One pitch

We had planned to play cricket the past weekend. We, as in a motley bunch of once-fit, once-athletic, once-agile guys at work. The right equipment had been gathered over multiple trips to India. Two bamboo clothes rods mysteriously vanished from a certain household and reappeared, sawed into size, as the wickets. Discrete emails were sent out and recruits were drafted in. "Special project" lies were readied and rehearsed through the week to hoodwink those wives that didn't believe in a weekend game of cricket being a man's birthright. And promptly it rained on our plans. Almost all day long. When the rain laden clouds had emptied themselves completely and cleared up in the evening, a group of four of us (from the original 12) still made it to the field only to be greeted by a partly submerged wicket and a puddle ridden outfield. Cricket wasn't even a remote possibility. Sigh and go home? Think again!

In a gesture tantamount to thumbing the nose at the rains, we sought out the local badminton court. The four of us surveyed the green patch with the neat lines and the net posts and it came together in a flash: one pitch cricket!. Confronted with rains,

M/s. Duckworth and Lewis came up with a mathematical formula that spoiled many parties across the world. (And immediately earned the instant hatred of nearly every follower.) But on the other hand, we had come up with something much more worthwhile.

The nearby light post was identified as the wicket. Rules were framed in no time: underarm bowling only, 3 overs per person, putting bat to the ball fetched a run, shots only on the off-side, leg side shots fetched no runs, getting 'beaten' 3 times got you out and so did aerial shots that fell past the court's boundary lines. And, most importantly, "one pitch" catches were legal. Dravids are not born, they are forged on rainy afternoons in wet badminton courts.

The two fielders crowded around the batsman, bringing out a keen tussle between bat, ball and postprandial stupor. The appeals and arguments were kept minimal, keeping in mind the obvious lack of overwhelming appreciation for the sport on this island. Especially on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Trust me, getting yelled at in Mandarin ain't no fun.

I can't remember the last time I played a game of one pitch cricket. But the next hour transported me back to the school/college days when all that was required was a concrete column, a bat and a ball (or even lookalikes) and a few friends to get a game of indoor cricket going in the living rooms, covered car parks, passages, hallways, class rooms, hostel rooms and just about any other place that had a roof above. November and December brought rains to Chennai but cricket continued unabated in many homes across the suburbs.

I remember abruptly curtailing the productive lifetimes of many window panes, light bulbs, lamp shades, decorative pieces and a host of other household articles that came in the way of a speeding Arun ice-cream ball travelling at some speed. (Remember those wonderful multi-purpose creatures pictured above? You could give yourself tooth decay, broken items and a visit to either the doctor or an electrician. All that for a few rupees. Not to mention the pleasant ring it had when it bounced on mosaic flooring.) I'd like to believe that, as kids, we did everything possible to maintain a robust economy by stimulating customer spending. Do you remember a recession in the eighties? Neither do I and thus rest my case. Of special mention is my cousin whose shots homed in on expensive targets with the accuracy of a sniper. I still remember like yesterday when his shot curved, in mid-air, like a Roberto Carlos free kick, and took out the rear view mirror of their neighbor's grey Lamby scooter. Stuff of the legends, if you ask me. Reprimands from the grown ups, who seemed to age much faster during vacations, brought forth stricter rules: "two pitch" catches were legalized, getting beaten only twice meant giving up the bat to the next guy or, gasp, even having an umpire, at the expense of a fielder, to adjudicate catches and thus eliminate noisy arguments. Fuming and cursing under the breath were still allowed though. Each innings lasted but a few balls and scores were more soccer than cricket. Armed with nothing more than passion for the game, we could make the ball talk and our elders yell.

Being the good ambassadors of the game, we carried forth this tradition to the distant lands that academic and professional pursuits carried us to. In grad school, entire indoor tennis courts were conquered by fine Indian gentlemen of athletic persuasions, who undid the nets and got a game of cricket going in no time. Reason: rains. We once had a friend crash through the French window in our apartment, trying to take a particularly difficult catch. You know who you are! We later argued ourselves out of paying for the replacement, citing a long pending repair work that the management hadn't completed in our apartment. They finally relented. But the point is, we got an important breakthrough in the game, if you will excuse the punnage.

But the ultimate gesture was what happened in a certain apartment complex in Fremont, CA in the summer of 2005. On a Friday night. Or, if you are detail oriented, 3AM on a Saturday morning. In acknowledgement of the impending weekend, K, B, S and myself had a few beers and watched a late movie. Still left with some more energy to expend, we struck upon the brilliant idea of, well, a game of indoor cricket. Mind you, 3 of the four people that played that night, including yours truly, posed as responsible professionals during the day. And the fourth one was actively looking for gainful employment. But I digress. We fished out a cricket bat from the deeper recesses of a car trunk. A couple of tennis balls were located and a game was underway in our second floor living room with most of the stringent rules in place.

Wood being the primary building material of choice across much of continental USA, the exertions of four fine specimens of the species gave rise to loud thuds and the vibrations carried through to the apartment below. Translation: the living room lighting fixture in the house below came loose and crashed. We could hear the crash and decided in favor of bringing the game to a halt. The heavy silence that ensued was soon broken by knocks on our door. Not loud banging but soft knocks. That was all the prompting that I needed. I was positioned as the point fielder by the window when I heard the knocks and in a show of extreme athleticism (and friendship), I dove into my comforter that lay in one corner of the living room and pretended to be fast asleep. Never mind the rivulets of sweat streaking across my face or the heavy breathing. If push came to shove, I could explain it away as having a nightmare of a stranger knocking on the door in the night.Well, early morning, if you insist. Just before I shut my eyes, I noticed that S had seen the merit in my course of action and had followed suit, taking refuge in his comforter at long-on, over by the other corner.

K-man and B had the bat and the ball in their hands respectively. Oh, and a knife stuck firmly in their backs too. Nowhere to hide, they both opened the door. I tensed up under the comforter, expecting to hear a few curse words casting aspersions on their lineage up to, at least, 3 generations before, a few dull thuds or even the clicking of a 9mm. Instead, I heard a male voice, with a heavy North Indian accent. (Imagine teknolawjee (technology), masheen (machine), peepal(people)). The voice introduced it's owner, who had stepped in to the living room, as someone working for Cisco and that he perfectly understood that we were young guys trying to have fun on a Friday night. OK, may be he was too sleepy to notice the time or the date. He was really OK with it. But since the light fixture had come crashing down, he wondered if we could henceforth stop playing cricket after, um, midnight. He then enquired about our interest for the sport and, I'm not making this up, offered to meet us up for lunch and also play some cricket, of the outdoor variety, of course, when we had time. With that, he walked away to resume his sleep or start cleaning up. Am I proud of our actions that night? Hell no. But that single moment was testimony to the power of one-pitch cricket to win people over and turn a tense situation on its head. And the fact that we could get away with even murder in the midst of a tense game.

Cut back to last Saturday. Thankfully we didn't repeat any of my childhood exploits and the general peace of the neighborhood wasn't shattered significantly. Collateral damage was limited to spoiled siestas. Our worst crime that day could be browbeating a few kids, with aspirations of playing a game of basketball on the badminton court, to go elsewhere. Those sulking kids walked away, probably to fiddle with their play stations. When we finished our last game, totally spent and drenched, it appeared as if time had frozen over. Those 60 minutes had worked wonders at many levels, reaffirming that there is joy to be had in small things. I relished every moment, one pitch at a time.

A Wednesday

Singapore's fickle weather needs no special mention. Every morning, Ms. Nature wakes up, stretches her arms, opens the window and then decides whether to summon the sun or the rains to let loose on this island. Only for the next few hours, that is, before she orders a change of weather over breakfast and coffee. Hence it is always safe to carry an umbrella with you no matter what the weather prediction says.

Thus it came to pass that I opened my window screens this morning and took in the sight of heavy rain falling after a particularly dry spell (10 days). I got ready to go to work and by the time I stepped out, Ms. Nature had had a change of mind and it was sunshine. Much against the wife's cautionary words, I chose not to carry an umbrella. Up in my mind, the day's quota of rain had been exhausted in the morning leaving behind a bright sunny day for everyone to lap up. Right? Wrong.

I would not have walked more than 200 metres when the first drops started falling on the still wet road. Before long it was coming down very heavily. Ms. Nature was apparently breakfasting. I sought refuge in the nearby cluster of housing blocks. The Singapore Govt., keeping folks just like me in mind, has gone out of the way to allow us to cohabit with the rest of the normal folks. The government housing blocks, with all their shortcomings, have covered walkways linking one block to the other. Thus I walked to within a couple of furlongs (When was the last time you used this unit?) from my office, still bone dry. The last stretch leading up to the rear entrance to our premises, however, was open to the elements and I stood at the very edge of the last block, by the parking lot, with a forlorn look in the direction of my office and a bored, indifferent cat for company. Not even an impending meeting could move me to make a dash to my office. It could have made for a dramatic entry, granted, but those things look good only in the movies. Wearing wet clothes in an air-conditioned office in real life is a pain and a half.

The cat was engaged in various acts of personal grooming and I slowly settled into a reverie, watching the falling drops. I don't know about you, but watching rain fall to me is a meditative experience. Particularly on a work day morning, while I'm stranded outside the office. It helped calm my frayed nerves. A good 10 minutes must have passed in this fashion when she emerged around the corner of the opposite block from where I was stranded. A lady, firmly entrenched in her mid-sixties, I reckon, came walking towards the housing blocks from the store across the road. Her labored gait, robbed of grace by the advancing years, suggested fatigue and the frailties that go with her age. Her face, with an ample smear of kungumam on her forehead, bore the marks left behind by the many years of existence and experience. Her mostly grey hair was casually worn in a bun and she was clad in a "nightie" that came down to her shins. And she trod, one careful, slow step after another, using her folded umbrella as a walking stick. I became sufficiently curious about what someone in her condition was doing outdoors on such a wet morning and I tracked her progress silently.

She trudged to the point exactly opposite from me and stood by the edge, just away from the rain. I was wondering why she didn't proceed further as she was armed with an umbrella when I noticed that she was looking at me. Probably coming to the same conclusion that you, my reader, must have come to at the end of para 3 : not a very smart man. She gave me a smile that was more condescending than sympathetic. I responded with a near sheepish grin, having smelled the condescension that hung in the morning air. She mimed if I wanted an umbrella: pointing to her own umbrella and then pointing towards me. Caught unawares, I offered a half hearted nod/shake of my head, not sure myself if that was a yes or a no. Although, I must hasten to add, that I had no intentions of relieving her of her only protection against the rains. Cue another smile from the lady, understanding and sympathetic. Kids these days.

I can be accused of not being smart more times than I would like, but I'm innocent of selfishness. I may have been running late for a meeting starting in less than a few minutes, but I drew a firm line at plucking the only umbrella from an aged stranger in pouring rains. But the lady opened up her umbrella and stepped into the rains and made her way to a beige Toyota Corolla parked nearby. [I'm on a sticky wicket for anything beyond RGB. While I was tempted to put it down as a really pale, dull yellow with a tinge of brown in English or the more descriptive and accurate aathla aracha sandhana color in Tamil, I had to look up the shade at the Toyota website to bring you an accurate description of the vehicle.] Using her remote entry key, she unlocked the car, opened the rear door, reached inside and pulled out a full sized umbrella. By this time, I had sized up the situation and went up to her to collect the same from her. She still had that smile on her face.

"Thank you ma'am. How should I get this back to you?" I made my intentions clear that I wasn't planning to add her's to my unused umbrella collection at home.

"Never mind la" I don't know if she didn't expect this or wanted to play it safe with a stranger in the rains.

"Ma'am I walk past this place on my way back from work. I'd like to return it to you." I shone some light on my decent side.

"No problem la. Never mind, really. It's an old one." She had gotten behind the wheel and was closing the door now. The smile was still on her face.

Toyota makes really silent engines. The Corolla sprang to life and she eased the car out and drove away in near silence. I stood there watching the car round the corner, shielded from the rains but drenched completely by her kindness. An act of random kindness on a wet Wednesday morning. All is not lost with (the rest of) humanity, after all.

I have memorized her license plate and I plan to return the umbrella with a thank you note and perhaps the link to this post. Will keep y'all posted on how that goes.

I'm jumping into the tank

Forget travel writer, sports editor. Forget the government udhyogam too. Working for a think tank, in any capacity, has got to be the coolest job around. Hands down. I can't quite put my finger on it but there seems to be a ring to it. A think. And then a tank. A think tank. *Shivers* It was only recently that I started paying attention to them. On TV, they are always the impeccable folks. They are the ones in nice suits, with white teeth and neat hair cuts. I can imagine their entry into a party bringing an abrupt end to all chatter as people turn their heads to get a glimpse, forks in mid air.

I personally don't know what gets done inside one of think tanks or what kind of people are hired. And I don't think they are in the habit of conducting open houses or having stalls at job fairs in colleges either. So it is left to an individual's imagination to paint a picture of one. Don't ask me why but I always come up with a very silent, well furnished office. No work tables or computers, just some lazboys scattered around and a walk up drink bar. And important looking people staring intently at the ceiling or chewing their nails with an intense look. Breaking every now and then only to spit out masticated cuticles. All the tell tale signs of thinking minds at work.

Whatever it is, the possibilities of being part of a think tank give me goosebumps just thinking about it. Excuse the unintended pun. If you haven't really warmed up to the idea, imagine a job description that says:

The candidate must be:

Willing to think.

Proficient in thinking about multiple things.

Must be able to think with very little supervision.

Able to think as part of a team and also individually.

Occasionally may be required to think during weekends.

Except for the last point, it is tough to beat that kind of duties. Or imagine having this conversation with your boss:

Boss: Here is something for you to think about: .

You: When do you need this?

Boss: This one is due tomorrow morning.

You: I'll think about it.

Boss: Thanks man! I really can count on you.

Or this:

Boss: Have you completed the Penske assignment?

You: I thought about it the whole of last week. The results from the thought experiment seem to be accurate.

Boss: Excellent! Just what I wanted to hear.

And if you are still not convinced, your Out-of-office note can read: I'm thinking out of the box next week with little to no access to my mind. My thoughts may be delayed. If you can't hold your thoughts, think about my manager.

Have you ever wondered how these people make money? When was the last time you became aware that a think tank actually laid roads and provided clean drinking water to any population? Have you seen someone from your local think tank in hard hats and work boots? Me neither. I mean, you don't read about a think tank being associated with anything even remotely related to actual work. Or getting stuff done. Not surprisingly, I haven't seen the annual financial reports of a think tank or how the shares of Think Tank Inc. are trading these days. But flipping through the pages of any newspaper, you come across a think tanker (You heard it first here!) always having an opinion, a few words and, of course, thoughts on just about anything under the sun. In other words, if there is a tree on which money grows, you will find it on their premises.

No wonder then, that there are atleast 5,465 of them worldwide, with a good 1,777 of them based in the US. At a conservative 10 guys per tank, there are over 54 thousand think tankers (You heard it a second time here too!) amongst us. A pretty elite group. And I'm making it known now and here that I'm eager to be counted as one among them. It's official: I'm on the lookout for think tanks planning to hire. As long as they actually pay me and don't just think about it, that is. I'm no free thinker!

Save the telly

The time has come to take a few decisions to cleanse the airwaves and rid them of some wrongs that have crept in and simply refuse to leave. The people at the helm seem to be napping. Or may be even paralyzed. So I take this opportunity to come out with the list. A list of not what I want to see on air - that is not going to cater to wide sections of the public, but rather what I want to see off the air. If only the folks are listening...

Mega serials

Every single one of them is to be stopped with immediate effect. This phenomenon has led to the rise of an entire class of people who think they are actually furthering the purpose of art by appearing on a soap. Devoid of any histrionic capability, they have invaded every household. Yes, this will lead to large scale unemployment of unskilled workers and leave the viewers with up to 26 hrs in a day. But I never said this is going to be easy.

Compering

Compering of all varieties should stop. No arguments here. I've sounded my distaste for this here, briefly. A compere is not much different from the safari clad supervisors in the better off bhavans in Chennai: adding little to no value and coming in the way of your waiter and a quick meal. So are we doing away with it completely? No, in its place we will have simple announcement cards a la Doordarshan (Remember sketch pen letters on charts?) may be add a bit of techno music in the background. The point being, informative and effective. More importantly, no mindless blabbering between songs or comedy clips. We're doing away with this on the general principle that money should be earned.

Radhika

I'm against show business and politics coming under the clutches of a chosen few and continuing to be run as a family business. Unfortunately, that is the current reality and ironically, the beneficiaries are the very people who abhor the varnashrama dharma. But that is another story for another day. Unlike a family run grocery store or a tailoring business, family run politics and entertainment, with their reach on the general public, will have serious fallouts, one of which is poor performance being foisted on an innocent public. A sorry situation where the scion learns the trade by repetition, stars get churned out by turn, stardom gets inherited rather than earned. And as if the homegrown variety of nuisances on air aren't enough, we have one of Sri Lankan flavor to deal with. Without further ado, say hello to Radhika, India's answer to Oprah, gram for gram and MR Radha's greatest mistake. Or second greatest if you count Radha Ravi. Her serials is where Jurassic Park meets pudhumai penn and she is always the revolutionary female T-Rex. She continues to don the lady wronged role with the same keenness that Sachin shows while playing ODI #442. But I say its time to take a bow. Thank you.

Sob stories in game shows

A game show is a sad time, I agree. I mean, there you are, sitting on the couch and watching someone make money with the help of nothing more than blind luck is sad enough. But the contestants airing their sorry stories is when you are pushing the limit. I thought there was a law against this? May be not. Same with the dance/song shows where participants require no prompting to turn on the waterworks at the drop of a hat. Come, participate and leave. Save your tears for elsewhere.

Chemistry

The one word that is being bandied about on air by just about anybody. Every 2 bit judge in every 2 bit dance show has to mention this one word to sound knowledgeable. The minute they say "ungalukkulla oru chemistry illai" a halo comes on over their head and the rest of us, mere mortals, bow our heads in respect for their intellect and the profound statement. Last I heard, Venkataraman Ramakrishnan has returned his Nobel and even his class XII certificate to distance himself from this subject.

Stand up comedy

"indha court-la paatheenganna rombha comedy irukkum. ippdi thaan oru vaatti..."

Stand up comedy is not standing up and delivering well recycled, slightly customized jokes that have seen better days on the internet. Period. It simply doesn't fly. Even if you deliver them in Madurai/Nellai slang. Throw in a poorly ventilated set, sweaty contestants in over-sized suits and two judges that are not even remotely funny and we have ourselves a recurring pain. This one is going out baby.

Kids

Read my lips: I love kids. But only the ones that look, sound and act like kids. And that means not the ones on TV who seem to be acting way over their age. I know they are not to be blamed. No matter which channel or which time, there is a kid either singing, dancing or acting in an adhiga prasangi manner. The last straw is kids doing stand up comedy. Parents, stop living vicariously through your kids that have just stepped out of their diapers. Damn I miss the Wonder Balloon and Little Stars of Doordarshan's evening program line up when kids were, I don't know, really kids!

Anu Hassan

A talk show must be engaging both the guests and audiences alike. That requires a strong host who is not in awe of the guests. Armed with politically safe/tame/bland questions, she refuses to bring out any interesting facets of the guest every single time. And the show comes across as undercooked and underwhelming and annoying as she toes their line, agrees with their points and laughs at the lamest of their jokes. And looks like a complete fool. It takes talent to get a successful talk show going but unfortunately she only has a popular last name and little else. A complete waste of airtime.

Anuradha Sriram

No arguments here, this one's unanimous. She's gotta go.