Praveen Amre, the coach was an ex-cricketer and a no nonsense man.

“Boys, I know that all of you were big stars in the places you have come from. But let me tell you that it amounts to nothing out here. This is a different level and a different ball game altogether. We start working from tomorrow. The day starts at five thirty when you’ll be woken up. The schedule is on the notice board and everyone will stick to it. I want no dissent, no arguments or excuses. And if you think you are in an Army camp, let me tell you it is not so, it is worse than that. The coaching will involve stamina building, weight training, psychological counselling, and of course cricket. We have two assistant coaches, a physiotherapist and a nutritionist. You are not allowed to go out by yourself without permission. On Sundays, you will be granted leave to go out. If you are tired and want some relaxation, I’ll suggest a few laps in the swimming pool. At the end of this month, I hope all of you’ll be ready to represent your country. Any questions?

By then all young probables were so intimidated that there were no questions.

The days of the camp passed in a blur. Amre made all of them work hard, discover new facets to their game and polish their skills. Tarun refused to eat chicken but was convinced by the nutritionist to eat a lot of eggs and by the end of the month he developed a taste for them. As a motivational technique, Amre invited cricket stars to the academy and asked them to talk to the trainees, sometimes even visit the nets. Tarun got to see Rahul Dravid, Kumble and Zaheer Khan. He even got to talk personally to Zaheer and ask him a few questions about different ways of gripping the ball.

At the end of the month, Tarun was in a different league. His muscles became stronger and he added many weapons to his armoury, the most useful of which were the bouncer and the dipping yorker. His bowling action and run-up also improved and his confidence in his own abilities soared. He got along with most of the probables except one. He felt a particularly strong antipathy for Rohan Joshi, sicon of an industrial family from Mumbai and a stylish left handed batsman. Rohan, with his oodles of talent and superior attitude, was contemptuous of Tarun’s middle class background. He was also the guy who was particularly severe on Tarun’s bowling and meted out the maximum punishment to him in the trial matches. However, he knew that Rohan was tipped to be the captain of the team and therefore did not openly show his dislike.

The camp concluded and all the players were sent home. Before they left the coach addressed them all.

“The selection committee meets next week and the team will be announced after the meeting. The chosen sixteen will have a two week conditioning camp at Chail and then directly fly to New Zealand. It will be winters in New Zealand and very cold. I hope that the high altitude conditioning camp will make it easier for the players to adjust to that. Hope to see some of you at Chail. And remember, for those of you who do not make it to the team, it is not the end of the road. You all are a talented bunch and everybody has worked very hard. So there will be many opportunities even for those who do not make it to the team.”

Tarun returned to Kanpur and was back to his classes. But he could not concentrate on his studies. He did not even feel like playing Cricket after the grind of the camp. And he also realized that he had moved into a different league of the game. He just waited for the team to be announced with bated breath. And when the team was announced and he was in it, the entire city erupted in joy. As is common in these days of media hype and instant stardom, the entire state of U.P. knew about the new star in the making by the evening.

To be continued.....

Link to concluding part

Howzzat PART-II

2010-05-06T06:42:00.001+05:30

Tarun could not keep away from the Cricket field for very long and was back in the thick of action soon. But he did make a sincere effort to study, especially maths and science. The twin threats of the looming board examinations and Father Jerome’s pressure ensured that he spent more time studying and less in the field. And when he appeared in the exams he surprised himself by doing reasonably well. The day the exams were over he declared that he wanted to go to Lucknow for the trials of UP cricket team.

“You are just sixteen.” Said Mr. Mishra. “I don’t think you are ready for anything beyond Interschool cricket. But let’s do one thing. You start going to Green Park and hone your skills with the local coach. Train for a couple of months and then we’ll see where you stand.”

So Tarun went to Green Park Cricket Stadium, the erstwhile venue of many a Test Match which had fallen into disrepute over the past few years because of poor maintenance. Pawan Sharma, the Cricket Coach was an ex Ranji player and he looked at Tarun with a critical eye.

“Good height and bone structure. But you are too thin. You need to build some muscles and develop some stamina. Only then can you think of being a fast bowler. Anyway, you report to me at Five thirty tomorrow morning. Come in proper kit and be punctual.”

Next morning saw Tarun reach the stadium with dreams of impressing the coach with his speed and guile.

“Run around the ground five times and don’t be slack.” All the young hopefuls were made to jog at a pretty fast pace with the coach pushing the stragglers. By the time the five laps were completed Tarun was ready to collapse. The coach gave them five minutes to recover and put them though half an hour of rigorous fielding practice. Then he gave Tarun the bat and made him bat at the nets for another half hour. Tarun never got a chance to bowl a single over. The same routine continued for a week and Tarun was not given the ball at all. He was willing to quit in disgust but at the end of the week he discovered that his stamina had increased dramatically and to his surprise he realized that he was batting well. He had never paid any attention to his batting earlier but now he was stroking the ball well. On day ten, when he was tying on his pads after the fielding practice, the coach intervened.

“Enough batting, son. Let us see if you still remember how to bowl.”

Tarun tried his best to ball fast and ended up spraying the ball all over the place. The coach shook his head and went to work on him.

“Speed and accuracy.” He drilled into Tarun’s head again and again. “Develop speed and accuracy first and guile can come later.”

At the end of three months, Tarun was a transformed player. From a talented schoolboy, he had gone on to become a near professional cricketer. Meanwhile, the board results had been declared and Tarun had passed with 61% aggregate much to his own surprise and the delight of his parents. He was happy at last and had forgotten all about Sports College, Lucknow.

“I want to join Christ Church College and continue to practice at Green Park with Pawan Sir.” He told his father when asked about his future plans.

Tarun joined Christ Church College and was immediately selected in their cricket team. He continued to excel at the game and in six months had built up a formidable reputation in Kanpur and neighboring cities.

“The trial for India under Nineteen Cricket team will be held in Delhi in three months time. Gopal Malhotra, my old team mate is one of the selectors. He has asked me to take you to the trial as he has been following your progress and is convinced of your potential. But don’t expect any favours. Only a fair chance. From today you will start weight training to strengthen your shoulders and biceps. The time for practice will be doubled. You will also have to improve your batting further as that will enhance your chances of making it to the team.” Pawan Sharma told Tarun on the day he performed brilliantly in a Inter College Cricket match. “And I’ll have to talk to your father about your diet. You really need to build up some muscle.”

Three months later saw Tarun, accompanied by Pawan Sharma, reach Ferozshah Kotla Cricket Ground in Delhi for the trials. There were some two hundred young hopefuls and Tarun was depressed when he saw the crowd. Most of the young men were tall and well built and many looked older than nineteen years.

“There is no way I’ll be noticed in this crowd.”He said nervously. “Let’s go back.”

But Pawan Sharma was cool.

“Relax, son. I am there with you.” And he went to greet Gopal Malhotra and several other coaches who were present. The trials started in earnest and Tarum was made to bowl five over s at a stretch. He went flat out and tried to bowl as fast and as accurately as possible. Krish Srikanth, the chief selector noticed him and called him over.

“I am going to pad up and I want you to ball twelve deliveries to me. First six should be Yorkers and for the last six you can do what you please.”

Tarun was so nervous that he could not even reply. Krish Srikanth playing against him!!! He merely nodded and walked to the run up. The first three attempts resulted in full tosses and Srikanth hit them with elan. The fourth and fifth were wrongly directed and were left alone. Pawan walked up to him and patted his shoulders.

“Relax son. Don’t think that you are bowling to Krish. Imagine that you are bowling at a routine college match.”

Tarun nodded, walked to the run up and gave everything he had to the ball. The ball was beautifully directed, curved in slightly and landed on toe end of Srikanth’s boot. Srikanth hobbled over to him and patted his back.

“Now that was what we call a toe crusher. Well done, young man. Pawan, this boy has potential.”

The trials went on for three days during which all the boys had to demonstrate their prowess at all three departments that is batting, bowling and fielding. The selectors kept a hawk eye on the proceedings paying a lot of attention to the player’s innate athletic ability.

At the end of day three they went into a meeting along with the video analyzer who had caught all the action on camera and had all the clips on a laptop. The meeting stretched for hours while the players agonized outside.

A list of thirty probables was declared at the end and the boys were instructed to report for a month long preparatory camp at Bangalore after a fortnight. The final fifteen to tour New Zealand would be selected at the conclusion of the camp, it was announced.

In all, seven pacers were selected for the camp and Tarun Mishra was one of them.

To be concluded…….

Link to part III

Howzzat- a cricketer's tale PART-I

2010-04-27T21:56:00.009+05:30

Tarun was bored. He hated studies. Of all subjects taught in the school maths was the worst. He waited impatiently for the bell to ring so that he could rush out to the field to play cricket. Cricket was his life. He was good, by far the best player of his class, even the whole school. On the other hand, academically he was the worst student of his class. He fidgeted impatiently; he wanted to be out there in the cricket field. He had spent the greater part of the previous evening watching IPL on TV. He had minutely observed the pacers come up with the slower one, particularly the back of hand delivery. He thought that he had picked up the trick. All he needed to do now was try it out in the ground. He seethed with impatience, while Mr. Rathore, his maths teacher went on about some obscure theorem. The bell rang at last, much to his relief.

In less than a minute, he was on the field. Sarthak, the captain of the school team and three years his senior was already padding up.

“I bet you will not be able to last a full over against me!” He threw the challenge.

Sarthak had a healthy respect for Tarun’s pace but he was a supremely confident young man. He accepted the challenge. “I’ll let you open the bowling against Jaipuria School in Sunday’s match if you bowl me out in the first over.”

Tarun picked up the ball and went to the run up. The first three balls were his stock deliveries and Sarthak negotiated them with ease. The fourth one was short and wide and Sarthak dispatched it to the boundary with the disdain it deserved. He looked at Tarun and said, “Looks like you have to wait a bit longer to open the bowling attack for your school!”

Tarun concentrated furiously and tried the trick he had picked up from the TV last evening. The run up and initial bowling action was the same but instead of banging the ball in he swung his wrist at the last moment and bowled from the back of the hand. The resultant delivery was much slower. Sarthak, buoyed by his earlier success tried hitting the ball in a similar manner. The bat swung much earlier while the ball pitched, turned and crashed into the wickets, sending the off stump flying. The PT teacher, Mr. Kapil, who was watching the proceedings with interest, was enthused.

“That is the first time I have seen this done by a schoolboy. Tarun, you have a great future in cricket.”

And that was the moment from which Tarun started dreaming. Dreaming of becoming a professional cricketer.

Born in a middle class family of Kanpur, Tarun was the youngest of the three siblings. No one in his family ever played cricket. His father was a bank employee while his mother a housewife. His elder sisters were both good students who dreamed of making it big in life through hard work and academic brilliance. Tarun however hated studies and was simply crazy about cricket. He had never thought of Cricket as a career option. It was just a way to run away from studies but from that day onwards, he started dreaming of becoming a professional cricketer.

“But why can’t you send me to Sports College, Lucknow. Mohammad Kaif, R.P.Singh and Suresh Raina are all from there.” Tarun argued.

A raging argument was in progress in the Mishra household. Tarun had declared that he had enough of studies and was going to join Sports College, Lucknow after his ICSE next year. His father had a different opinion.

“The way you are progressing, it is going to be very difficult for you to clear ICSE.” He proclaimed. “Secondly, joining Sports College is a ridiculous idea. The students there don’t study at all. They waste some of their time on the field and most of it roaming around in Hazratganj. And don’t give me any nonsense about Kaif and Raina. They are talented and dedicated players and don’t compare yourself with them.”

“All fathers think that their son is useless. I don’t think I am meant for sitting in a classroom and mugging. I am a good cricketer and my future lies in the game. And by the way, even IPL level cricketers make bigger money than Bank managers.”

“Shut up Tarun. Even I was a good player in School. But I did not use it as an excuse to run away from studies. You are just in class IX and not mature enough to decide what to do with your life. And just because your sports teacher praised a delivery of yours does not mean that you have become a world class player.”

Tarun’s mother, usually a meek woman who rarely aired an opinion of her own was forced to intervene.

“Enough arguments, Tarun. Your father is right. Your first priority in life should be studies. Pay more attention to studies and score good marks in ICSE. We are not saying that don’t play cricket. Our contention is simply that at the moment your focus should be studies. And if you do well in ICSE, your father will take you to MRF Pace Foundation in Chennai and then you can find out if you are really any good. And surely studies are important. You don’t want to sound like Pakistani cricketers when they interview you on TV after you win the man of the match award.”

And thus the argument ended. Mr. Mishra was under the impression that Tarun would focus on studies for the next two years while Tarun had new things to dream about; MRF Pace Foundation, T A Shekhar, Dennis Lilee and Harsh Bhogle interviewing him on TV after he won the man of the match award.

**

The year passed quickly. Tarun paid more attention to cricket than to his studies. But his bowling did not improve beyond a certain point.

“You are not giving enough time to cricket.” Cribbed his coach, “Besides, you are painfully thin. You need more proteins. Lots of eggs and non veg food.”

Now eggs and non veg food were unheard of in Mishra household. Also, Tarun had dreams but did not have the discipline or dedication to work harder than that. And then came the fateful summons from the Principal’s office. Mr. Mishra received the call two days before the results for annual exams were to be declared.

“Mr. Mishra, I have a soft corner for this boy. I know he is intelligent and he is by far the most talented cricketer of this school. But he is just not paying enough attention to studies. Here is his result. He has done well in English and Computers, passed in Hindi and Social Studies but is failing in Maths and Science. If I promote him, he’ll be appearing for boards next year. I cannot compromise with the reputation of the school. Either he has to repeat class IX or join some other school. “

Tarun was shocked. Despite taking his studies casually he had never expected to fail. The possibility of repeating class IX or going to a lesser school was something he had not imagined even in his wildest dreams. He just stood quietly with a couple of tears rolling down his cheeks. Father Jerome, their Principal was a kind hearted man. Despite his reputation of being a tough disciplinarian, he was inordinately fond of Tarun and secretly hoped that the boy would amount to something in the world of cricket.

“I called you before the declaration of results with one purpose. I’ll give Tarun grace marks and promote him to tenth. But I want his solemn promise that he will work hard and pay attention to studies, particularly maths and science. If he does not do well in his pre board exams, I’ll not let him appear for ICSE. Now tell me what you want.”

Tarun was grateful for the lifeline thrown to him and promised to pay more attention to his studies. He also remembered his parents promise to send him to MRF Pace Foundation if he did well in ICSE and settled down to a year of hard work off the field.

To be concluded.

Link to part II