For as long as man has walked on this good earth, he has felt the need to move at great speeds. Research has shown that Stone-Age man was an expert at running as fast as his Stone Age legs would carry him.
Which is good, because the Stone Age was a time when pretty much everything on earth possessed teeth the length of swords and wanted to eat you for breakfast.
A particularly brainy Stone Age chappie (let’s call him Oog) was fed up of all this needless running business. “Why”, said Oog one fine day, during a particularly long chase involving him and a saber-tooth tiger, “why cant we make stuff run for us? Why should we exert ourselves in this Neanderthal manner?”
Unfortunately, Oog was eaten up by the saber-tooth whilst he was contemplating this noble idea.
Which proves the following points:
1. Man felt the need to attain great speeds without too much physical toil.
2. Oog wasn’t particularly smart.
Centuries later, the wheel was invented. This was good, because now, man could use the wheel to go from one place to another. Of course, it required a bit of understanding to realize that a circular wheel would be infinitely more efficient than a triangular or square one.
Man later managed to train animals to pull chariots. During this time, he learnt the following:
1. Horses are great chariot pullers.
2. So are donkeys, oxen and yak.
3. Cockroaches do not make good chariot pullers.
4. Don’t mess with tigers.
Cut to the twenty-first century. The car has superseded other forms of terrestrial transportation modes to become the most popular form of powered locomotion.
We see cars in every possible size, shape and colour. Some, like the Volkswagen, scuttle around like beetles, whilst others like the Tempo Traveler simply bulldoze their way home. Red, blue, white, black, mauve, burgundy…. You name the colour, a car is available.
That is provided, of course, that ‘burgundy’ is a colour.
Question: Has anyone really seen ANYTHING that is burgundy in colour?
Right from my tender childhood, I have been fascinated with cars. My baby photos suggest that, apparently, my first locomotive device was a rather yellow-looking hippopotamus, with wheels and a pair of pedals attached to its legs, powered purely by strength of will and leg.
Reports suggest that I was quite the little racer aboard my yellow Hippo-mobile. Apparently, I was in the habit of dashing off at near-light speeds on the Hippo-mobile, pedaling as fast as my baby legs would permit.
With the passage of time, I grew too fat for the Hippo-mobile. Which is when my father purchased a bicycle for me. A rather smallish cycle it was, with plastic-spoke wheels and a bell which was capable of emanating sonic blasts. Many an evening did I spend riding my bicycle. Many a scratch have I borne on my knee and elbow. I loved that bicycle.
Unfortunately, with further passage of time, my bicycle was unable to sustain my mammoth weight. Which is when I progressed to cars.
The only hitch with this car thing was that, unlike the Hippo-mobile or the bicycle, a car is simply not maneuverable. I mean, lets say you are stuck in traffic. Were you aboard the Hippo-mobile or a bicycle, you could easily squeeze and slither your way through traffic and emerge at the top of the pack. Try squeezing and slithering a Scorpio through traffic. Its just not possible.
I joined a motor-training school with the intention of obtaining a valid driver’s license and also to learn this whole driving thing. The car assigned to me was a Maruti 800. Some prominent features of this car are listed below for your kind perusal;
1. The car was white in colour.
2. It had four wheels.
3. It had no back seat.
4. It had no rear-view mirror.
5. It would rear up like an enraged stallion every time I applied the brakes.
6. It would stop moving at the most inopportune moments, like on a highway. At such times, I had to use manual power to kick the car on its backside, upon which it would do a lot of soul-searching, reflect on what a bad car it has been and finally re-start with renewed vigour.
My instructor was Pandeyji, a rather smallish chappie with big ears.
How, you might ask, would I recognize Pandeyji in a crowd?
Here are some features of Pandeyji which are quite distinct:
1. He chews tobacco as if his life depended on it.
2. He sleeps while driving.
3. He sleeps while not driving.
4. He smokes like a chimney.
5. He speaks absolute chaste Hindi.
While we were on our practice rounds, Pandeyji would regale me with stories of his family. Apparently, Pandeyji possessed about a hundred aunts and close to about five thousand uncles, all stashed away in some village somewhere. These aunts and uncles had the tendency to die like flies every so often, causing Pandeyji to rush to his village at regular intervals, causing the cancellation of many a driving lesson.
On his return, Pandeyji would update me about the state of his goats and three buffalo. A favourite story of his revolved around his wedding, which apparently took place with his father-in-law swinging a heavy cudgel over Pandeyji’s head.
One problem with Pandeyji, though. With his penchant for chaste Hindi and my limited grasp of the language, we never saw eye to eye on the topic of directions. He would yell ‘Bayein taraf chaliye’ . It would take me some time to determine which of the two directions (left and right) matched bayein to the closest possible extent. At times, my guess worked and we would continue our drive. Most of the time, however, I would go in the exact opposite direction of bayein. This would normally elucidate a grunt from Pandeyji, who would swing the steering wheel in the appropriate direction and later give me a rather nasty look, similar to what he must have given his cudgel-wielding pa-in-law.
Another problem with Pandeyji was that he would never let me go above second gear. I think my grasp of bayein and dayein left him a wee bit ruffled and he didn’t want to risk smashing into a truck of some kind at top gear, owing to mis-communication.
The day of my driving test dawned bright and sunny. Pandeyji chauffeured me to the RTO, wherein a Driving Inspector, who was nearly as fat as a walrus, plonked his posterior on the front seat and commanded me to drive. Pandeyji was in the back seat, which had been specially prepared just the day before.
I passed the test owing to the fact that I was told to drive on a straight road. None of that daayein-baayein nonsense for this Driving Inspector. Drive straight ahead, honk about a bit and reverse straight back.
I am now the proud owner of a Driving License, which has proved useful as a source of identity and nothing else. For I do not own a locomotive of any kind.
I depend on public transport most of the time. Of course, I can always count on my pals for transportation. Fellow blogger Mr. Shirishkumar Shivram Shetty has taken me on many a ride through Pune city aboard his mighty motorbike Bhim. My pal Mr. Pareshani possesses a bike which he has christened Paplu. Me comrades Dr. Dan, Ms. Gauri, Ms. Pam and Ms. Ruchi all have scooter-mobiles, on which I have ridden pillion on several occasions.
I wish I had a vehicle of my own.
Wonder where the Hippo-mobile is.
Question: Which is the most dangerous part of a car?
Answer: The nut behind the wheel.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Art Attack
Pop Quiz:
Find the odd man out:
Vincent van Gogh, Leonardo da Vinci, Mr. Arun Narayanan, Rembrandt.
If you answered ‘Vincent van Gogh’, you are correct.
While the other members of the list possessed, or are in possession of, a pair of ears, dear old Vincent cut off part of his left ear in what can be described as artistic expression.
However, those who know me well (and even those who don’t) would attest the fact that the presence of my name in the above list is much odder than Vincent and his cut ear.
Lets put it this way: If Leonardo represents the Taj Mahal of Art, I represent the Smelly Rat-Infested, Fetid Sewer System of Art.
Ho now, you might say. My art cannot be that bad.
Here’s news for you, kiddo.
It is.
Ever since I learnt to hold a crayon, Art and I have never been the best of pals. My dad still keeps reminding me of the gazillion colouring books he bought me during my innocent childhood. The main objective of colouring the figures in these books was ‘to keep the colours within the outline of the figure’.
Apparently, after I was through, there was colour on the outside of the figure, on the rest of the page, the next page, the floor and walls of the house. But no colour inside the figure.
Undeterred, my parents enrolled me into many a Drawing class. Drawing teachers during my day where characterized by possessing huge pairs of spectacles, many sheaves of pearly white paper and dozens of kilograms of assorted fruit, displayed in various baskets all round the room.
I vaguely remember some of my Drawing lessons.
Drawing Lesson #1: ‘Still Life’.
The objective was to capture in true spirit and tone, a pile of fruit artistically arranged around an ornate fruit bowl.
Not being much of a lad for dimensions, I proceeded to draw the fruit arrangement to the best of my ability.
The end product comprised the following entities:
An apple so big that had it been real, it would have Ended World Hunger Once and For All.
A pink pineapple.
Grapes the size of watermelons.
Vice-versa.
An orange.
Wait, that’s not an orange, that’s a banana.
Etc.
Somewhere nestled within this fruit salad was an ornate fruit bowl which was not clearly visible unless you happened to have a microscope handy.
Drawing Lesson #2: ‘Bird and Tree’
Have you ever seen a green crow the size of a Jumbo Jet sitting on a tree the size of a sapling? No? Then you absolutely must come and see the end product of Drawing Lesson #2.
Drawing Lesson #3: ‘Teacher said “No more lessons from today.”’
School was the place where my Artistic Skills truly blossomed. The artist within me awoke. Of course, this particular artist had awoken after consuming 50 bottles of brandy the previous night, leading to a bit of a hangover when he awoke.
My school specialized in ‘People Drawing’. Meaning that, instead of drawing orchards of fruit or zoo-fulls of green crows, we were told to draw people.
And that’s when the trouble really began.
I must have been absent when they taught us how to draw people. Oh, I drew people all right. Only problem is, these people lived on the Planet Zook, not on Earth.
How shall I describe my people?
Well, for starters, all of them possessed absolutely circular heads. They were all as bald as a bowling ball. Their arms extended from their faces, their legs from their throats. They possessed no visible signs of an abdomen. And they were always smiling. Regardless of whether the subject was Teacher’s Day or Cemetery Scene, my people were always beaming with happiness.
A particularly favourite topic at school was Janmashtami. We were instructed to capture the essence of this wonderful festival in all its myriad colours and tones. Naturally, when the word Janmashtami is uttered, the first thing that comes to anyone’s mind is the spectacle of athletic blokes balancing on the shoulders of their colleagues in an attempt to build towering human pyramids… the famous Govindas.
Would you like to know how I used to portray this spectacle?
No?
Tough luck. You are gonna know anyway:
Firstly, I never believed in the concept of a pyramid. I preferred to stay two-dimensional, thus subjecting my Govindas to do what best they could in a triangular formation.
The triangle would be built thus: 8 Govindas in the base, 7 in the first level, 6 in the second level, 5 in the third level, and so on, and, if you follow me, so forth, until I ran out of Govindas, resulting in one Govinda at the absolute pinnacle of this magnificent human edifice.
I used to force my Govindas to stand on each other’s arms, instead of balancing on the other chap’s shoulders. No wonder several of my Govindas later complained of chronic arm-ache.
Despite the severe arm-ache, all my Govindas would smile.
More often than not, I used to forget the pot (matka) at the top, the ultimate goal for any self-respecting Govinda. This would result in a picture containing about 30 circular faces arranged symmetrically in a triangular formation, smiling away to glory, with no aim or objective in life.
Another favourite of my Art Teacher at school was Sports Day. Not having participated, or even attended, many Sports Days, I had to summon every bit of my creative skills in order to come up with a reasonable facsimile of the event in question.
Now you will understand why my school was never eager to sponsor my entry for the Elementary and Intermediate Drawing Exams.
The fact that my Standard VI Art Teacher tore up my Sports Day depiction in front of a class of 60 sniveling classmates is description enough.
One thing though: If you happened to feature in my Sports Day paintings, regardless of whether you were the winner or the loser of the race, you would always be smiling.
How, you may exclaim, did I manage to go through Art in school?
Here are a few of my secret weapons, guaranteed to get you through any School-level Art Class:
Recycle old paintings drawn by artistically-inclined seniors.
Bribe your artistically-inclined classmates to draw stuff for you.
Tell Mom to draw it for you.
Say “My dog ate up my drawing.” Add a pathetic expression for extra effect.
In Standard Nine, my school, in its infinite wisdom, decided to make Art a compulsory subject for all. Meaning that regardless of whether you ace Math or English, if you flunked Art, you gotta repeat the year.
Luckily, Standards Nine and Ten were exempt from this rule. Which is lucky for me, otherwise I would still be in Standard Eight today, instead of writing this piece of drivel for you.
The agony wasn’t over, though. Standard Ten featured a chapter titled Food Chain which basically consisted of a lot of animals eating a lot of other animals and the complex relations that exist between them.
For some reason, my Science teacher would insist that I accompany every description of the Food Chain with a figure featuring not less than five animals eating each other up.
She realized her mistake when she sat down to evaluate my Prelim paper and saw a mosquito-sized wolf trying its best to gobble up a dinosaur-sized rabbit.
Later, my worthy Science teacher suggested that I stick to using boxed notations, a technique in which boxes containing the words ‘rabbit’ and ‘wolf’ were connected by arrows, instead of representing Nature in All Its Glory.
Thank God I didn’t opt for Biology in Junior College.
My tryst with Engineering Drawing is reserved for another blog.
Alas! There is no hope for me! I am doomed to be relegated to the back-alley of the Art world. An outcast, a pariah, whose art isn’t worth the paper it is drawn on.
Or is it?
Ever heard of Abstract Art?
There can be nothing more abstract than Sports Day or Janmashtami!
Paris, here I come!
Find the odd man out:
Vincent van Gogh, Leonardo da Vinci, Mr. Arun Narayanan, Rembrandt.
If you answered ‘Vincent van Gogh’, you are correct.
While the other members of the list possessed, or are in possession of, a pair of ears, dear old Vincent cut off part of his left ear in what can be described as artistic expression.
However, those who know me well (and even those who don’t) would attest the fact that the presence of my name in the above list is much odder than Vincent and his cut ear.
Lets put it this way: If Leonardo represents the Taj Mahal of Art, I represent the Smelly Rat-Infested, Fetid Sewer System of Art.
Ho now, you might say. My art cannot be that bad.
Here’s news for you, kiddo.
It is.
Ever since I learnt to hold a crayon, Art and I have never been the best of pals. My dad still keeps reminding me of the gazillion colouring books he bought me during my innocent childhood. The main objective of colouring the figures in these books was ‘to keep the colours within the outline of the figure’.
Apparently, after I was through, there was colour on the outside of the figure, on the rest of the page, the next page, the floor and walls of the house. But no colour inside the figure.
Undeterred, my parents enrolled me into many a Drawing class. Drawing teachers during my day where characterized by possessing huge pairs of spectacles, many sheaves of pearly white paper and dozens of kilograms of assorted fruit, displayed in various baskets all round the room.
I vaguely remember some of my Drawing lessons.
Drawing Lesson #1: ‘Still Life’.
The objective was to capture in true spirit and tone, a pile of fruit artistically arranged around an ornate fruit bowl.
Not being much of a lad for dimensions, I proceeded to draw the fruit arrangement to the best of my ability.
The end product comprised the following entities:
An apple so big that had it been real, it would have Ended World Hunger Once and For All.
A pink pineapple.
Grapes the size of watermelons.
Vice-versa.
An orange.
Wait, that’s not an orange, that’s a banana.
Etc.
Somewhere nestled within this fruit salad was an ornate fruit bowl which was not clearly visible unless you happened to have a microscope handy.
Drawing Lesson #2: ‘Bird and Tree’
Have you ever seen a green crow the size of a Jumbo Jet sitting on a tree the size of a sapling? No? Then you absolutely must come and see the end product of Drawing Lesson #2.
Drawing Lesson #3: ‘Teacher said “No more lessons from today.”’
School was the place where my Artistic Skills truly blossomed. The artist within me awoke. Of course, this particular artist had awoken after consuming 50 bottles of brandy the previous night, leading to a bit of a hangover when he awoke.
My school specialized in ‘People Drawing’. Meaning that, instead of drawing orchards of fruit or zoo-fulls of green crows, we were told to draw people.
And that’s when the trouble really began.
I must have been absent when they taught us how to draw people. Oh, I drew people all right. Only problem is, these people lived on the Planet Zook, not on Earth.
How shall I describe my people?
Well, for starters, all of them possessed absolutely circular heads. They were all as bald as a bowling ball. Their arms extended from their faces, their legs from their throats. They possessed no visible signs of an abdomen. And they were always smiling. Regardless of whether the subject was Teacher’s Day or Cemetery Scene, my people were always beaming with happiness.
A particularly favourite topic at school was Janmashtami. We were instructed to capture the essence of this wonderful festival in all its myriad colours and tones. Naturally, when the word Janmashtami is uttered, the first thing that comes to anyone’s mind is the spectacle of athletic blokes balancing on the shoulders of their colleagues in an attempt to build towering human pyramids… the famous Govindas.
Would you like to know how I used to portray this spectacle?
No?
Tough luck. You are gonna know anyway:
Firstly, I never believed in the concept of a pyramid. I preferred to stay two-dimensional, thus subjecting my Govindas to do what best they could in a triangular formation.
The triangle would be built thus: 8 Govindas in the base, 7 in the first level, 6 in the second level, 5 in the third level, and so on, and, if you follow me, so forth, until I ran out of Govindas, resulting in one Govinda at the absolute pinnacle of this magnificent human edifice.
I used to force my Govindas to stand on each other’s arms, instead of balancing on the other chap’s shoulders. No wonder several of my Govindas later complained of chronic arm-ache.
Despite the severe arm-ache, all my Govindas would smile.
More often than not, I used to forget the pot (matka) at the top, the ultimate goal for any self-respecting Govinda. This would result in a picture containing about 30 circular faces arranged symmetrically in a triangular formation, smiling away to glory, with no aim or objective in life.
Another favourite of my Art Teacher at school was Sports Day. Not having participated, or even attended, many Sports Days, I had to summon every bit of my creative skills in order to come up with a reasonable facsimile of the event in question.
Now you will understand why my school was never eager to sponsor my entry for the Elementary and Intermediate Drawing Exams.
The fact that my Standard VI Art Teacher tore up my Sports Day depiction in front of a class of 60 sniveling classmates is description enough.
One thing though: If you happened to feature in my Sports Day paintings, regardless of whether you were the winner or the loser of the race, you would always be smiling.
How, you may exclaim, did I manage to go through Art in school?
Here are a few of my secret weapons, guaranteed to get you through any School-level Art Class:
Recycle old paintings drawn by artistically-inclined seniors.
Bribe your artistically-inclined classmates to draw stuff for you.
Tell Mom to draw it for you.
Say “My dog ate up my drawing.” Add a pathetic expression for extra effect.
In Standard Nine, my school, in its infinite wisdom, decided to make Art a compulsory subject for all. Meaning that regardless of whether you ace Math or English, if you flunked Art, you gotta repeat the year.
Luckily, Standards Nine and Ten were exempt from this rule. Which is lucky for me, otherwise I would still be in Standard Eight today, instead of writing this piece of drivel for you.
The agony wasn’t over, though. Standard Ten featured a chapter titled Food Chain which basically consisted of a lot of animals eating a lot of other animals and the complex relations that exist between them.
For some reason, my Science teacher would insist that I accompany every description of the Food Chain with a figure featuring not less than five animals eating each other up.
She realized her mistake when she sat down to evaluate my Prelim paper and saw a mosquito-sized wolf trying its best to gobble up a dinosaur-sized rabbit.
Later, my worthy Science teacher suggested that I stick to using boxed notations, a technique in which boxes containing the words ‘rabbit’ and ‘wolf’ were connected by arrows, instead of representing Nature in All Its Glory.
Thank God I didn’t opt for Biology in Junior College.
My tryst with Engineering Drawing is reserved for another blog.
Alas! There is no hope for me! I am doomed to be relegated to the back-alley of the Art world. An outcast, a pariah, whose art isn’t worth the paper it is drawn on.
Or is it?
Ever heard of Abstract Art?
There can be nothing more abstract than Sports Day or Janmashtami!
Paris, here I come!
Sunday, March 4, 2007
The Gentleman's Game
It is everywhere. Wraith-like, relentless, unyielding.
Wherever you go, it follows you. There isn’t a moment of respite from it. All the time, you are within its grasp. Incessant
No, we are not talking about the Hutch cellular telephone network.
I am referring to the phenomenon commonly referred to as cricket.
For the record, I am not a big cricket buff. Its not that I don’t like the game. I just don’t follow it much. What with a busy ‘work’ schedule, a happening social scene and about fifty girlfriends to handle, I can’t seem to get around to watching a game or two.
Okay, that’s not entirely true. Its forty girlfriends.
Anyway, what with this and that, I am not well read on the Subject of Cricket.
Here, for instance, are a few examples of my cricketing knowledge:
1. Whenever I read that Harbhajan Singh has bowled a maiden over, I expect wedding bells to ring out for our dear Paaji.
2. I couldn’t fully come to terms with the concept of silly point. I mean, what’s the point in standing so close to the batsman and risking life, limb and future generations for the sake of saving a few measly runs?
3. Leg breaks meant fractures, hospitalization and plaster casts to me.
4. And don’t get me started on such terms as googly, long leg and chinaman.
I am quite alone in my ignorance. My friends list consists of many cricket enthusiasts, who leap for joy whenever they hear that “Sachin has glanced one through the covers”, much to my trepidation.
My room-mate Mr. Viju is an old hand when it comes to cricket. Watching cricket, that is. I doubt whether the old boy has ever actually played the game. In the arena of TV cricket, however, he is second to none. A typical Mr. Viju-evening will unfold thus:
1. Arrive home from office all tired and weary, as if he has just slain a dragon or two.
2. Dump luggage all over the house and plonk himself on the floor.
3. Switch on television.
Note: Mr. Viju seems to exert an eerie magical power over the television. It automatically switches to a sports channel whenever Mr. Viju is around. This has interrupted many an episode of ‘Power Rangers: Dino Thunder’ which I so cherish.
4. Watch repeat telecast of 1887 Tri-Series Prudential Friendship Cup Pre-Quarter-Final match between India and Antarctica.
5. Comment on various aspects of the game, using terms like pitch conditions, cover drive and over the wicket.
6. Fall asleep while watching the match, leaving it to my other able room-mates to switch off the telly.
Fellow blogger and honorary room-mate Mr. Abinav is also a huge fan of cricket. A die-hard Indian supporter, he would risk everything to watch a clincher match involving Team India, even if the opposing team was in the process of pounding Team India into sawdust.
My pals Ms. Ami and Ms. Gauri are founding members of the Rahul Dravid Fan Club. In fact, they are such big fans of the ever-amazing ‘Jammy’ that people sit around them on hot summer evenings, watching the game, just so that everyone can enjoy the cooling breeze.
(Get it? FAN, BREEZE ….. I know, I know….. My PJs need improvement)
You can imagine what ensues when these, and other cricket enthusiasts, gather at one place on the eve of a match. Snippets of the conversation proceed thus:
“Hey, kal match hai na?”
“Haan rey! Too good match hai! India versus Venezuela!”
“Ganguly should open yaar”
(Note: I have yet to determine what Ganguly needs to open. As soon as I find out, you will be the first to know.)
“Rahul kya khela last time! Sooooo cute!!”
“Arey, yeh suna kya tune? Pitch will suit faster medium seam bowlers!”
“Haan kya? Sahi hai!”
“CHELSEAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
(Don’t know how that got in)
And it goes on and on and on in this vein.
During such discussions, I tend to remain in the corner and blend in with the furniture.
However, I wish to state that I truly admire the complete dedication and 100% commitment my cricket-crazy friends have for their favourite Team India. I am not joking here. I applaud the strength of their support for their team, which is a major force contributing towards the success of not only Team India, but any other team of the world.
Cricket statistics always tend to leave me a bit weak in the knees. Things like batting average, strike rate and run rate are as enlightening to me as the Fifth Postulate of Pythagoras: “Thou shalt not understand anything”.
I am greatly impressed with the ease at which my cricket enthusiast friends vomit out these statistics. For instance, Mr. Viju can tell you, if you asked nicely, that Sachin Tendulkar’s average of 344.43 is due to a combination of his run-rate of 23.44, a pitch-to-dryness ratio of 8.7 and humidity of 44%.
While I am glad that Sachin has such a decent average (whatever that means), I simply cannot remember cricketing figures, unless Mandira Bedi is involved in some way.
And don’t get me started on the Duckworth-Lewis Rule.
Even if I am not an ardent follower of the game, I support cricket in all its forms. However, there is one aspect of the game that I simply cannot stomach.
It is called the Pre and Post Match Analysis Session.
For those lucky souls who haven’t an inkling as to what this torturous session involves, I provide below a brief, but accurate discussion of a typical Pre and Post Match Analysis Session.
A bunch of old ex-cricketers, possessing varying degrees of experience, skill and baldness, sit around in a circle and give their expert opinions on the game being played. This bunch of losers comprises the highly-acclaimed Analysis Panel.
They seem oblivious to the fact that the only people who actually care a damn for their expert opinions are their own family members and, possibly, serial killers.
In its nascent stage, the analysis sessions used to be dignified affairs, consisting of a few really great stalwarts of the game discussing important aspects of the match. Now-a-days, it seems that every person and his brother can sit on the Analysis Panel and yodel on and on and on about stuff which hasn’t even the faintest relation to cricket. Apparently, if you own a bat, or know someone who owns a bat, or read Batman comics, you can chair the Analysis Panel.
However, there is a bright side to this analysis thing. Cricketers, who are as skilled on the field as a fish performing brain surgery, are assured that they will always find a place on the Analysis Panel.
It really disgusts me. Why, I ask, why, should a bunch of people who posses as much charm and charisma as a stick insect, jabber on endlessly about stuff to which No One Frankly Cares Two Hoots?
I say, let the players play the game their own way. Don’t mould them into zombie-like clones of your own pathetic selves. You have had your heyday, now let the present team play as they want.
Hold on. I just received an email.
Dear Mr. Narayanan,
Apropos your request to join the Analysis Panel of the ICC Cricket World Cup 2007, we are pleased to inform you that we will be happy to have you on board as an Expert Analyist.
As per your request, we will ensure that you are seated next to Ms. Bedi during each Analysis Session.
Please find enclosed your complementary flight ticket to the West Indies.
We look forward to having your valued opinions and comments as member of the esteemed Analysis Panel.
Thank you.
Yours truly,
XYZ
Got to go, chappies. Lots of packing to do.
Where’s my sunscreen?
P.S: Here’s wishing Team India the very best of luck for the World Cup!
GO BLUE MACHINE!!
Wherever you go, it follows you. There isn’t a moment of respite from it. All the time, you are within its grasp. Incessant
No, we are not talking about the Hutch cellular telephone network.
I am referring to the phenomenon commonly referred to as cricket.
For the record, I am not a big cricket buff. Its not that I don’t like the game. I just don’t follow it much. What with a busy ‘work’ schedule, a happening social scene and about fifty girlfriends to handle, I can’t seem to get around to watching a game or two.
Okay, that’s not entirely true. Its forty girlfriends.
Anyway, what with this and that, I am not well read on the Subject of Cricket.
Here, for instance, are a few examples of my cricketing knowledge:
1. Whenever I read that Harbhajan Singh has bowled a maiden over, I expect wedding bells to ring out for our dear Paaji.
2. I couldn’t fully come to terms with the concept of silly point. I mean, what’s the point in standing so close to the batsman and risking life, limb and future generations for the sake of saving a few measly runs?
3. Leg breaks meant fractures, hospitalization and plaster casts to me.
4. And don’t get me started on such terms as googly, long leg and chinaman.
I am quite alone in my ignorance. My friends list consists of many cricket enthusiasts, who leap for joy whenever they hear that “Sachin has glanced one through the covers”, much to my trepidation.
My room-mate Mr. Viju is an old hand when it comes to cricket. Watching cricket, that is. I doubt whether the old boy has ever actually played the game. In the arena of TV cricket, however, he is second to none. A typical Mr. Viju-evening will unfold thus:
1. Arrive home from office all tired and weary, as if he has just slain a dragon or two.
2. Dump luggage all over the house and plonk himself on the floor.
3. Switch on television.
Note: Mr. Viju seems to exert an eerie magical power over the television. It automatically switches to a sports channel whenever Mr. Viju is around. This has interrupted many an episode of ‘Power Rangers: Dino Thunder’ which I so cherish.
4. Watch repeat telecast of 1887 Tri-Series Prudential Friendship Cup Pre-Quarter-Final match between India and Antarctica.
5. Comment on various aspects of the game, using terms like pitch conditions, cover drive and over the wicket.
6. Fall asleep while watching the match, leaving it to my other able room-mates to switch off the telly.
Fellow blogger and honorary room-mate Mr. Abinav is also a huge fan of cricket. A die-hard Indian supporter, he would risk everything to watch a clincher match involving Team India, even if the opposing team was in the process of pounding Team India into sawdust.
My pals Ms. Ami and Ms. Gauri are founding members of the Rahul Dravid Fan Club. In fact, they are such big fans of the ever-amazing ‘Jammy’ that people sit around them on hot summer evenings, watching the game, just so that everyone can enjoy the cooling breeze.
(Get it? FAN, BREEZE ….. I know, I know….. My PJs need improvement)
You can imagine what ensues when these, and other cricket enthusiasts, gather at one place on the eve of a match. Snippets of the conversation proceed thus:
“Hey, kal match hai na?”
“Haan rey! Too good match hai! India versus Venezuela!”
“Ganguly should open yaar”
(Note: I have yet to determine what Ganguly needs to open. As soon as I find out, you will be the first to know.)
“Rahul kya khela last time! Sooooo cute!!”
“Arey, yeh suna kya tune? Pitch will suit faster medium seam bowlers!”
“Haan kya? Sahi hai!”
“CHELSEAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
(Don’t know how that got in)
And it goes on and on and on in this vein.
During such discussions, I tend to remain in the corner and blend in with the furniture.
However, I wish to state that I truly admire the complete dedication and 100% commitment my cricket-crazy friends have for their favourite Team India. I am not joking here. I applaud the strength of their support for their team, which is a major force contributing towards the success of not only Team India, but any other team of the world.
Cricket statistics always tend to leave me a bit weak in the knees. Things like batting average, strike rate and run rate are as enlightening to me as the Fifth Postulate of Pythagoras: “Thou shalt not understand anything”.
I am greatly impressed with the ease at which my cricket enthusiast friends vomit out these statistics. For instance, Mr. Viju can tell you, if you asked nicely, that Sachin Tendulkar’s average of 344.43 is due to a combination of his run-rate of 23.44, a pitch-to-dryness ratio of 8.7 and humidity of 44%.
While I am glad that Sachin has such a decent average (whatever that means), I simply cannot remember cricketing figures, unless Mandira Bedi is involved in some way.
And don’t get me started on the Duckworth-Lewis Rule.
Even if I am not an ardent follower of the game, I support cricket in all its forms. However, there is one aspect of the game that I simply cannot stomach.
It is called the Pre and Post Match Analysis Session.
For those lucky souls who haven’t an inkling as to what this torturous session involves, I provide below a brief, but accurate discussion of a typical Pre and Post Match Analysis Session.
A bunch of old ex-cricketers, possessing varying degrees of experience, skill and baldness, sit around in a circle and give their expert opinions on the game being played. This bunch of losers comprises the highly-acclaimed Analysis Panel.
They seem oblivious to the fact that the only people who actually care a damn for their expert opinions are their own family members and, possibly, serial killers.
In its nascent stage, the analysis sessions used to be dignified affairs, consisting of a few really great stalwarts of the game discussing important aspects of the match. Now-a-days, it seems that every person and his brother can sit on the Analysis Panel and yodel on and on and on about stuff which hasn’t even the faintest relation to cricket. Apparently, if you own a bat, or know someone who owns a bat, or read Batman comics, you can chair the Analysis Panel.
However, there is a bright side to this analysis thing. Cricketers, who are as skilled on the field as a fish performing brain surgery, are assured that they will always find a place on the Analysis Panel.
It really disgusts me. Why, I ask, why, should a bunch of people who posses as much charm and charisma as a stick insect, jabber on endlessly about stuff to which No One Frankly Cares Two Hoots?
I say, let the players play the game their own way. Don’t mould them into zombie-like clones of your own pathetic selves. You have had your heyday, now let the present team play as they want.
Hold on. I just received an email.
Dear Mr. Narayanan,
Apropos your request to join the Analysis Panel of the ICC Cricket World Cup 2007, we are pleased to inform you that we will be happy to have you on board as an Expert Analyist.
As per your request, we will ensure that you are seated next to Ms. Bedi during each Analysis Session.
Please find enclosed your complementary flight ticket to the West Indies.
We look forward to having your valued opinions and comments as member of the esteemed Analysis Panel.
Thank you.
Yours truly,
XYZ
Got to go, chappies. Lots of packing to do.
Where’s my sunscreen?
P.S: Here’s wishing Team India the very best of luck for the World Cup!
GO BLUE MACHINE!!
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