Flowering of the Mango Tree

It is not easy for me to write about things that happened long ago. The details are lost. A bit like the old, ill maintained photographs you can see at some of the museums. At times, however, something triggers the resurfacing of these old memories.

Spring in India is short lived. The transition from winter to summer is 15 days, a month if you are indulgent. In North India, spring generally falls in the 2nd week of March. The weather is pleasant, steadily growing warmer towards the heat of April to June/ July. The mornings and evenings are cool. This the season when the best kept gardens show their best blooms. In fact, gardens are created with herbs/ shrubs that simultaneously bloom in spring creating a spectacular rainbow.

This is also the season in which the Mango trees bloom in my home town. Bhagalpur is known for its silk industry, or far more infamously for the riots or the blindings. But for me, it will always remain the Mango district. There may be more famous mangoes in this country, every one in India has their own favorite mango variety. However, I haven't traveled to any part of the country with such a profusion of mango trees. As you enter the district by train, all you can see are mango trees. There were three mango trees in my backyard, 4 huge mango trees in the graveyard next to the small field in which I played as a child and my school was right next to a full blown orchard. Mango flowers are called Manjar or Manjari. Though in fact its more accurate to call them "Aam Manjar/ Manjari" because if you look up at the dictionary meaning of Manjari, it just means flower. Now, the smell of the manjari is something. Words fail me in describing it. It is strong, sweet and intoxicating. If you pass by mango tree in flower, it may take you a while to discover the source; the fragrance may have so enveloped the area. It is a smell that reminds of school vacations after year end examinations; of mornings and evenings spent playing cricket in the March holidays, of the summer vacations that will arrive in May after the short session of the new school year when the Mango flowers will result in delicious mangoes.

In Pune, the mango blooms in late January/ late February, hence the mangoes also come early in April, instead of late May or June. Recently I realized that there are two mango trees in my office compound. I would never have looked up to see them but one day, in late January, while passing under one of them, the fragrance of the mango bloom came wafting back to me, rekindling the fading memories of childhood. In pleasant surprise, I looked up and to my child like delight, I saw a mango tree in full bloom. Every time I passed under those trees in the last 15 days, I was rewarded by the most enriching fragrance. It seems, one must always remember to look up in life. For while life is mostly lived with the head down and body intent on purpose, many rewards may be waiting if we only stop to look up.

My grandparents were teachers

My grandparents on my father’s side were teachers. My grandfather was a teacher. Both women he married were teachers. I never met my father’s mother, she died eight years before I was born, but my grandfather and my second grandmother lived to see my wedding. It will always be the lasting relief of my life that they saw my wedding. They had expressed the desire often. And it was a close run thing. They both died within a couple of month of my wedding last year. On days when I am a Karmic Hindu, I feel as if they were waiting to see me married.

I had been meaning to write my obituary to them for some time now and September 7th, which happens to be the death anniversary of my grandfather, was the deadline I had set myself. With time, one forgets many things. Even more quickly than incidents, emotions fade away. In the rush of life, we may file away several emotions for future, never to go back to them again. More urgent matters of action keep taking precedence until the emotion can no longer be reasonably recalled. I didn’t want that to happen. And this morning, on my way to office, when I heard on the radio that it was Teacher’s day, I knew I had to write it today. I mean, they were teachers.

Records show that my grandfather was born in 1929. He himself believed that he was born in 1927- they were not very particular about the dates back in the day. His father was a sub inspector in the police who married three times and had 9 children; all but the first girl were from his third wife. My grandfather was the 7th child. His oldest brother was 20 years older than him and their eldest sister was older still. My great grandfather did not survive into my grandfather’s adulthood and my grandfather was brought up partly by my strong willed great grandmother and partly by his second eldest brother. He never said so himself, for he was an immensely proud man, very proud about our family history but I sensed that there were some financial difficulties in his school and college years. Nothing drastic, for the family was from the landowning class, but cash was difficult to come by.

My grandfather was in class eighth when Quit India movement happened. He was listening to a public meeting in Patna when the police opened fire and a fellow student near him was shot in the leg. I remember him telling me how High school education in state schools (there were none other) was entirely in English. I also remember him saying how wearing shoes wasn’t considered manly and yet was compulsory at school. The dilemma was resolved by carrying the shoes and putting them on just before entering school. He was a B.Sc student of Mathematics and newly married when India gained Independence. Shortly after, my father, the eldest child was born. There were to be three more children.

In 1951, he started teaching Mathematics at Bhagalpur university and stayed at the same college for the next 40 years. He was very good teacher; my uncle tells me that people from other colleges also came to attend his classes. A more objective assessment of his worth was the large number of students who came to his tuitions at home. He also published a course book for Inter Mathematics but it was only moderately successful. My memories of my grandfather start from the late Eighties. We had moved to Bhagalpur and were staying with him. Though he never taught me, by the time I reached college, his faculties were declining but I had seen him teach. He did not need books, he taught from memory, as did my grandmother, as did all the best teachers I know.

He was a silent, important man, Head of the department at the college. He was also a very dominating man and didn’t take disagreement lightly. But he was very well read and well informed. He would read widely and his choice was quite academic. As a bi-product, I grew up reading Science Reporter, a monthly popular science magazine, which I found is still published, to my amazement.

In 1991 he retired. Those evenings in the early and mid-nineties, after he had retired, when I hung around while his friends and others came to visit and talk were an immense education: on India, on India’s post-independence history, on our politics, on law, on agriculture and crops, on international history. I believe I have always had greater general awareness than a lot of other people because of the head start I got in those days. He was my own personal Wikipedia, much before time. Another thing about him, his mastery of the written English language was formidable. I never found out a word whose meaning he didn’t know. He started a kitchen garden where I grew everything with my own hands: potato and tomato and onions and brinjals and ladyfinger and radish and carrot and many other vegetables.

My grandfather could be quite partisan. Like a lot of other teachers I have known, he loved achievers and his regard for his own children and also grandchildren was also in proportion to their achievement. He would help everybody but he would love and regard only the achievers. I could only win his regard once he felt I had achieved something, after my board results, after JEE, and after IIM. The only exception to this rule, which I know of, was my brother who was the apple of his aging eyes.

In 1998, I moved away for plus two and then college. He began to age rapidly, his health started failing. A botched up Hernia operation hastened the decline. His coherence of thought would come and go. He had to stop driving. Then, he had to discontinue his morning walks in the local ground and had to restrict them to our own drive. However, he became more emotionally expressive, before then he was always quite closed. I would like to believe that towards the end he found contentment: his grandchildren did as well as any of his brother’s grandchildren; you must remember he cared a lot about achievement. He saw four of them get married. Death of my grandmother, who died a month before him broke him down but he didn’t suffer for long. I don’t think the end was sorrow less but it wasn’t bitter, he had a full life.

My grandmother had an eventful life. She was born in the later twenties/ early thirties. Nobody knows her real age because in those days age of girl’s was not recorded anywhere, not in schools, not in colleges, not in jobs. Only in post-Independence India, did age of women started getting recorded. She was married at an early age and widowed at an early age. All without formal education I believe. While a widow he educated herself to a bachelor’s degree and became a teacher of Hindi in a girl’s high school. My father’s mother and my second grandmother were related and also taught at the same school. When my father’s mother died, my grandfather married her.

She was the grandmother I knew. The first I remember of her, she was depressed after a dental procedure gone wrong (both my grandparents suffered from simple procedures which were mismanaged, possibly a sign of primitive facilities around my home town). She had been the Principal of the government high school where she taught. When depressed, she went on long leave. There was also a court case when another teacher was appointed Principal while she was on leave but it is boring reading. Gradually she recovered and started teaching at the school again. She loved teaching and was quite popular at her school. My grandfather never taught me but my grandmother did. Hearing her explain Hindi poetry was a joy: she knew and explained the multiple layers of meaning, the background the poem was set in, socio-political landscape of the time and the poet’s own leanings. And she did all this without referring to books and so on. She knew all these poems. They were part of her.

She was a deeply religious lady, vegetarian, given to fasting, prayers and rituals. Also, she was very kind. When her school gave her a citation on her retirement, they fondly remembered how many people she had helped out of monetary difficulty. She also tried to be equal/ fair to her grandchildren. She had no children of her own, but we never felt that we were not related to her by blood. She adopted us as her own, and, she became ours.

Almost to the age of seventy, she was a tall, upright lady. Then she began to hunch over but had no illnesses. The hunch made her susceptible to keeling over and falling. However, as she grew older, she also became more and more beautiful- my mother-in-law who saw her in the last year of her life was struck by her beauty.

Her death was sudden, almost accidental. Our house maid had left the job over some disagreement. In her absence, my grandmother tried to sweep the house (she was reasonably active to her last day) and had a fall. She had had numerous falls and everybody thought it was another one of those. In fact, I spoke to her twelve hours before her death and asked her to eat well, not realizing that I would never speak to her again. I’m glad I spoke to her then. My father had called in the middle of the day and I was irritated when he asked me to talk to her. I remember thinking at the time that I can always give a call back later- I would have never forgiven myself had I done that. She had had a heart attack. Doctor could not diagnose it but she knew. She died on July 29th, early morning. And my grandfather went in another month and ten days.

My grandparents are gone. When they were alive, I had bitter words with them at times. I have always spoken my mind and have also been rash- so there were times when I disagreed and spoke out, often not pleasantly. But it is also true that apart from my brother, among their grandchildren, I lived the longest with them and cared for them. Towards the end I could do a couple of things to show my love. It’s not nearly close to what I wanted but it will have to be enough. My grandfather’s dearest possessions were his house and his old Maruti. The car is sold and his house is getting sold in a few days-the house in which my brother and I grew up. But it’s OK, it’s the cycle of regeneration. After they were gone, the house was unbearable the couple of times I went home. My parents have shifted away to Patna and my ties to my hometown are temporarily cut. I sincerely hope to go back and do something in that town- for I’ll always be Bhagal and if I don’t go back something in me will die.

Train Journey: my favorite essay topic inlcuding the future

On Sunday nights in the months of August, September and October of the year of their Lord Twenty Hundred and Ten, I am to be found travelling by train. It is always the same train (I'm loyal: my dhobi, tailor, shoe brand, jeans brand, shampoo have been steady for a while as well): Dakshin Express, numbered 2722 by the guys at the Railways, or by their forefathers. If you are guessing that the train goes all the way south to Madras, which is anyway what South means, you are dead wrong: good for my self esteem. The train goes to Andhra but if I were to ask where, you would again be wrong. Pleased smile. The train doesn't go to one place at all. If you are imagining things like a surprise destination every day, well, things haven't evolved as much yet. Thing is, somewhere down the railway line it splits in to two, one part goes to Hyderabad and the other to Vijayawada.

I don't go that far. Journey begins in Delhi, quickly crosses over to Haryana (curiously, I live in Haryana), flirts with MP, trundles for an incredible length of time in that chicken's neck of UP that is forever in MP's iron grip, finally breasts the tape to enter MP proper and dies just thereafter. In case you are underwhelmed by the lack of grandeur of the journey don't be. For the journey transverses some impressive territory. It of courses starts in that seven time reborn capital of ours, never mind commonwealth. Agra, of the Taj and the original red fort; Gwalior of the Scindhiyas and Jhansi of the Rani are on the way. No bad for a night's journey, isn't it.

Normally, I enter the train, invigorated by excitement, make a phone call to wifey and/ or family, wait for the train to start, some times eat pantry egg biryani (it isn't biryani but they call it that), spread out my bed roll and sleep off. I always get the side lower berth, which because of the thick curtains, doesn't give the winter snow feeling that air conditioned compartments of Indian Railways normally provide but the rest is business as usual. Wake up two-three times to visit the loo, use the occasions to check on my baggage lest some do gooder had decided to lighten my worldly load and I was at my destination. I was becoming increasingly complacent. Fate played it's proverbial hand and I'm out of practice in poker/ teen patti.

This time, in seats facing my permanent side lower, berth number 35, were what seemed to be members of an office group returning from some off site/ country level mela. For a while, I was regaled by their office gossip, then bored, then irritated as sleep began to descend. At this point I made bleating sounds. I see you smile. Yes, bleating had no effect. Then I roared, or so I thought. They say something about dogs in a pack hunting the lion. I was cornered. A black coat appeared and all the years of greasing the palms of the black coats all over our great country, paid off. Silence or rather train's rhythmic sounds reined. This was at 1 am. The good times lasted till we arrived at Jhansi at 5:45, pre dawn as per me. High noon as per the modern day Rani who alighted at Jhansi. Her high pitched, high decibel out pourings would surely have made many a generals quail. I had no recourse but to do Suryanamaskar for the first time after first year ragging at IIT. Had tea when the vendor arrived and a headache for the rest of the day. God give good sleep to my fellow passengers on my train journies.

Heat... as evidenced by ambient temperature

When does it become hot for you? At what level of the mercury, does the very air become stifling for you. The response should vary depending on where you have spent your life: latitude, altitude, distance from the sea, special geographical features. It should also vary by the amount of time you spend in air conditioning versus in the 'shade' under forced draft cooling versus in the sun. Notwithstanding variations, I expect you start feeling hot some where between 25 and 30 degree celsius. A notable exception is my young cousin. For her, 17 degree celsius supported by forced draft cooling is the upper limit of pleasant.



What is your attitude to heat? Do you live in a cold country and welcome the short period of hot weather? You love hot weather, you declare a holiday on a warm day, take off your clothes and head for the beach.

I live in a very hot country and hot weather is my default state of being. I am conditioned to look at a clear sky with portents of a baking sun later in the day and sigh. I understand my cold country brethren however. I long to see snow, it doesn't snow ever in any of the places I have lived in; while you are probably sick of it. I expect you are programmed to dislike cloudy, snowy weather. No ill will brother.



Do you like dry heat or humid heat? My country, or at least inhabitants of its two premier cities, are sharply divided on this issue. Humid heat is safer, you won't dehydrate. Dry heat is better, sweat will cool you and won't be permanently bathed in it. I have experienced and understand the merits of both. Of course, as a consultant, I can rest after framing both options clearly and letting others decide. So I desist from deciding.

Courage

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
- Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare

I m reading "The Last Mughal" by William Darymple. The Last Mughal is about the last years of the rule of the Mughal dynasty, the rule of Bahadur Shah II 'Zafar', and its demise with the 1857 war. Its an eminently readable book but there is one passage that in particular struck me. There was a day in the siege at Delhi, when the outcome of the war was in the balance. Of course, in the long run, it was all going to be futile. British were the dominant power on Earth, with the whole weight of modern science behind them; while Mughal India was wallowing in the dark ages, at least from a scientific standpoint and sooner rather than later India was to go under British rule. However, the outcome of that immediate war was definitely in balance that day. Indian soldiers after tremendous urging had persuaded the Badshah to lead them to the battle. There were 70000 of them, not all well trained but nevertheless 70000. Facing them was a much smaller British army, made of white and mercenary Sikh, Afghan and Gorkha soldiers. The Badshah started out from his palace but courage failed him and he turned back. And the war turned. Badshah lost his shot at glory and the chance of an honorable death in the Delhi that he loved deeply instead of the traceless grave he got in Rangoon.

I also watched the movie 'Gandhi' yesterday. To me India's freedom struggle led by Gandhiji is remarkable for two things: original thinking and courage it demanded and engendered in its soldiers and leaders. To think that non-voilent, active non-cooperation is a powerful enough tool to dislodge the British empire was pretty original thinking: counter intuitive to the thinking of the day, of times before and of times since. And to carry out this thinking required great amounts of courage: of conviction, to face physical pain. Also, very importantly, this kind of struggle based on a deep understanding- of world order, human nature, India's truth and its needs; and on immense courage produced a first generation of leaders for Independent India with the education (in the holistic sense) and mental strength to lay the foundation of a fairly successful nation. Indeed, India has done much better than a lot of other nations who gained Independence from colonial rule at around the same time. Also, India's performance in the first 15 years after Independence was much better than China, notwithstanding the loss of the 1962 war. It was Indira Gandhi who undid a lot of good work and let the momentum dissipate by inaction and/or counter productive action while China forged ahead in the late seventies and early eighties under Deng. Fact is modern China was born out of war, therefore was much better in terms of military might and strategy but much worse in taking care of its citizens or laying the foundation of a strong nation in the first decade or so of their and our existance as a modern nation compared to India. India's didn't see the death from stravation of millions of people post Independence like China saw during Mao's big leap.

Most men have no Delhi or bloodline's glory to protect or a country to free or run. Yet, we all need courage and decisiveness. Moments I regret in life are not moments of grievious misfortune or of abject failure but moments lacking in courage and in decisiveness. And moments that require true courage and decisiveness are often important moments in life. And its no use saying that what's past is gone and let's look forward. Regret lingers. Next time may I be courageous. And may the times come soon. For, otherwise, life is grim and full of past regrets. Soul needs some pride.

Decade of spin

In Cricket, it has been the decade of spin. Four of the top five wicket takers this decade are spinners: Muralidharan, Warne, Kumble and Harbhajan. Ntini is the only quick in the top 5. If you look further down, 7 of the top 20 and 12 of the 35 bowlers who took 100 or more wickets in the 2000's were spinners. If these last two numbers don't look impressive, consider that most teams play only one spinner in the side made of four bowlers. So while spinners playing the game make up one fourth of the bowlers, they make up more than one third of the top bowlers. Anyway, at the very top, the numbers are indisputable.

Look at it another way, the top 5 spinners by wickets taken have all played this decade: Muralidharan, Warne, Kumble, Harbhajan and Vettori. Of course the top three are the top three wicket takers among all bowlers. True, there have been more matches for them to play but their wickets per match is also better, atleast for the top 4: 4.3 for Harbhajan, 4.7 for Kumble, 4.9 for Warne and a whopping 6.0 for Muralidharan. The best from the earlier era, Lance Gibbs, Bedi, Benaud, Chandrasekhar averaged around 4 or less. Grimmett is an exception but he played his cricket before WW II. Similarly, Vettori among the current lot is an exception but he has to contend with extremely spin adverse conditions at home.

Whichever way you look at it, the top three: Muralidharan, Warne and Kumble are the top bowlers of this decade and the top spin bowlers of all time. Given they are three highest wicket takers of all time, some may even claim them to be the top bowlers of all time.

Other spinners have come to the fore as well. Danish Kaneria, for all its fast bowling potential, has been the leading bowler for Pakistan. Before him was Saqlain Mushtaq. Very different from the glory days of the W's. Similarly Stuart Macgill did excellent work when he got the opportunity, even outbowling Warne in the matches they played together. Sad for him that his career coincided with Warne's. Tellingly England have had two spinners who have taken more than 100 wickets this decade, Giles and Panesar and a third who has been taking five fors in recent times, Swann. And these after the barren days, remember Min Patel, of sometimes belied potential, remember Phil Tufnell. Even West Indies now have a spinner who plays regularly and takes more than an odd wicket for the first time since Lance Gibbs in the form of Sulieman Benn. Indeed South Africa have been the only country without a spinning force for most of this decade while Australia has been struggling post Warne and Macgill retirement.

Why has this decade been so dominated by spin? Pitches have become better: even those in India are no longer dustbowls, bats and batsmen have become muscular: mishits go over the ropes, boundaries have come in. So why? One arguement is that we just had three of the greatest spinners of all time playing this decade. Second, the fast bowling stocks this decade weren't all that great giving spinners more opportunity to take wickets: certainly true for India and Sri lanka. Third, better batting surfaces meant that fast bowlers couldn't dominate and collapses against pace (which mostly comes first in an inning) were much less frequent. Fourth, a lot of innovation has come into spin bowling this decade: doosra and the carrom ball. Fifth, batsmen are more aggresive and a spinner relies on batsmen making an aggresive mistake more than a pace bowler: stepping out and getting stumped, getting caught in the deep on a mishit. Any other reasons?

Post script: A friend of mine asked me to compare strikes rates. I decided that averages should be considered as well. In terms of strike rates, Muralidharan and Warne are third and fourth among bowlers who have taken atleast a hundred wickets this decade. Shoaib Akhtar and Dale Steyn have significantly better strike rates (around 40 as compared to 50 for the two spinners). Raw pace does take wickets in fewer balls but it can bowl fewer balls as well. Kumble's strike rate is around the mean. In terms of averages, Murali is second behind Mcgrath. Warne is around 25 which is the new 22 this decade. Kumble is around 31, which again is around the mean.

The other comparision would be to compare spinners across ages. Murali, Warne, Kumble, Macgill, etc. have vastly superior strike rates than their predecessors. The verdict on averages is much more mixed, with Murali next only to Laker among major spinners but Warne and Kumble being back with the pack.

If we consider all four variables: total number of wickets, wickets per match, strike rates and average; still the three spinners come across as formidable if not as the all in winners that they seem based on the number of wickets taken. Paragraph 3 needs to be modified. I would consider them the greatest spinners of all time and the most influencial bowlers of this decade. After all to win you have to take 20 wickets and bowlers who can take more wickets per match are defintely better as long as the time and runs cost are not much higher: as is the case with Murali and Warne, and in the context of the Indian team, Kumble. Besides, paragraph 4 cannot be denied: South Africa are playing Paul Harris in Kingsmead Durban and Swann was the highest wicket taker in South Africa's first innings.

Modes of travel

I am at the airport, going home. Flight to Kolkata, then an overnight train to Bhagalpur. From warm and humid Mumbai afternoon to cool and more humid Kolkata evening to sub-teen, foggy, humidity neutral Bhagalpur morning. Travel, ofcourse, would be in theoretically neutral air conditioning making all the changes sudden. At one point considered taking a direct train from Mumbai, a 2000 kilometre, 36 hour journey across India's belly. However courage kept faltering, and the time to make the call came and went. Tiredness wouldn't have been a problem, airconditioned travel on Indian Railways is fairly comfortable. Vague ideas of boredom are what kept me away, in hindsight quite unfounded.

I miss long train journies. They are excellent for a lot of things: reading, reflection, eye soothing scenery, new perspective: conversations of and with strangers. To watch the evening descend on Indian rural life from a train window is a cathartic sight. On a recent journey from Bhagalpur to Patna, I overheard ( wasn't participating) a well informed arguement from a deputy superintendent of police on law and order, development and politics in Bihar. I always feel excited before train journies. In my grand father's time, during British rule, 'A train journey' was a common essay topic: not without reason.

In comparision, air travel is uncomfortable and sleep inducing, even a 30 minute delay is irritating. Seats sometimes seem insufficient for even small me. In the innumerable flights I have taken in the last three years I wouldn't have spoken to my neighbour five times. There is no exposure to the country one is travelling over.

Like a lot of things that make life faster, air travel too takes away its pleasure.Speed- dash it.

Random thoughts

Just as I sat in the car on exiting the airport on Friday evening (a ritual consultants like to follow), I looked up and saw the moon, still in its first few nights. I realized it has already been more than a month since Eid when I had similarly seen the moon, travelling in a car, though in Barmer. This feeling of time flying ever faster has been with me since the 1st of January 1988 when I had thought that 1987 went away much faster than 1986. I think it happens because as we grow up, we take note of fewer things, store fewer moments.

I live in an area of Mumbai which 10 years ago was salt pan country. There are a few in the vicinity even now. Its a thoroughly unfashionable part of town, as has been said by numerous friends, acquaintances and passer bys. However the advantage of the location is space. Space, as you know, is the primary scarce commodity in Mumbai. So the fly, when it exits my house, does not land in the middle of headlong traffic, to be promptly mown by a BEST bus, as is the case with many a Mumbai house in the more fashionable parts of town. Did you turn up your nose at the mention of the lowly fly, dryly remarking that no such creature is granted admittance to your UV cleaned house? Well, then, change it to butterfly. But you get the drift, right. The set of buildings, of which my building is one, are on a private road and there is a 25 acre garden behind these buildings. I really like these gardens, they are very nice for peaceful walks.

Drivers of road public transport in Mumbai are the leaders of a generally rough bunch. Everytime I start on a drive, after the first cuss, I resolve that I will be patience itself. However, what is my resolve when pitted against the recklessness and brigandry of numerous BEST bus drivers, auto rickshaw and taxi waalahs. I fail everytime and return home spent. These drives are an excellent test of your BP and blood cholestersol levels. If nothing happens on these drives, tuck into your chicken tikka with impunity.

On a rural desert road

On a 50 km ride on a one lane road in rural Rajasthan, I saw (This is all I saw on the road; there were other things on the sides):
1. One tractor without a trailer yet with 9 people sitting on it
2. A bus with four children hanging from the ladder at the back that goes up to the roof. They were a few men on the roof. Whether they were good men or not is between them and their providence.
3. A truck, which was moving so slowly up a slope that only on close inspection could you ascertain the fact that it was moving up
2. Two motorcycles with two men each in spotless white dresses. Where’s the water?
5. Another bus: coming from the opposite direction, so couldn’t see who were hanging from the ladder...
6. A SUV, non descript

I also saw:
1. Two women with their herd of goats and a herd of goats without their attendant woman.
2. A troika of cattle, a cow and its two calves, one of whom wasn’t very keen on moving off the road. They were all skinny and looked fit for long runs.
3. A pair of sheep, evidently lovers, took the cake, or the cud, what ever they like, in terms of not being keen on moving off the road
4. In fact, sheep in general weren’t very keen on moving off the road. There was another bunch, which showed marked reluctance and confusion while clearing off

Further, I also saw stretches of road covered by sand up to a foot deep. In fact, I m assuming there is road underneath.

A well made one lane road in rural India is like a bed sheet spread over a lumpy mattress. The surface is smooth but undulating. If the lurches were to any rhythm one could have likened the experience to riding a beast of burden.

Talking of beast of burden, on the side of the road, and this is the only thing I will mention which wasn’t directly on the road at the instant I saw it; I saw a camel with a man and his child on its back. And this wasn’t a touristy ride but a real ride of business: such as which made the camel the ship of the desert.

As time goes by

As time goes by, I am less and less sure. There was a time when worldly wisdom suggested it was the right thing to happen. They said it was a sure sign of evolution to grow unsure, surety about anything meant a simplicity, lower level of gyan. And I believed them, until very recently. Now I am not so sure about this as well. This is getting loopy , sorry. But all this vagueness, of explaining everything that doesn't agree by ,"Well you can't be sure. That's another world view", is disquieting. May be, I am just becoming indesicive, lazy. May be, I have gone too far and its time to constrain a few things, become sure about them.

One thing I am least sure about is other people's feelings. Many people are so inscrutable. They will keep smiling through cyclones and orgasms. And its becoming more and more important to understand those feelings, for more and more people come into my life from circumstances- present and past, and motivations that are not in sync with mine and therefore they may react quite differently from me to the same stimuli. Nor do I have time and occasion to know their circumstances and motivations, given the little time we spend together. It happens at work and at play. What has fundamentally changed is the amount of time I spend with people. Till I joined work, I spent time with only a few, all friends of one's own age, and spent lots of time with them. Now I spend time with a wide variety of people and only a little with each of them. To understand them through these glimpses is critical and also what is most difficult for me.

To solve this I decided to pick up a little psychology a little while ago, the scientific study of human behaviour. Sustained struggle, however, is not my forte and after the initial sally, progess has been that of a sail boat in the doldrums. Let's see

An early morning watching test cricket

I don't like test cricket on flat pitches very well. Matches I like most are where top innings score is about 300 to 400, two batsmen score centuries and a couple of bowlers take five fors. Basically I like the perfect test matches most. Fairly remarkable, one would say, isn't it. Matches I like second best are ones where a team is bowled out for under a hundred and the other team gets out for 189 and so on and bowlers end up with ten fors for the match. Run fests come a distant third. Of course, T20 comes after all this and they should just eliminate one dayers, now that they are neither here nor there.

In this context, waking up at 3:30 in the morning to watch the third day of the Napier test match was an unusual decision, particularly after a sloshy Friday evening, thanks to Vikram V. But I had reason, Tendulkar and Dravid were batting. 110 runs in 31 overs for the loss of 1 wicket reads pretty unspectacular but, boy, was I rewarded. Shots of such exquisite beauty are rarely to be seen in a two hour passage of play. Securing these memories is the reason why I want to describe these shots knowing fully well that words will never describe what was experienced.

Let me begin with Tendulkar, as all cricket conversations have begun in India for the last 20 years. There were the two cover drive to begin with. Commentors described it very well when they pointed out how Tendulkar moved his feet to make the cover drive into a straight drive. Then a pulled/ hooked a ball off his face, my favorite shot of his for the morning just because he doesn't play the shot all too frequently. I knew he was in nick. When Patel came on to bowl there was the delicate deflection that entirely his invention. Then there was the slog sweep and the cover drive against the spin in that same over of exhilarating batting against spin.

Dravid began with an on drive, his signature shot. Then there was the cut between gully and point, hit down in the ground. There was an excellent camera shot of how Dravid had rolled his wrist to keep the ball down. It was also the only shot that infrared showed to be not hit of the middle in the two hour session but just slightly off centre towards the ground. At this point, I was pining for the pure square cut hit perfectly perpendicular to the pitch. It was once, in the middle to late nineties, when Tendulkar used to play it a lot, my favourite shot. And guess what, I got it. In the very next over. Once again it was hit straight in the ground. Dravid rounded off the session with a cover drive of his own.

Laxman was at the crease for only 20 minutes or so but he had four beautiful strokes of his own. The first two were wristy on drives off the spinner Patel hit through increasingly narrow gaps between mid wicket and mid on. Then there was the square drive off the first ball of the last over of the sesion. And just as the over was winding down, I was wishing how a straight drive would make it a perfect session. I must have done some good somewhere for, for the second time in the space of an hour my wish was granted. Of the last ball of the over Laxman hit the most thumping of straight drives.

None of these shots were hit with brute power. Even the slog sweep, which is necessarily a shot of violence went all the way for six on the strength of timing rather than power. In fact, the camera showed that Tendulkar had tried to hit the ball down. All but the first square cut from Dravid were hit off the middle of the bat. Each shot seemed to contain exactly the right amount of power. It was classical batmanship at its very best.

The past and the future stretch interminably on both sides of the narrow isthumus of the present. Hence, life is half memories and half hopes. However, at times like these, when the present is so beautiful, it carves out its own space. And the delicious thought of these memories staying for ever. Ah!

House Help

My house help is a remarkable person. Now, one may call it a womanly topic but we are a household of men and somebody ought to introduce the wider world to the remarkable aspects of our house help. Also, people living in parts of the world other than India may completely miss the point, so please ignore.

Our house help believes in a five day week, although is not averse to take complementary offs on weekdays if you insist on service over the weekend. I sense though that she considers the Sunday evening as sacrosanct. She believes in all the world's religions and celebrates all the festivals, big or small, that these religions have to offer and refuses to work on any of them. All the world's children are hers and when you have so many and they are children one or the other is liable to be sick at every point of time. To take care of this, she has 30 casual leaves and medical leave of course is unlimited.

Her working style is not the only remarkable thing about her, her cooking is no less. Regardless of the vegetable she cooks, she can make them all taste alike. I believe its the strength of the process that inspite of widely varying input she can churn out consistant output, day in and day out. I heard the Japanese did something similar and earned a big name for themselves making cars. Our house help is just waiting to be discovered. She is not just after the Japs, the Russians are also on her radar. Her chapatis are almost like vodka, they are odourless and tasteless. I think she is working on making them colorless.

Our house help is very reasonable in terms of her pay increase demands. She has simply linked it to the indices. In 2007, it was the equities, through most of last year it was the Brent crude while currently she is tracking Gold.

Now tell me, shouldn't have I told you about this remarkable woman.

Ode to a girl

Meeting extraordinary people is life’s reward for so many things we bear. There are four things that strike me about these people. Firstly, they show you what one ought to be. Yet, their quality is such that they do not belittle you with the realization. You can celebrate their greatness without feeling small yourself. Secondly, there is no prototype for extraordinariness. All extra ordinary people I know are of different kinds. Thirdly, not all kinds of extraordinariness result in performance or achievement. People can exhibit/ experience extraordinariness without performance and/ or achievement. Lastly, there are far more extraordinary people that one would think.

I once met such a girl. As I think of this girl, I am reminded of Ganga in Bhagalpur where I spent many an evening watching the river flow by. Here, after Ganga has already travelled more than 1000 kms from its source, she has a calm beauty, maturity; dignity and inner strength (ask somebody who’s tried rowing a boat through the apparently sluggish waters).

Of course, this girl is beautiful. And she smiles a lot. It’s what attracted me to her in the first place. But it’s the least of what makes her extraordinary. There are many more beautiful people than extraordinary people. It’s the other three qualities that she shares with the river and in such measures, which make here extraordinary. In a place where attention seeking and self promoting behavior are rampant, in deed have been converted into an art form and are considered necessary for success, she never resorted to them. She may be the star of a show but she would never be in the limelight. Not once in my two years of knowing her, was her behavior anything but dignified.

She takes her time to open up. I don’t think she ever opened up to me. However, were you to talk to her, ask her questions, her responses would always be considered and full of common sense. She would participate in and enjoy the many idiosyncrasies of campus life but you could see that she knew them for what they were. Such balance and measure is rare from anybody and on first observation, particularly from her, one who had led such a sheltered life. She shattered the misconception I had around tough life experiences and perspective.

Where I met her, she was clearly out of her depth, initially. She persevered, never indulging in self pity. Hers would be the light that burnt the longest; she would be the last in the group to give up. The challenge she overcome required immense strength of character and she has it.

I haven’t met the girl in six months, haven’t spoken to her at any length for two years. Things are likely to remain this way. Yet, she, the way I know her, is one of those people that help retain faith in human kind. Thank you!

Oh Captain! My Captain!

Sourav Ganguly retired today. For my generation of Indian cricket followers, it is, as aptly put by Sidhartha Vaidyanathan on Cricinfo, http://content-ind.cricinfo.com/magazine/content/current/story/376791.html, like the beginning of losing my religion.

To begin with, Sourav was a quota selection, from the then unsporting east. Not once, but twice. The first time is best not spoken of, the second is too often recounted. Even after that dream start, I took my time to warm up to him, having always been a sucker for technical virtuosity. Rahul Dravid, excepting this last phase, has always been my favorite. Sourav was God like on the off side but was always susceptible to give third slip or gully catching practice. He couldn't get a run on the leg side. Then there were the problems with the short ball. There was a period around 2000 when Sourav was most certainly the most destructive batsman in one day cricket but then one day cricket does not earn you respect with true believers. At this stage I should mention that I wouldn't be talking of one day cricket at all in here.

In test cricket, he played a few innings which earned him my respect. The first two centuries are hazy in memory and they didn't change much in terms of India's prospects in the match, the series or the immediate future. India continued to lose abroad, in England, in South Africa, in West Indies and in Australia. The first innings that sticks in memory, is the 98 he scored in Srilanka when India successfully chased down a target of 268. It's one of India's better run chases and it brought us victory on foreign soil, rare before then. He performed consistantly, if unspectacularly in West Indies. The the famous Brisbane century, when he scored 144, is by common agreement, Sourav's best. The ball was bouncing and moving and Sourav before then wasn't known to play well under those conditions. He played the innings of his lifetime, driving, cutting and most importantly, pulling the ball.

In terms of sustained performance, the phase after he returned to the team for the last time was the best. He had lost the fluency on the off side but what he had gained was solidity. In South Africa, in India against Pakistan, the first two tests in Australia, against South Africa in India and his last series against Australia, he was solid. This is when he became an Indian great for me, a solid, reasonably techincally accomplished, gifted Indian batsman. It is no coincidence that his batting average is the best over this period. A little sadly, but only just a little, for Sourav still accomplished enough, the solidity, the calmness came as the physical abilities were waning. Sourav was at his best as a batsman just as the body was tiring. A bit like Srinath, who also peaked close to his end. Sourav ended with the fourth highest tally of runs in test cricket by an Indian batsman and I would rate him thereabouts in my ranking of Indian batsmen.

Sourav's gift to Indian cricket though, was his captaincy. He is the most successful Indian captain ever, the first Indian captain to win abroad consistantly. This can, however be an accident, India simply have had their best team ever in this period. Ganguly wasn't tactically brilliant either, his most celebrated tactical move of irritating Steve Waugh by arriving late for toss began as an accident. He didn't always lead from the front, all his life he ran slower for other people's run than his own, his fielding was never international class. Still Sourav's captaincy was a boon for Indian cricket. What he brought to captaincy of the Indian cricket team were three things: faith, pride and ambition while playing for India, elimination of parochialism from Indian cricket and backing new comers. India began to gain respect for their test peformances, at home and away. Home victories were not always coming on doctored pitches and foregin victories were altogether new. What's more, these changes have come to stay. The team talks of becoming world champions, nobody speaks of regional quotas anymore and the newcomers whom he backed will back future generations of newcomers. This is Ganguly's lasting legacy. To the captain of the Indian cricket team of my youth, good bye and thanks for all the fish.

Friends III

Time went by and I hopped over from IIT to IIM. As to taking leave from IIT friends, we sadly and completely failed our motion picture ideals and a visit to Surd shop, which was incidently never owned by a Surd in my time at IIT, a brief, awkward hug and a shake of hands did it.

I had come to IIM full of noble intentions, determined to do my best, realize my potential, stuff of that sort. As such, building and maintaining a wide social circle wasn't exactly top most on my agenda. A friend or two, to borrow notes or discuss the finer points of Gaussian distribution governing stock returns (nobody will believe this in these days of free falling stock markets but back then we had a most romantic attachment to the theory) was the basic idea. However will power, of seeing the thing to the end is something that I have always found wanting in me and this occasion was no different. Soon I was thrown headlong in five irreversible friendships, with my co residents in the dorm. Considering that each of these aforesaid five guys were also saddled with five irreversible friendships, it made fifteen friendships in all. If you find the calculation taxing, use a calculator. Fifteen is a large number and one would think that we had nothing else to do but make friends. Yet as anybody who's gone through it and has also watched a few Hollywood movies of the right sort can tell you, the first year at IIM Ahmedabad is to academia what the US marines is to military training. One would also wonder that if six guys; three of whom were fat, three wore glasses, plus a fourth whom even glasses couldn't help, one who was going bald at 25, one who had been short ever since 15; to summarize, if six perfectly useless guys can generate so much warm friendship, why are we still having terrorist attacks? I think the world needs more friendships, particularly in early formative years.

Our common interests were: carrom, cricket and conversation. Well, there are other things but they don't start with a 'c' and will have to appear elsewhere. Carrom was our game, traffic was so heavy that the boards withered like cricket pitches do in India. Talking of Cricket; cricket is, well, cricket (I have become an expert in doing things in three, learning on the job you see) but the expertise resident in the dorm was extraordinary. The channel nine commentary team is no match to the group that had gathered. Conversation was mostly pointless, therefore highly entertaining and often indulged in post midnight. Now that the c's are done, lets move to other things. Can't keep important stuff out just because of some stupid alphabet. Studying together (yes, no use hiding that shame), movies, eating out (we had some impressive physiques to maintain and the mess food, though the best in Asia Pacific was simply inadequate), eating in, throwing water at random people passing the dorm, throwing water at each other (this had welcome hygiene consequences), singing songs raising the profile of our dormitory representative or simply singing songs in our cacophonous voices were other group activities that received our patronage.

There was depth of emotion, that's the easy bit. Which true relationship doesnt have it. What characterized these friendships was maturity, by a shared appreciation of living the small details, by a shared willingness for being children again. We were all adults, on the cusp of the final plunge in to the world of jobs and responsibilities (indeed most had had the first taste) and fully appreciated that this was our last chance of living freely. So, when we were dunking each other with water, or going for a cup of tea at four in the morning, or playing carrom for hours, it was with the knowledge that all this will soon be over. We lived every moment, knew it was great and knew it will be over. That to me is what made it special: often one doesnt know a great thing when one has it or isnt conscious of the fact that it will end, circumstances ripe for grief. No, this was satisfied happiness.

Breakfast with Reema Sen

After attending a brace of three hour long FGD’s in Hyderabad on Friday, which were, of course, designed to suck the life blood out of keen observers, I took the Saturday morning flight back. At the gate, they upgraded me to business class. I said a polite (usual service, I assure you, unlike the upgrade) and for once, heartfelt thank you and hopped in.

The business class, as the core group has experienced and the junta class has observed, has wide seats, plenty of leg room (though what I can do with extra leg room is a pertinent question), good cutlery and a pillow for every passenger. This pillow I did not like, it seems to give pain to the part of body that rests on it. Just as I had started savouring the business class bar the pillow, a beautiful girl came and stood next to me. Now, moments like these are always moments of tribulation for me. A bit like the case of those Israeli kids who where stuck with a lot of water around them until Moses came around. Boys’ school, long years in IIT, the works, you see. Turns out the lady wants to access her seat, which, as it happens, is the window seat that sits cheek by jowl with my aisle seat. I have already alluded to the ample leg room and the inadequacy of my legs in dealing with them and now wondered as to why the lady doesn’t just sail in. Anyway, since she keeps standing, I politely ask, “Would you like me to step out?” Since she doesn’t say no, I understand it means yes (always a useful policy). I step out. She throws a bunch of magazines on her seat, one of which is the Vogue and shoves her shiny crocodile leather bag in the overhead baggage bin and sits down monopolizing the common armrest between the two of us with her papers. I am feeling much annoyed but being an ardent admirer of Bertie Wooster and inspired by his ideal of preux cavalier, I hold my peace, leaving my arm hanging in mid air. I was looking darkly at the papers that had encroached upon my space when my eyes fell on the name on the boarding pass. I was sitting next to Reema Sen. For those who don’t know her, (Oh! the presumption of wide readership), she is an actor of Hindi and Bengali movies.

Now I have previously been upgraded to business class. But so far, my lot always has been politicians. What else would you expect if you fly business class to Patna, where, I am told by well informed sources, actress of any kind, hue or disposition have not set foot since Ashoka was spreading Buddha’s message of peace and love around these parts. Anyway, the lesson learnt is that one should never stop dreaming, for, guys: ‘the dreams of men, the seeds of commonwealth, the germs of empire’ (Book: Heart of Darkness. Author: Joseph Conrad. And no, the book isn’t about Bihar).
I thought whether I should ask her for her autograph but then the pride of an elite consultant reasserted itself and I desisted. Did you say, “you fool”? I agree. I spent the rest of the flight trying not to embarrass myself in anyway, ate my breakfast with minimal movement, careful not to elbow her. I did squirt a little of the Fruit and Dahi in her general direction but that was faulty packaging, not me. And, mark you, I made no attempts to wipe it off. As for conversation, you are already aware of my chivalrous offer to step out, to which she gave mute consent. Next she asked me if I minded her taking my TOI, to which I replied, in my typical foot in mouth style, “Yes, yes, take it. I only read TOI when I am feeling particularly stupid.” This was of course before I knew she was Reema Sen and she didn’t catch the import of my words anyway.

For those who care, Reema is about five feet four, is dusky in complexion and had bags under her eyes that morning. I would definitely recommend more sleep. She was wearing a black blouse, khaki cotton skirt and flat leather sandals. As for accessories she had Dolce & Gabbana glasses in her hair and a beaded wrist band, this on her wrist. Early morning attire I guess. No nail polish on fingers and faded nail polish on toe nails. And in case you want to ask her out for a casual tête-à-tête over tea, she likes her tea with milk but no sugar.

Bohemia!

I grew up with typical middle class values like:
1. Do things for a purpose. There is no point in doing something only because you like doing it.
2. Spend only on necesscities. Everything else is wasting hard earned money.
3. Pleasure is frivolous/ sinful/ wasteful. Time and money and energy spent on pleasure could be used for more purposeful activities.
4. Plan and work for the future. If its needed, bear pain in the present so that you may rejoice in the future.

Slowly as I grew up, doubtful thoughts emerged. Why should I do everything for some purpose? Why shouldn't I take a walk in the park if I feel like it? Or read a book through the night even though the morrow is a working day? Why not spend on something I don't really need but which I may enjoy, like a car? Why not seek pleasure, purely for itself. It may heal the soul. As for planning for the future: Aren't we always planning for the future? Isn't the present also worth something? In preparing for the future, we ignore the present and remain with unfulfilled wishes. Live for the moment, for pleasure, for non purpose: Bohemia.

I may outgrow this phase as well and my roots may call again. After all, whats learnt early dies last. Do we stop breathing?

Intelligence

I am reading 'Life of Pi'. Haven't finished, so this isnt a review. I would like to quote though,"When an animal decides to do something, it can continue doing it for a long time". When compared to us, animals are so much more powerful. A chimpanzee has five times the upper body strength of humans (so I read at the Basel zoo). Many animals are far more powerful than us. Many are quicker. Many have stronger senses of smell, sight and hearing. I often wonder, were it not for our greater mental faculties, we would long have been as dead as dodos. Its almost a slight, of nature or God, to have made us weaker in body and then to have given us our intelligence, for us to conquer, dominate and bring to the doorstep of annihilation all animals but ourselves, and even ourselves, going by the way we are destroying our planet. Its like those stories in scriptures where the weakling has that one immortal weapon with which to vanquish all adversaries.

Growth in a democracy

I have increasingly been shunning politics, both as a person and as a citizen. However, the recent energy crisis, my stock market investments and the work I am doing these days has set me thinking. In this context, I have been thinking, historians will struggle to explain the mistake we are making as a nation.

I am talking of the nuclear deal. Why won't we sign it? In an conventional-energy starved country such as ours, nuclear power is the only viable alternative. And that nuclear power is currently locked behind the deal. We won't sign it because some political party will make the government fall. Its infuriating. This same party welcomed the chinese attack on India, saying that the revolution is coming.

I came across this website,http://www.growthcommission.org/ . Havent read the papers yet but seems interesting.

Choices

In my school library there were books in which you made your own story. What happened was, that after every few pages, the book would present a choice: go to page 23 or go to page 47. If you went to page 23, the story will proceed in a certain way and if you went to page 47, it progressed in another.

Life, if one thinks of it, proceeds in a similar fashion. After every few pages, one is confronted with a choice which affects the rest of it. Ofcourse, real life is far more complex and there's a choice after every breath so to speak, but if one were to single out the really important choices, one can reach the 'every few pages' analogy.

What were these choices for me, so far? I would exclude chance happenings which deflected me one way rather than the other but include the one decision taken by others to have substantially impacted my life.

These decisions are:
1. To admit me in the best school in town back in class 3.
2. To leave the town for my plus 2 and decide to do it at my uncle's place.
3. To not go to Calcutta for final prep just before JEE.
4. To work really hard at IIM.
5. To not ask the girl I thought was perfect for me if she fancied me.
6. To accept a domestic job and decline going abroad.

In the next post, I would list the chance happenings that have had the greatest impact on my life. These chance happenings, if one were to keep the same cut off vis-a-vis impact, are many more than the decisions. Importance of chance in life!!