Thank you Viru!

Behind fearlessness is usually a clear mind. A mind intent on keeping things simple. A mind unhindered by the weight of tradition, protocol or what went before. A mind that could come up with its own religion and a sense of what is right or not. Sehwag’s game betrayed his possession of such a mind – tranquil, strong and brutal. The body then became a mere instrument. The hand-eye coordination, the fluid strokeplay and the marauding batsmanship simply flowed forth. Natural. Destined. 

Opening, so we were told, was a fine art. An elite profession strictly earmarked for the products of textbooks to pursue. Temperament, the willingness to see off the shine and guarding the wicket were minimum virtues expected of any aspirant. And into this altar Sehwag bludgeoned his way and broke down all traditions. To put it simply, he played street cricket at the highest level wearing whites and a floppy hat. And he did this right from his debut till the very end. Against the best bowlers. And on pitches of all varieties. There was no slowing down, adapting, changing gears or accumulating. See ball, hit ball.

That he paid little attention to the context of the game perhaps let him play his natural game. And this is exactly why watching his innings unfold was possibly the reason behind my first grey hairs. A waft outside the offstump produced the same grin as did a clean straight drive down the ground. An upper cut over third man? This was the first man whose score in the nineties made me a wreck half way across the globe. Thankfully, though his nineties were plenty, they were all short lived. 

Muddling through numbers to understand his legacy would be futile. His impact lies entwined in the intangibles. Opposing captains delaying their declarations. Bowlers finding their plans in shatters. Opponents redefining a safe target after every over. Necessitating unorthodox field placements. Captains ringing in bowling changes with a prayer. Runs per minute would be a better measure for his batting gave his bowling colleagues not only more runs but also additional time. And above all, shrugging off the label of a "Sachin clone" to create a name for his own. 

Viv Richards is perhaps the only man that merits comparison with Sehwag. Viv “The King” was unmistakably a showman. His game was as sublime as it was arrogant. The famous “stagger” betrayed a nonchalance. And the gum chewing oozed irreverence. His persona was perhaps as feared as was his violent strokeplay. Whereas with Sehwag, there was only the earnestness of a workman. Nothing more, nothing less. In the hands of Viv, the bat was a sword while in Sehwag’s it was more an axe.

His methods may have made purists squirm. There were whispers about technique, foot work and weaknesses against the short ball. But his career bears testimony to his genius. Sehwag changed the job description of a test opener and left his stamp on the game to be truly counted among the best to have played the sport. And, although unsung, he truly did it his way.

Thank you for the memories.

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With Sehwag's retirement (and Zaheer's), an era in Indian cricket comes to an end. For they are the last two players that were, how do I put this...older than me. From now on, whenever I watch the men  boys in blue on TV, I will feel old. Sigh.

One more Israel trip diary

I wanted to continue on the commute series but this trip happened. Now a trip to anywhere in general, and to Israel in particular, is a low hanging fruit when it comes to providing content for another blog post. And given that I find it difficult to sit down and write something for any stretch of time, these quick, bite sized jottings are just too tempting to pass on. Without further adieu...

Day 1: Thursday

Something is happening in Israel. I mean besides the stabbings, killings and maimings that is. Flights are sold out and so are the hotels. Forced to fly out a day earlier than normal. I keep checking CNN and BBC to see if anything serious enough to warrant canceling the trip has happened, but no: trip on. With the kid now at that age when he wants to do nothing but play all the time with me, it is difficult to tear myself away. Luckily I slip out before he is up. (Feel doubly bad for the wife.) Because of circumstances, I'm now enrolled in the United Airlines mileage program. But that doesn't stop me from complaining about how crappy their service is. United Airlines sucks! There, I have said it one more time. And they don't disappoint me this time either.

Day 2: Friday

Arrive at TLV. Immigration is a breeze as I bound out of the airplane and beat the swarming crowd to the counters. My colleague? Couldn't make it. He is held at security for an hour and then takes a cab from hell to his hotel. I see multiple events going on at my hotel: which explains why getting a room was tough. The European Regional Conference is happening. In Tel Aviv. If that is strange, I have so far seen 4 Indians attending this conference. Go figure. A fantastic sunset now playing at my room window. Walk to Dizengoff sqaure area to get some dinner. But as expected, I'm not able to beat the Shabat clock: shops have shuttered down. Settle for pizza slices. But my hotel decrees that I can now use their lounge for a nightcap or two. Yay! Trying out Melatonin to hoodwink jetlag.

Side note 1: Amused at the selective outrage of our "intelligentsia" and media in the post-Dadri mess. The Sahitya Akademi (What is this spelling?) circus, kicked off by Nayantara Sehgal is particularly funny. A close second is the TM Krishna article in The Muslim Hindu. And the appropriately outraged UPA thugs have now crawled out of the woodworks and thrown their hat into the ring.

Side note 2: My religion coming in the way of your food is always a problem. And nowhere is that more evident than on a Shabat evening in Tel Aviv while walking hungrily past shuttered down restaurants.

Day 3: Saturday

The verdict is in: Melatonin works! I get almost 6.5 hours of fitful sleep. Wolf down a king's breakfast at the restaurant. Settle down to work in the room. Opt for a super healthy, guilt free, fruit-only lunch: a plum , a pear, a peach and a banana. Rather than walk out to Jaffa for a falafel lunch. Take that LDL and tri-glycerides! Consumed by more work till late evening. Watch yet another gorgeous sunset and head out to Dizengoff center for dinner. Now that I'm sporting a beard, I'm taking care to avoid dark streets that I wouldn't have minded taking while I was clean shaven. Times are such. Market restaurant - a vegetarian and vegan place - provides a sumptuous dinner of rice and a white bean based curry. Slurp. Wrap up some more work with a whiskey.

Day 4: Sunday

Rent a white VW Polo. Rental cars in Israel are usually beat up mules on four wheels. Whereas in the USA it is not uncommon to get a sparingly driven car with even the new car smell still strong, the ones in Israel all have crazy miles, strange stains and strong odors. This one is no exception. I walk in  to the office with a fixed agenda and is of course swamped with nine other items. Email from our travel security desk warns us to not venture out to "mixed cities" like Jaffa (which is a stone's throw from the hotel) or Nazareth and avoid crowds.  By the time I step out of the office, it is 10:00pm. And the car won't start. The nice lady at our reception calls Avis emergency service who replace the battery. Crazy miles, strange stains, strong odors and dead batteries. Return to the hotel and collapse.

Day 5: Monday

Forget to take Melatonin and I'm up at a bit past five. Sigh. I have to collect the refund of a rental cellphone security deposit from last July. The store guy had dodged me before I had left in July and it is now time to collect. I have somehow managed to hold on to the receipt till now. Although I know the general location of the store, I decide to go with google maps on my cellphone. I end up taking the wrong exit: GPS is in miles while Israel follows the metric system. And with about 3 miles to go, the phone dies one me. Super. I start driving from (dodgy) memory. I wade through traffic, take a couple of wrong turns, drive down unknown roads, make exactly two illegal U-turns and voila! I'm at the store. Just when the guy must have thought that the money was his, I walk out of his store with five sweaty 100-shekel notes. Phew!

Day 6: Tuesday

Wake up from a dream involving multiple snakes roaming around in the gardens of an apartment complex that we used to live in previously. Wait 25 minutes for my car to be pulled from the hotel garage. Twenty five minutes at 8 in the morning! Make a loud complaint at the reception. With all the stabbings, shootings and driving cars through crowds going on in Jerusalem and elsewhere, more colleagues recommend that I get rid of my beard. But El Beardo is here and staying with me. Lunch at the 4-flavor falafel shop near our office. The owner recognizes me and plies me with a few spicy falafels on the house. Yum! Pulling another 12-hour day. I'm craving a pita wrap at a place not too far from the hotel. But I choose to drive there rather than park at the hotel and walk. Big. Mistake. Get caught in the vicious one way - no parking cycle that this locality is famous for. After 30 minutes of driving around, I manage to park overlapping grey and red-white curbs. The pita wrap turned out to be less than great but on the plus side, I didn't get a parking ticket - a significant achievement given my track record here. Even steven. Day ends a little past midnight after some lingering emails are finally sent out.

Day 7: Wednesday

Another early start day. I find some time during the day to actually get some real work done vs. running to rescheduled/late meetings. Lunch is at a hummus place close to the office. The boss is away attending a wedding. But the rest of the office says he is out sick. Hmmm...This time around for dinner, I learn my lesson. I park the car in the hotel and walk to Market - the same place from day 3. I walk back to the hotel avoiding dark streets. On the way back, I stop at the parking garage where the friendly parking agent from our previous stay in TLV says he has been attacked and robbed by 7 Arab guys a few nights back.

Day 8: Thursday

The day of the departure. Based on my schedule and the Avis closing hours, I have to return the car at the airport instead of dropping it off in Tel Aviv and taking a taxi. The last time I tried this in Oct 2015, I nearly ended up missing my flight. I plan to start early but as expected, end up leaving the office an our behind schedule. The BKM for returning the rental car at Ben Gurion International is this: ignore all signs for the rental car return. Drive straight to the departures area, turn into the long term parking, follow the well camouflaged signs for the Avis car return and turn the car in. Easy as that. I think I now have a grip of this unless something changes before my next trip. I'm behind a group of Thai army officers returning home in the airport security line. Between the Israeli security officer, a young girl in her twenties, the V.K. Ramaswamy-in-purple evening dress look alike translator and the Thai army officers, their security interview is a multi-lingual nightmare playing out in slow motion.

Day 9: Friday

Land in NJ at 4 in the morning. Scoot into the lounge and kill the 3 hours before my flight to SFO. Menu: cream of rice porridge. Which must be French for arisi kanji I suppose - a dish I'm familiar with from whenever I had a fever as a kid. I gulp down a bowl of that nonetheless knowing pretty well that the 6-hour hop to SFO will be meal-free. Return home and surprise the kid who is caught unawares. And per his specific request, we play indoor soccer without even a wash. Happy to be home.